EASTER HOMILY

(Acts 10:34, 37–43; Col 3:1–4; 1 Cor 5:6b–8; Jn 20:1–9; Mt 28:1–10)

Archbishop John Whealon of Hartford (d. August 2, 1991) once shared a deeply personal reflection after undergoing cancer surgery that left him with a permanent colostomy. In one of his last Easter messages, he wrote:

“I am now a member of an association of people who have been wounded by cancer. That association’s symbol is the Phoenix — that ancient bird of Egyptian mythology. The Greek poet Hesiod, eight centuries before Christ, wrote of this legendary creature that, sensing its death near, would fly to Phoenicia, build a nest of aromatic wood, and set itself aflame. From the ashes, a new Phoenix would arise — renewed and radiant.

“The Phoenix, then, is a symbol of immortality, resurrection, and life after death. It beautifully sums up the Easter message. Jesus gave His life, and on the third day rose from the grave. New life sprang forth from the ashes of death.”

Today, we celebrate that very mystery — Christ’s victory over the grave and the gift of eternal life to all who believe. The Phoenix became one of the earliest symbols of the Risen Christ, reminding us that resurrection is not only a future event but a daily call. Each day, like the Phoenix, we rise from the ashes of sin and guilt, renewed by the forgiving love of our living Lord.

Archbishop Whealon could have languished in sorrow or self-pity, but his faith in the Risen Christ opened his eyes to life renewed — a vision he shared with his priests before going home to God.

The Meaning of Easter

Easter is the greatest and most important feast of the Church. It is the birthday of our eternal hope. The very word “Easter” means the feast of fresh flowers — a celebration of life reborn. We rejoice today for three profound reasons:

The Resurrection is the foundation of our faith. It proves that Jesus is truly God. As St. Paul declares: “If Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain… But in fact, Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep” (1 Cor 15:14, 17, 20).

Easter is the guarantee of our own resurrection. Jesus said to Martha: “I am the Resurrection and the Life; whoever believes in Me will live, even though he die” (Jn 11:25–26).

Easter gives us hope and courage in our suffering. In a world shadowed by pain, fear, and loss, Easter proclaims that life is still worth living. The Real Presence of the Risen Lord — in our hearts, in the Church, in the Eucharist, and in Heaven — gives meaning both to our personal struggles and to our common prayer.

Faith and the Historical Reality of the Resurrection

Can the Resurrection be called a historical event — did it really happen? Two facts command a historian’s attention:

First, the sudden and unshakable faith of the disciples, strong enough to endure martyrdom.

Second, the testimony they themselves left behind.

When Jesus was arrested and crucified, the disciples fled in fear. They had no expectation of resurrection. Yet within days, something transformed them utterly — something so powerful that it turned despair into conviction and cowardice into courage. That “something” is the historical core of Easter faith.

St. Paul gives the earliest record of this conviction:

“For I delivered to you what I also received: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that He was buried, and that He rose again on the third day; that He appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve, then to more than five hundred brethren at once… then to James, then to all the apostles, and last of all, to me” (1 Cor 15:3–8).

The Resurrection was not a mere resuscitation, like that of Lazarus. Christ’s risen life was a new mode of existence — “according to the Spirit.” He could appear and vanish, pass through closed doors, and reveal Himself only to those whom He chose to open the eyes of faith.

Some, like Rudolf Bultmann, have argued that the Resurrection was only a psychological vision — an inner experience or hallucination. But such a claim would itself be the greater miracle! Could so many people, in different times and places, share the same hallucination? Besides, the disciples were ordinary men — fishermen, not mystics. They doubted the first witnesses. Jesus had to “overcome their resistance,” as Scripture says. And what would they gain by preaching a falsehood that led only to persecution and death?

If Christ had not truly risen, how could the Church have begun? How could despairing fishermen become fearless heralds of the Gospel? Every natural explanation creates more puzzles than it solves.

