Stop Looking Up: Living the Mission of the Ascension 06-01-25
Solemnity of the Ascension of the Lord | Acts 1:1–11 | Psalm 47:2–3, 6–7, 8–9 | Ephesians 1:17–23 or Hebrews 9:24–28; 10:19–23 | Luke 24:46–53
There’s something almost humorous about the Ascension story—at least at first glance.
Jesus gathers His disciples one last time. He blesses them. And then, He’s lifted up into the clouds, right before their eyes. You can almost picture them standing there, necks craned, eyes squinting at the sky, frozen in a mixture of awe and confusion. And then—just as the silence stretches too long—two angels appear and say something both practical and profound: “Why are you standing there looking at the sky?”
It’s a fair question.
The Ascension isn’t a farewell—it’s a handoff. Jesus doesn’t leave His followers behind; He sends them forward. He doesn’t disappear; He expands His presence through them. And today, He does the same with us.
The readings for this solemnity make it clear: the Ascension is not the end of the story. It’s the beginning of ours. In Acts, Jesus tells His disciples, “You will be my witnesses… to the ends of the earth.” In Ephesians, Paul prays that the eyes of our hearts be enlightened, so that we may grasp the hope that belongs to this calling. And in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus reminds them—and us—that our mission is to preach forgiveness, bear joy, and wait with trust for the power of the Holy Spirit.
This feast asks something bold of us: to believe that the same Jesus who ascended into heaven is still intimately with us—guiding, empowering, and sending.
But that’s not always easy.
There are days when it feels like we’re still staring at the sky, waiting for something to change—longing for Jesus to come fix what’s broken, heal what’s hurting, or give clarity to what feels confusing. But the Ascension invites us to shift our gaze—not up, but out. To trust that Christ hasn’t abandoned us but has entrusted us with His mission.
And what is that mission? It’s not flashy or complex. It’s beautifully ordinary and urgently needed.
To be peacemakers in divided times.To be listeners in a loud world.To be light in places still covered in shadows.To build unity where there’s been suspicion, and to bring hope where despair has settled in.
It also means trusting that we’re not doing it alone.
The Ascension assures us that Christ reigns—not from a distance, but from a place of nearness through the Holy Spirit. His rising to the Father doesn’t create distance; it makes His presence more expansive. He’s not just beside us—He’s within us, animating the Church, inspiring our vocations, and dwelling in our daily faithfulness.
That’s what makes this moment so full of joyful hope. The disciples didn’t leave Bethany in mourning; Luke says they returned to Jerusalem “with great joy” and continued praising God. Why? Because even though Jesus had ascended, they had received something just as real—His promise, His peace, His mission.
Today, we carry that same peace into a world that needs it desperately.
A world wearied by war and aching for meaning.A Church stretched by tension but united by the Spirit.Families walking through change, nations searching for peace, hearts seeking a home.
The Ascension reminds us that Christ is not lost to the heavens. He’s alive in every act of courage, every word of forgiveness, every decision to love when it would be easier to turn away. He’s not waiting to return to the world—He’s already here, wherever His people are living the Gospel.
So this feast asks us: Are we still looking up, or are we finally stepping out?
Let us go, then—not with fear, but with faith. Not with longing, but with purpose. For the One who was taken up into heaven is still among us. And He is waiting to be seen in us.
There’s something almost humorous about the Ascension story—at least at first glance.
Jesus gathers His disciples one last time. He blesses them. And then, He’s lifted up into the clouds, right before their eyes. You can almost picture them standing there, necks craned, eyes squinting at the sky, frozen in a mixture of awe and confusion. And then—just as the silence stretches too long—two angels appear and say something both practical and profound: “Why are you standing there looking at the sky?”
It’s a fair question.
The Ascension isn’t a farewell—it’s a handoff. Jesus doesn’t leave His followers behind; He sends them forward. He doesn’t disappear; He expands His presence through them. And today, He does the same with us.
The readings for this solemnity make it clear: the Ascension is not the end of the story. It’s the beginning of ours. In Acts, Jesus tells His disciples, “You will be my witnesses… to the ends of the earth.” In Ephesians, Paul prays that the eyes of our hearts be enlightened, so that we may grasp the hope that belongs to this calling. And in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus reminds them—and us—that our mission is to preach forgiveness, bear joy, and wait with trust for the power of the Holy Spirit.
This feast asks something bold of us: to believe that the same Jesus who ascended into heaven is still intimately with us—guiding, empowering, and sending.
But that’s not always easy.
There are days when it feels like we’re still staring at the sky, waiting for something to change—longing for Jesus to come fix what’s broken, heal what’s hurting, or give clarity to what feels confusing. But the Ascension invites us to shift our gaze—not up, but out. To trust that Christ hasn’t abandoned us but has entrusted us with His mission.
And what is that mission? It’s not flashy or complex. It’s beautifully ordinary and urgently needed.
