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

Palm Sunday (A)

Mt. 21:1-11; Is. 50:4-7; Phil. 2:6-11; Mt. 26:14-27:66

There is a story told from the Rwandan genocide of 1994 about a young schoolteacher named Antoine. When violence broke out between Hutus and Tutsis, he hid dozens of children—both Hutu and Tutsi—in his small house near the school. Soldiers came looking for their ethnic rivals, shouting at him to surrender whoever was inside. Antoine stood in the doorway and simply said, “They are children. They have done nothing wrong. If you must take someone, take me.” The soldiers were enraged, accusing him of being a traitor for “protecting the enemy.” They dragged him away, and the children heard the gunshots minutes later. When peace returned, survivors said, “He died because he refused to hate. He died because he chose to protect life.” His death became a testimony that goodness sometimes provokes hostility, that love can place a person directly in the line of hatred. Passion Sunday invites us into this painful mystery, the mystery of goodness condemned.

The Gospel of the Passion begins with triumph—Jesus entering Jerusalem with palm branches waving, the people shouting “Hosanna!” It looks like a celebration, a victory parade, a moment when all creation sings the arrival of the Messiah.