The Faith that Sees

Yet historical analysis alone cannot grasp the mystery. To “see” the Risen Christ requires faith — not blind belief, but the vision that faith opens. As the prophet said in Isaiah 7:9, “Unless you believe, you will not understand.” Faith leads to understanding, and deeper understanding strengthens faith, as St. Anselm taught.

So, this Easter morning, let us hear again the angel’s words:

“Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

Why do we search among mere arguments and theories for the One who is alive and at work in His Church and in our world? Let us go forth, as the angel commanded, to announce to all:

“He is risen — He is risen indeed!”

 

 Good Friday 

"It Is Finished" John 18:1–19:42

Good Friday is the one day in the Christian year when we are not allowed to look away.

Every other day, we can soften the edges. We can speak of Jesus in the warm glow of resurrection, or in the gentle light of his teaching. We can keep him at a comfortable distance — admirable, inspiring, a moral example, a spiritual guide. But today, the Church plants us at the foot of a cross and says: look at this. Do not move on too quickly. Stay here.   So we stay.

There is a question that haunts Good Friday, and it is the question the crowd shouts at the man on the cross: "If you are the Son of God, come down."

It is, in its way, a reasonable question. If you have the power — if you are who you say you are — why are you still up there?

We have our own versions of this question. We ask them in hospital rooms and at gravesides and in the long, dark nights when things have gone irreparably wrong. If you are who you say you are, why don't you do something? Why don't you come down from this? Why don't you fix it?

The answer Good Friday gives us is not an argument. It is an image. It is a man who will not come down.

Not because he cannot. John's Gospel is at pains to show us that Jesus is never simply a victim of events spiraling beyond his control. When soldiers come to arrest him in the garden, he steps forward and asks "Whom are you looking for? "When they say his name, they fall to the ground. He surrenders himself. When Pilate tells him he has the power to release or crucify him, Jesus answers with quiet authority: "You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above."

He is not helpless. He is choosing. Every step to the cross is a step he takes freely, with open eyes. So why does he not come down?

Because if he comes down, we are still lost. Because what is happening on that cross — as ugly and violent and unjust as it is — is not a tragedy interrupted by God but the answer of God to the deepest tragedy of human existence. The problem is not just that things go wrong in the world. The problem is the fracture at the center — our estrangement from the source of life, the long accumulation of everything we have done and left undone, the weight of a world turned in on itself.

He stays because someone has to bear it. And he is the only one who can.

John tells us that when the soldiers came to hasten the deaths of the three men on their crosses, they found that Jesus was already dead. But one soldier drove a spear into his side, and at once — John is almost clinical about this — blood and water came out.

John says something unusual then. He says: "He who saw this has testified so that you also may believe. His testimony is true, and he knows that he tells the truth."

It is the only time in the Gospel that the narrator steps in to vouch for himself this directly. I was there. I saw it. I am telling you the truth.

Why does that matter? Because what poured from his side — blood and water — is everything. The early church read in that wound the whole sacramental life of the faith: baptism and Eucharist, water and blood, the means by which the life that died on that cross keeps flowing into the world. The wound is not just evidence of death. It is the source of life.

The Church is born from that wound. We are born from that wound.

There is something profound here about what it means to be a Christian. We do not follow a teacher whose ideas outlived him. We do not draw inspiration from a martyr whose example emboldens us. We are nourished by what flows from his broken body. We are, in the most literal sense the tradition can bear, kept alive by his death.

Then there is the burial.

John tells us that Joseph of Arimathea — a secret disciple, afraid — came forward. And Nicodemus — the one who had come to Jesus by night, who had asked "How can anyone be born after having grown old?" — came too. He brought a hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes. An extravagant, almost absurd amount.

These are not the bold ones. These are not Peter or James or John. They are the ones who loved from a distance, who kept their heads down, who waited. And now, when it is too late to do anything useful — now that it is over, now that there is nothing to gain and everything to lose — they come out of the shadows.