To be peacemakers in divided times.To be listeners in a loud world.To be light in places still covered in shadows.To build unity where there’s been suspicion, and to bring hope where despair has settled in.
It also means trusting that we’re not doing it alone.
The Ascension assures us that Christ reigns—not from a distance, but from a place of nearness through the Holy Spirit. His rising to the Father doesn’t create distance; it makes His presence more expansive. He’s not just beside us—He’s within us, animating the Church, inspiring our vocations, and dwelling in our daily faithfulness.
That’s what makes this moment so full of joyful hope. The disciples didn’t leave Bethany in mourning; Luke says they returned to Jerusalem “with great joy” and continued praising God. Why? Because even though Jesus had ascended, they had received something just as real—His promise, His peace, His mission.
Today, we carry that same peace into a world that needs it desperately.
A world wearied by war and aching for meaning.A Church stretched by tension but united by the Spirit.Families walking through change, nations searching for peace, hearts seeking a home.
The Ascension reminds us that Christ is not lost to the heavens. He’s alive in every act of courage, every word of forgiveness, every decision to love when it would be easier to turn away. He’s not waiting to return to the world—He’s already here, wherever His people are living the Gospel.
So this feast asks us: Are we still looking up, or are we finally stepping out?
Let us go, then—not with fear, but with faith. Not with longing, but with purpose. For the One who was taken up into heaven is still among us. And He is waiting to be seen in us.
Peace That Stays: A Reflection for the Sixth Sunday of Easter and Memorial Day Weekend 05-25-25
Sixth Sunday of Easter | Acts 15:1–2, 22–29 | Psalm 67:2–3, 5, 6, 8 | Revelation 21:10–14, 22–23 | John 14:23–29
There are two kinds of peace in this world.
There’s the kind we chase—fleeting moments of calm between busy days, brief silences before the next headline, or fragile truces held together by willpower and polite avoidance. And then there’s the kind Jesus speaks of in today’s Gospel: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you.”
The world’s peace is often the absence of conflict. Christ’s peace is the presence of God.
That’s what makes this Sixth Sunday of Easter so powerful. It falls on Memorial Day weekend—a time when we remember not just the cost of war, but the deep human longing for peace that inspires sacrifice. We honor those who gave their lives in service to something greater than themselves: a nation, a neighbor, a hope. And through the lens of today’s readings, we’re reminded that the greatest peace is not won by force, but given by love.
In the Gospel, Jesus promises the gift of the Holy Spirit, the Advocate. Not a distant spirit of the past, but a present, indwelling companion. “We will come to him and make our dwelling with him,” he says. Not visit. Not check in. Dwell. Live within us. Guide us. Breathe peace into the chaos of daily life.
That promise shapes the early Church in our first reading from Acts. Facing division over who belongs and what rules define the faithful, the apostles discern a path forward: one that unites rather than divides, that respects diversity without demanding uniformity. Their final message says it plainly: “It is the decision of the Holy Spirit and of us not to place on you any burden beyond these necessities.” It’s a moment of clarity, compassion, and cooperation—born of listening to the Spirit together.
How different that feels from the noise of our world today, where we often divide over who’s in and who’s out, what should be preserved and what must be torn down. The Holy Spirit calls us to a better way: not the erasure of difference, but the embrace of communion—a unity made richer by the variety of gifts God pours out.
That unity is described beautifully in Revelation. The holy city, the new Jerusalem, isn’t a bland, monochrome place. It gleams like crystal and shines with light not from sun or moon, but from the very glory of God. The twelve gates face every direction. The foundations carry the names of the apostles. It’s a city built on memory and mission, history and hope—a place where God’s light is the only guide we need.
On this Memorial Day weekend, we remember that kind of light. Not just in stained glass or Scripture, but in the lives of those who laid down their lives for others. Some were soldiers. Some were peacemakers. Some were both. And each one reminds us that peace—true peace—is not passive. It’s chosen. It’s hard-won. It’s lived.
And it begins in us.
In the quiet ache of grief when a name is read at a Memorial Day service.In the resolve to be gentler with someone we disagree with.In the humility of a leader who chooses service over ego.In the faith of an elderly neighbor whose prayers hold a family together.In the courage of someone who keeps believing, even after loss.
The Holy Spirit continues to dwell in people like that. And when we open ourselves to that Spirit—through prayer, through community, through simple acts of love—we become part of the peace Jesus gives. A peace that lingers. A peace that empowers. A peace that remembers and renews.
So this week, may we honor the fallen. May we cherish the living. And may we open our hearts to the One who still says to each of us, “Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.”
Because we are not alone.We are not forgotten.And the Spirit still moves.
There are two kinds of peace in this world.
There’s the kind we chase—fleeting moments of calm between busy days, brief silences before the next headline, or fragile truces held together by willpower and polite avoidance. And then there’s the kind Jesus speaks of in today’s Gospel: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you.”
