4th Sunday of Easter (A)

 Acts 2:14a, 36b-41; 1 Pet. 2:20b-25; Jn. 10:1-10

There is an old story told in many cultures about a shepherd boy who loved his sheep deeply. Every evening, before closing the gate, he would count them one by one. One night, he found that one lamb was missing. Though he was tired and darkness had fallen, he took a lamp and went searching through the hills. After hours of walking, he found the little lamb trapped among thorns, trembling in fear. He gently lifted it, placed it on his shoulders, and carried it home. When he returned, his family asked, “Was it worth risking your life for just one sheep?” The shepherd smiled and said, “To you it was one sheep. To me, it was someone entrusted to my care.”

3rd Sunday of Easter (A)

 Acts 2:14, 22b-28; 1 Pet. 1:17-21; Lk. 24:13-35

There is a touching description in The Divine Comedy by Dante. At the beginning of his journey, Dante finds himself lost in a dark forest—confused, afraid, and without direction. He tries to climb a hill toward light but is blocked again and again by wild beasts. Just when despair threatens to overwhelm him, a figure appears—Virgil, the great poet. Virgil does not immediately carry Dante to safety. Instead, he walks with him, guides him, explains things to him, and leads him through a long and difficult journey. As they travel together, something begins to change within Dante. Though the path leads through darkness, fear, and even suffering, a light is kindled within him—a growing understanding, a deepening courage. By the time he emerges from the darkness, Dante is no longer the same man who was lost in the forest. His heart has been awakened; his vision transformed.

Like Dante walking through confusion with a hidden guide, the disciples on the road to Emmaus were walking in sorrow. They are walking away from Jerusalem—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. Their hopes had been shattered. “We had

Divine Mercy Sunday (A)

 Acts 2:42-7; 1 Pet. 1:3-9; Jn. 20:19-31

There is a powerful scene in Leo Tolstoy’s classic novel War and Peace. Amidst the chaos of battle, young Prince Andrei lies wounded on the battlefield of Austerlitz. Moments earlier, his heart was filled with pride, ambition, and dreams of glory. But now, as he lies helpless on the cold ground, he looks up at the vast blue sky stretching endlessly above him. For the first time in his life, he feels an overwhelming inner stillness. The sky seems so calm, so peaceful, so different from the violence surrounding him. At that moment, Prince Andrei realizes something profound: true peace is not found in power, victory, or control. It is found when the soul becomes small enough to see the greatness of God, and when one’s heart surrenders its fears and illusions. As the world around him raged with gunfire, he discovered a peace that came from beyond the battlefield.

This same peace is what Jesus offered His disciples on the evening of the resurrection. They were not soldiers lying on a battlefield, but their hearts were wounded by fear, guilt, and uncertainty. “It was evening on the day Jesus rose from the dead,” the Gospel tells us, and the disciples had locked the doors of the house because

Easter Sunday (A)

 Acts 10:34a, 37–43; Col 3:1–4 (or 1 Cor 5:6b–8); Jn 20:1–18

There is a story told of a small village in Eastern Europe during the Second World War. The war had been fierce in their region, and one night an enemy plane dropped a bomb that shattered the church at the center of the town. When the villagers emerged from hiding, they discovered that the roof had collapsed, the stained glass lay in pieces, and the altar was overturned. But what struck them most was that the beloved statue of the Risen Jesus, which had stood triumphantly behind the altar, lay smashed upon the ground. The people mourned its loss because it had been a symbol of hope through many dark years. After the war ended, the villagers gathered to rebuild the church. They collected every piece of stone and glass they could find, and they even tried to restore the statue. Miraculously, they managed to piece together the body of

Holy Saturday (A)

 First Reading: [Gen. 1:1-2:2]; Epistle: [Rom. 6:3-11]; Gospel: [Mt. 28:1-10]

The human heart has always been haunted by a single, relentless longing—the desire to live forever. Civilizations built pyramids, emperors erected monuments, and thinkers sought fountains of youth. Yet one of the most striking modern attempts came from a tech billionaire who, a few years ago, invested hundreds of millions of dollars into biotech research to “end death.” He publicly declared that the greatest enemy of humanity is mortality and that one day technology would outsmart the grave. His confidence made headlines, but deep within it echoed a cry that has been present since the beginning of time: We do not want to die. We want our story to continue. We want our name, our relationships, our very selves to endure. This longing—universal, ancient, and unquenchable—is not foolish; it is deeply human. It reveals that we were created not for death but for life. And tonight, as we gather at the Easter Vigil and listen to the Gospel of Matthew, that ancient longing finds its answer—not in a laboratory, not in a monument, not in a philosophy, but in an empty tomb.