They wrap him carefully. They lay him in a new tomb in a garden.

I find this detail quietly devastating. The last hands to touch Jesus before the resurrection are the hands of the fearful and the late. The ones who did not speak up when it might have mattered. And yet John does not judge them. He simply tells us what they did: they came, they wrapped him, they laid him down with care.

There is grace in that. For all of us who have loved poorly, who arrived late, who kept our faith private for too long — there is grace in the fact that God uses even the timid, even the secret disciples, even those who show up only at the end.

Then we come to those final words from the cross: "It is finished."

In Greek, it is a single word: Tetelestai. It was the word written across a paid debt in the ancient world — paid in full. It is not the word of a man whose strength has finally given out. It is not resignation or defeat. It is completion. It is accomplishment.

It is finished is not the end of something. It is the end of everything that stood between us and God.

This is why the day is called Good Friday. Not because what happened was pleasant. Not because suffering is good. But because what was accomplished in that suffering is the best news the world has ever received: the long estrangement is over. The debt is paid. The way is open.

We do not leave here with that fully in our hands yet. Tonight and tomorrow, the Church waits. The altar is stripped. The tomb is sealed. We sit with the silence and the weight of it.

But we wait, as John's Gospel wants us to know even here, in a garden. The last time the Gospel of John mentioned a garden was in the beginning — "In the beginning was the Word." Before the fall, before the fracture, there was a garden. And now, at the end of all this, there is a garden again.

Something is being undone. Something is being made new.

We do not say it yet. Tonight, we only stand at the cross and receive what he has given. We let it be enough. We let it be — as he said — finished.  Amen.

 Holy Thursday Homily: Exodus 12:1–8, 11–14; 1 Corinthians 11:23–26; John 13:1–15

We celebrate three great anniversaries today—three sacred memories that define who we are as disciples of Christ. On Holy Thursday, we commemorate:

The anniversary of the first Holy Mass,

The anniversary of the institution of the ministerial priesthood, and

The anniversary of Christ’s new commandment of love: “Love one another as I have loved you” (Jn 13:34).

Each of these events reveals God’s profound desire to be with His people, to forgive them, and to unite them in a covenant of love that will never end.

The Passover Transformed

Holy Thursday brings us back to the roots of our faith—to the night when Jesus transformed the Jewish Passover into the Christian Eucharist. The Jewish Passover itself was already a deep expression of thanksgiving and liberation. Historically, it united two ancient feasts: the shepherds’ Pass over, when they offered a lamb before migrating their flocks, and the farmers’ Massoth, a feast of unleavened bread offered in gratitude for the harvest. God wove these traditions together into a single meal of salvation: the annual remembrance of Israel’s liberation from slavery in Egypt and their journey toward the Promised Land.

In our first reading from Exodus, God gives His people two instructions: first, to prepare for liberation through a ritual meal—the sacrifice of a perfect lamb eaten in haste and faith; and second, to make a symbolic mark—to paint their doorposts with the blood of that lamb. This blood became their salvation, a sign that death would “pass over” them, not touch them.

Centuries later, in an upper room in Jerusalem, Jesus fulfilled and transformed this sacred ritual. John’s Gospel tells us that, during the Passover meal, Jesus rose from the table to wash His disciples’ feet. Then, taking bread and wine, He offered something that no human priest before Him had ever dared to offer: His own Body and Blood. “This is my Body… This is my Blood… Do this in memory of me.”

At that moment, the blood of the lamb painted on the doorposts found its ultimate fulfillment. The old covenant sign of deliverance now became a new covenant in Christ’s blood—offered not to save from Egypt, but from sin and death itself.

One Sacrifice, One Event

The Last Supper and the Cross are not two separate events, but two inseparable moments of one saving mystery. What began at the table found its completion on Calvary. In both places, Jesus gave His Body; in both places, He poured out His Blood. The altar of the upper room becomes the altar of the Cross.