The world’s peace is often the absence of conflict. Christ’s peace is the presence of God.
That’s what makes this Sixth Sunday of Easter so powerful. It falls on Memorial Day weekend—a time when we remember not just the cost of war, but the deep human longing for peace that inspires sacrifice. We honor those who gave their lives in service to something greater than themselves: a nation, a neighbor, a hope. And through the lens of today’s readings, we’re reminded that the greatest peace is not won by force, but given by love.
In the Gospel, Jesus promises the gift of the Holy Spirit, the Advocate. Not a distant spirit of the past, but a present, indwelling companion. “We will come to him and make our dwelling with him,” he says. Not visit. Not check in. Dwell. Live within us. Guide us. Breathe peace into the chaos of daily life.
That promise shapes the early Church in our first reading from Acts. Facing division over who belongs and what rules define the faithful, the apostles discern a path forward: one that unites rather than divides, that respects diversity without demanding uniformity. Their final message says it plainly: “It is the decision of the Holy Spirit and of us not to place on you any burden beyond these necessities.” It’s a moment of clarity, compassion, and cooperation—born of listening to the Spirit together.
How different that feels from the noise of our world today, where we often divide over who’s in and who’s out, what should be preserved and what must be torn down. The Holy Spirit calls us to a better way: not the erasure of difference, but the embrace of communion—a unity made richer by the variety of gifts God pours out.
That unity is described beautifully in Revelation. The holy city, the new Jerusalem, isn’t a bland, monochrome place. It gleams like crystal and shines with light not from sun or moon, but from the very glory of God. The twelve gates face every direction. The foundations carry the names of the apostles. It’s a city built on memory and mission, history and hope—a place where God’s light is the only guide we need.
On this Memorial Day weekend, we remember that kind of light. Not just in stained glass or Scripture, but in the lives of those who laid down their lives for others. Some were soldiers. Some were peacemakers. Some were both. And each one reminds us that peace—true peace—is not passive. It’s chosen. It’s hard-won. It’s lived.
And it begins in us.
In the quiet ache of grief when a name is read at a Memorial Day service.In the resolve to be gentler with someone we disagree with.In the humility of a leader who chooses service over ego.In the faith of an elderly neighbor whose prayers hold a family together.In the courage of someone who keeps believing, even after loss.
The Holy Spirit continues to dwell in people like that. And when we open ourselves to that Spirit—through prayer, through community, through simple acts of love—we become part of the peace Jesus gives. A peace that lingers. A peace that empowers. A peace that remembers and renews.
So this week, may we honor the fallen. May we cherish the living. And may we open our hearts to the One who still says to each of us, “Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.”
Because we are not alone.We are not forgotten.And the Spirit still moves.
Behold, I Make All Things New: Pope Leo XIV and the Church’s Pilgrimage of Love and Renewal 05-18-25
Fifth Sunday of Easter | Acts 14:21–27 | Psalm 145:8–9, 10–11, 12–13 | Revelation 21:1–5a | John 13:31–33a, 34–35
On May 8, 2025, as white smoke curled into the Roman sky and the bells of St. Peter’s rang out in joy, a new chapter in the life of the Church quietly began. The announcement was simple, yet world-shaking: Habemus Papam. We have a pope. Stepping onto the balcony, Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost—missionary, Augustinian, and Chicago-born son of the Church—was introduced as Pope Leo XIV.
His first words echoed gently across St. Peter’s Square: “God loves us… and evil will not prevail. We are all in the hands of God.” These were not the slogans of politics or the formulas of bureaucracy. They were the words of a disciple—spoken with the same spirit of Paul and Barnabas in today’s first reading, who “strengthened the spirits of the disciples and exhorted them to persevere in the faith.” Like those apostles, Pope Leo comes not with easy answers but with hard-won hope.
A New Heaven, A New Earth
This Sunday’s reading from Revelation declares, “Behold, I make all things new.” In a world worn by division, war, and weariness—even within the Church—those words carry power. They’re not a promise of novelty for its own sake, but of renewal rooted in love. That’s exactly what Pope Leo XIV embodies: not a break from the past, but a deepening of the journey begun by his predecessors. Like the early Church returning from mission, Pope Leo inherits a Church shaped by both hardship and grace—and steps forward to continue that work with a pilgrim’s heart.
Born in 1955 in Chicago and formed in the Order of St. Augustine, Pope Leo’s path has been marked not by ambition but by service. It was in the dusty parishes of Peru that he learned how to dwell with the people, just as Revelation promises: “God’s dwelling is with the human race… and He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” He speaks the language of the wounded, not from a distance, but as one who has walked with them.
A Love That Perseveres
Today’s Gospel reveals the beating heart of discipleship: “Love one another as I have loved you.” That command is not sentimental—it is sacrificial. Jesus speaks it as Judas slips into the night. