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.

Good Friary (A)

 Is. 52:13 to 53:12; Heb. 4:14-16, 5:7-9; Jn. 18:1 to 19:42

A few years ago during the war in Ukraine, a young soldier was brought to a military hospital after being fatally wounded in battle. The doctors knew they could not save him, but before he died he made a final request. He asked that his organs be donated so that others might live. Later, surgeons transplanted his heart, kidneys, and liver into several patients waiting desperately for life-saving surgery. In the middle of a brutal war, when destruction and death seemed everywhere, the final act of that soldier became an act of life. His death gave breath, strength, and hope to strangers he would never meet. Families who were preparing for funerals instead witnessed new life because someone else was willing to give everything.

Today, on Good Friday, the Church invites us to stand before a far greater sacrifice—the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross. The soldier in that hospital gave organs to save a few lives. But Jesus gave his very life so that the whole of humanity might live

Maundy Thursday (A)

 Ex. 12:1-8, 11-14; 1 Cor. 11:23-26; Jn. 13:1-15

In 1977, deep in the mountains of northern Italy, a team of hikers discovered a message carved into the rock near the remnants of an old shepherd’s hut. It read, “Whenever my children pass here, remember that their father loved them.” No one knows exactly who carved it, but historians believe it came from a shepherd who lived through the harsh winters, raising his family in those mountains decades earlier. The man had no medals, no grand inheritance to leave, and no statue in the town square. But he left something more enduring—an attempt to impress his love upon the memory of those who came after him. Humanity has always sought ways to be remembered. Pharaohs built pyramids, emperors carved their triumphs in stone, and conquerors erected monuments claiming eternal glory. Even ordinary people leave photographs, diaries, letters, plaques, hoping that someone will remember their life, their love, their sacrifices. Beneath that desire lies a deeper human truth: we long not to disappear. We long for our lives to echo beyond our last breath. And into this very human longing steps Jesus on the night of Holy Thursday, not