Scholars long puzzled over the apparent differences in the Gospel accounts. John’s Gospel presents Jesus dying at the very hour when the Passover lambs were being sacrificed in the Temple. Matthew, Mark, and Luke, on the other hand, describe the Last Supper as a Passover meal. How could both be true?

Modern biblical study, aided by the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, offers a compelling explanation. It suggests that Jesus celebrated the Passover in accordance with the Qumran calendar—one day earlier than the temple authorities. The Qumran community, awaiting a new and purified Temple, offered the Passover without lambs. In this light, Jesus, too, celebrated His Passover without a lamb—because He Himself was the Lamb. He freely offered His own Body and Blood as the new sacrifice.

Thus, when He said, “No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down of my own accord” (Jn 10:18), He was not speaking symbolically. He truly offered His life—first under the forms of bread and wine, then in visible sacrifice upon the Cross.

Only in Christ do the ancient rites of the first Passover reach their true meaning. His blood marks not a doorpost, but the hearts of the redeemed. His flesh, once broken, becomes our food for eternal life.

The Gift of the Priesthood

From this Passover meal flowed the sacred gift of the priesthood. In our second reading, St. Paul recounts what he himself received and handed down: “The Lord Jesus, on the night he was handed over, took bread…” (1 Cor 11:23). From the beginning, the Church has faithfully celebrated the Lord’s Supper as the heart of her life.

To ensure that this sacrifice would never cease, Christ instituted the sacrament of Holy Orders. He commanded His apostles, “Do this in memory of me.” Every priest, therefore, is ordained to act in persona Christi, “in the person of Christ.” Through their ministry, the Eternal High Priest continues to feed His people, forgive their sins, and proclaim His Word.

Washing the Disciples’ Feet

Before sharing His Body and Blood, Jesus kneels at His disciples’ feet. This gesture shocked them then and should still shock us now. Not even slaves were required to perform so demeaning a task. Yet the Son of God does so with tenderness and humility. The washing of feet was both prophetic and symbolic—prophetic because it pointed to the greater self-emptying He would soon show on the Cross; symbolic because it revealed the model of discipleship: “What I have done for you, you also must do.”

Every act of humble service becomes a participation in this mystery. Parents who rise in the night to care for a sick child, caregivers who tend to the elderly, teachers who guide neglected students, health care workers who attend to the most menial tasks—all perform modern acts of foot-washing. Each reflects the love of Christ made visible in the Eucharist. In every act of self-giving, we make the Eucharist real beyond the walls of the church.

 

Tonight’s liturgy, then, unites the three great sacraments of Holy Thursday: the Eucharist, the priesthood, and the commandment of love that gives meaning to both.

The Stole and the Towel

An Italian bishop, Tonino Bello, beautifully captured this meaning in the title of his final pastoral letter, written from his deathbed on Holy Thursday in 1993: “The Stole and the Towel.” [A stole is the symbol of authority of the priesthood, to preach, administer the sacraments and shepherd the faithful. It represents the yoke of Christ, placed on both shoulders. A deacon has it on one shoulder.] The towel [Jesus used to wash and wipe the feet of the Apostles] represents communion with humanity—union with those we are called to serve.

The Towel, Not the Sword

Christianity spread not by the sword like Islam but by the towel. Jesus Himself rejected violence as a means of spreading His kingdom: “Put your sword back into its place, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Mt 26:52). The early Church conquered hearts—through charity, mercy, and service to the poor and forgotten. The towel must always remain in her hands Christians.

Living as a Eucharistic People

The Eucharist is not complete until it transforms our lives. To receive the Lord is to be sent forth by Him. Every Mass ends with a mission: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” [Today we do not announce that, signifying that the sacramental Mass does not end with the last supper but with Jesus’ death on the cross on Calvary (we remember that tomorrow) and finally with his resurrection, at Easter vigil] Only at Easter Vigil you will hear now that the Mass is ended.

Our mission is to bring His love, mercy, forgiveness, and humility wherever we go.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper offers a touching visual meditation on this truth. In his famous painting, every disciple is seated on the same side of the table. When someone once asked why, Leonardo gave a simple but profound answer: “So that there may be plenty of room for us to join them.”

There is always room for us at the table of the Lord—room to sit beside Peter and John, Matthew and James, to allow Jesus to wash our feet, and to let him renew us with His Body and Blood. When Peter refused to have his feet washed, what did Jesus reply, "If I do not wash you, you have no part with me" (John 13:8). We should be willing to be served by Christ, his body the Church by the sacraments.  

So, if you are willing, pull up your chair, get your feet washed and go out with the towel and wash the feet of others, remembering his command: Do this in remembrance of me. 

 Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday

Holy Week begins today — our journey with the Lord from palms to Passion. Both moments reveal one central truth: the Divine Kingship of Jesus.

As Jesus entered Jerusalem, the crowds cried out, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Mt 21:9). The word hosanna in Hebrew means “save, we pray.” The people were pleading for deliverance — not only from the burden of the Roman Empire but from every form of oppression and despair.

Yet by the end of that same week, their Hosannas had turned into “Crucify him!” The One welcomed on a donkey as King was soon carried out of the city lifeless — the innocent victim of the cruelest death the Empire could devise. Passion Sunday reminds us how quickly human hearts can shift when love demands more than praise.

At the heart of Holy Week stands the Easter Triduum, beginning with the Eucharist on Holy Thursday evening and concluding with the Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday night. These sacred days are the most solemn of the Church year because in them we celebrate the work of our redemption — the supreme act of love that changed the world forever.

We use the word Passion to describe the Lord’s suffering, but the term also means deep feeling or burning love. Jesus’ Passion was both: the physical agony He endured and the spiritual intensity of His love. He suffered His Passion because He was filled with a great passion — for God and for humanity. He died because He was utterly committed to revealing the Father’s love.

What we celebrate this week is not only Jesus’ dying and rising, but also our own dying to sin and rising with Him into new life. Participating attentively in the liturgies of Holy Week renews our faith, deepens our discipleship, and strengthens our bond with the Lord.

The Passion of Christ is the ultimate labor of love. The scourging, the nails, the cross — all were outward signs of an inner fire: His unwavering commitment to mercy and truth. The Cross is where two passions meet — a passion for God’s truth and a passion for humanity’s salvation. When these collided with a world closed to both, the result was suffering. Yet love triumphed.

So we ask: What is the great passion of my life? Am I willing to bear some “passion” — the sacrifice and struggle that faithful love requires?

Jesus poured out His life for us. As we hold our blessed palms today, may they become signs of our desire to pour out our lives in love for Him and for one another.

 

 Lent IV [A]: I Sm 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a; Eph 5:8-14; Jn 9:1-41

Introduction

The Fourth Sunday of Lent is known as “Laetare (Rejoice) Sunday,” a day when the Church pauses to express joy in anticipation of the Resurrection. Today’s readings remind us that it is God who provides proper vision for both the body and the soul. They serve as a gentle but firm instruction to remain constantly on guard against spiritual blindness.

The Word of God

In the first reading, the anointing of David illustrates how limited our human judgment can be. It reminds us that those whom God involves in His saving plans are not always those whom the world perceives as great; God looks at the heart while we often look only at the appearance. St. Paul echoes this in the second reading, reminding us of our new responsibility as "children of light." We are called to produce goodness, righteousness, and truth. In Psalm 23, we celebrate our Good Shepherd, who keeps us safe even when we walk through the dark valleys of this world.

The Gospel Journey

Today’s Gospel presents the miracle of Jesus giving sight to a man born blind. It teaches us the necessity of having our eyes opened by faith. There is a powerful irony here: the beggar born blind receives the light of faith, while the learned Pharisees remain spiritually blind because they assume they already see the truth.

To live as a Christian is to grow continually in vision—gaining clarity about God, ourselves, and others. Our Lenten prayers and sacrifices are meant to heal our spiritual "blind-spots" so that we can see others truly as children of God, saved by the death and Resurrection of Jesus.

The Lenten Scrutinies

Beginning last Sunday, three prominent themes emerge in our journey toward Easter: Water (the Samaritan woman), Light (the man born blind), and Life (the raising of Lazarus). These are specifically chosen for our catechumens who undergo their scrutinies, but they are also a personal invitation for those of us already baptized. We are invited to examine our hearts and strengthen our resolve to follow Christ. This celebration of "Christ our Light" will reach its climax at the Easter Vigil, when we gather in the darkness to sing praises to the Risen Lord.

Healing Our Blindness

Jesus does not heal the blind man with a mere flick of his fingers; he asks the man to go on a journey to the pool of Siloam. Similarly, our Lenten journey is about considering where we have walked away from God and how He is inviting us back.

We all have blind-spots—in our marriages, our parenting, our work, and our personalities. We are often blind to the presence of the Triune God dwelling within us and fail to see Him in others. Even as practicing Christians, we can be blind to the poverty and injustice around us. Jesus wants to remove the root causes of this blindness: self-centeredness, greed, anger, and prejudice. As the scholar William Barclay prayed: "God our Father, help us see Christ more clearly, love him more dearly, and follow him more nearly day by day."

Conquering Cultural Blindness

Finally, we must recognize our cultural blindness. Our world is often blind to selfless love, the sanctity of fidelity, and the value of human life from conception to natural death. We have become anesthetized to violence and suffering. We counteract this by living a genuine sacramental life, reading the Word of God, and recognizing Jesus dwelling in our neighbor.

Concluding Prayer

Let us pray.

Lord Jesus, You are the Light of the World who came to seek those lost in shadows. We thank You for the gift of sight—not just of the eyes, but of the heart.

Wash us again in the waters of Your grace, as You washed the man at the pool of Siloam. Remove the scales of pride, prejudice, and indifference from our eyes. Where there is darkness in our lives, let Your light shine; where there is coldness, let Your love warm us; and where there is spiritual blindness, grant us the courage to be healed.

May we leave this church today not just as people who have "looked," but as disciples who truly see Your presence in the poor, the lonely, and the broken. Lead us through the remainder of this Lenten desert so that we may stand in the full radiance of Your Resurrection.

Amen.

 

Homily for OT III [A] Isaiah 8:23—9:3; 1 Corinthians 1:10–13, 17; Matthew 4:12–23

In today’s liturgy, we hear a familiar refrain echo twice through Scripture—first in Isaiah’s prophecy and then again in Matthew’s Gospel: “Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali, the way to the sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles: the people who sit in darkness have seen a great light; on those dwelling in a land overshadowed by death, light has arisen.”

In Isaiah, these words are a promise. In Matthew, they become a fulfillment. The prophecy and its realization meet in Jesus Christ—the true light breaking into human darkness.

The “land of Zebulun” and “land of Naphtali” were regions in the northern part of Galilee, near the Sea of Galilee. One of their cities, Capernaum, became the center of Jesus’ public ministry. It was there that the people first experienced the Light Himself. Four fishermen—Simon Peter and Andrew, James and John—heard Him call, “Follow me,” and their response was immediate. They left their nets, their boats, and their familiar lives to follow Him and become “fishers of men.” In that moment, the light that dawned in Galilee began to spread across the world. 

But although the Light has come, darkness remains in many corners of human life. Some walk in darkness through no fault of their own, while others choose it—preferring not to see or to know what truth asks of them. The prophet’s words still speak to us: there are people “sitting” in darkness, content to remain there.

We can think of three kinds of darkness that shadow our society today.

The first is the darkness surrounding respect for life. This past week, the annual March for Life took place. Some may wonder why it still matters now that Roe v. Wade has been overturned. But the issue is far from resolved. The decision simply returned the question to the states; it did not affirm the dignity of every human life. Many still prefer not to think about what happens in abortion clinics or how deeply women and families are wounded by this tragedy. The truth is difficult and painful—but turning away from it keeps us in the dark.

A second darkness is the cruelty of human trafficking—one of the largest criminal industries in the world, generating over $150 billion annually. Much of it is fueled by a culture that thrives on exploitation and the distortion of human love. Yet many refuse to face this truth. It is easier not to think about what is hidden behind our screens, easier to look away. But those who walk with Christ cannot remain indifferent; His light exposes injustice and calls us to defend the dignity of every person.

A third, all-too-familiar darkness is the scourge of drug addiction. Hundreds of thousands in our nation lose their lives each year to overdose—a staggering destruction that touches every level of society. Families grieve, communities weaken, and hope fades. Yet even here, many hide behind excuses rather than confronting the despair beneath the surface.

As disciples of Jesus, we are called to bring His light into these very places. The world’s pain does not ask for condemnation but for compassion illuminated by truth. Some people are thrust into darkness through circumstances beyond their control—loneliness, poverty, or lack of support. These sufferings are real shadows that cry out for light. When we offer practical help, a listening ear, or simple kindness, we help them glimpse the light of Christ.

We can either be silent witnesses to a world darkened by sin and despair, or we can shine Christ’s light and allow it to transform everything it touches. In His light, our vision is renewed. What once looked hopeless begins to reveal possibility. In that light, our own stories change—from heartbreak to healing, and from darkness into dawn.   

The contrast is striking: the world is beautiful for those who live in the light; it is bleak for those who remain in darkness. As followers of Christ, we cannot keep the light to ourselves. Like the first disciples, we are sent to tell others that Jesus is alive, that He loves them, and that He calls them into His marvelous light.

Our discipleship is never meant to be private. The word Mass comes from the Latin missio, meaning “sending.” Each time we gather for the Eucharist, we are strengthened and then sent to be light-bearers, extending Christ’s mission of healing and reconciliation into the world.

Repent, for the Kingdom of heaven is at hand,” Jesus proclaimed. To repent is to turn away from the shadows and move toward the light that frees us. Each of us is personally summoned to leave behind anything that darkens the heart and follow Christ fully.

If anyone among us still walks in darkness—caught in guilt, bitterness, or fear—do not grow comfortable in the dark. The Lord does not want us simply to see His light; He wants us to become His light, reflecting Him through our words, our choices, and our compassion.

Discipleship means walking daily with Christ, allowing His radiance to dispel the shadows within us and around us. We are the people who once sat in darkness, but upon us a great light has shone. May we follow that Light wherever it leads, carrying it into every corner of our world until all creation glows with the brightness of Christ.

Lord Jesus, let Your light scatter the darkness of our hearts and the shadows of our world. Grant us the courage to answer Your call and the grace to be Your reflection to all we meet. Amen

 OT II [A] Homily: Readings: Isaiah 49:3, 5–6; 1 Corinthians 1:1–3; John 1:29–34

John the Baptist has been a constant presence in our liturgy for several weeks, and he appears again in today’s Gospel. John is about as far from a celebrity as one can get. He was not interested in saying, “Look at me,” but rather in proclaiming, “Look at him—look at Jesus.” He declares in today’s Gospel, “It was to reveal him to Israel that I came baptizing with water.”

Many people went out to the wilderness to see John; he had his own followers and considerable influence. Yet John consistently deflected attention away from himself toward the One who, as he says, “ranks before me because he existed before me.” His opening words remain his most powerful—“Look, there is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” In essence, he invites everyone: “Look at him; go to him; follow him.”

In contrast, our culture often urges us to say, “Look at me, be like me.” Yet John’s voice continues to echo through the centuries, calling us instead to look toward Jesus—to go to him and become like him. His words, “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world,” echo in every Eucharist. Just before Communion, the priest lifts up the consecrated host and repeats those same words. At that moment, we are invited, with the eyes of faith, to behold the Lord. Then we come forward to receive him, responding “Amen” as our personal act of faith. The Eucharist is the moment when we do all that John calls us to do: look upon the Lord, go to him, recognize him, and receive him.

John gives Jesus a startling title—“the Lamb of God.” He does not call him “Messiah,” though he is; nor “King of Kings,” though he is that as well. John chooses “Lamb,” because for him this captures Jesus’ mission—to take away the sins of the world. The lamb is the meekest of creatures. John could have spoken of the “Lion of Judah,” but he points instead to the lamb, linking Jesus to Isaiah’s Suffering Servant who was “like a lamb led to the slaughter” (Is 53:7). At the same time, John’s title looks forward to the Book of Revelation, where the Lamb who was slain now reigns in glory.

Calling Jesus “the Lamb of God” draws our focus to his sacrifice, which opens God’s plan of salvation. Even his name, Jesus, means “Yahweh saves.” The Word became flesh not simply to teach us wisdom or inspire us morally, but to save us—to restore God’s own life within humanity. Since the beginning, humankind has forfeited that divine life by rejecting God. The sin of Adam was the refusal to depend on God, the illusion that we could be “like God” on our own. Jesus comes as the Lamb who bears this sin, reconciling us to the Father and restoring the life we lost.

John’s entire life pointed beyond himself. His mission was to lead others to recognize Jesus as “the Chosen One of God.” He even directed his own disciples toward Jesus, humbly declaring, “He must increase; I must decrease.” Great as John was, he shaped his life around making way for someone greater.

We can all think of people who, at crucial moments, have pointed us in the right direction—teachers, parents, mentors, friends—those who helped us see what we could not yet see for ourselves. Good guides do not force us; they invite us. John did not command his followers to abandon him and join Jesus. He simply said, “Look, there is the Lamb of God.” Those who point us toward truth do so out of compassion and insight, not control. Their respect for our freedom echoes God’s own respect for human choice. Not everyone John pointed toward Jesus became a disciple, but he still invited faithfully.

Today we give thanks for the John the Baptist figures in our own lives—those who, through word and example, pointed us toward the light of Christ and remained patient even when we failed to follow. At the same time, we remember that the Lord calls each of us to be a John the Baptist for others. Our baptism gives us that vocation: to bear witness to Jesus and to help others find him.

None of us journeys to God alone. God works through people to guide us, and he uses us to guide others. We depend on this mutual support to stay on the path that leads to Christ. We can either help others walk that path or, tragically, be a stumbling block to them. Jesus reserved some of his harshest words for those who led others astray—those who, as he said, “put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me.” To guide others toward Christ is to participate in the very mission of the Gospel; to lead them away is to oppose it.

Faith is deeply personal, but it is never meant to be private. Genuine faith always faces outward; it seeks to witness, serve, and love. Jesus told his disciples, “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” The prophet Isaiah, in today’s first reading, experienced a similar awakening when God expanded his mission. Isaiah thought his call was limited to Israel, but God told him, “It is too little for you to be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob. I will make you a light to the nations so that my salvation may reach the ends of the earth.” God’s vision is always larger than ours—always reaching beyond what we expect.

Today’s Gospel, then, leads us into a deeper understanding of the Eucharist and of who Jesus truly is. Each time we come to communion, we approach not just a symbol or a sacred ritual, but the living Christ—the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. We behold him, receive him, and carry him within us, so that through us his light might touch the lives of others.

Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sin of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

Pray for those of our loved ones who have wandered from the practice of the Catholic faith, walking far from Christ and his sacraments.​ Obtain for them, Lord, a true conversion of heart, a hunger for truth,
and a living desire for the Holy Eucharist and the mercy of God in confession. We pray to the Lord.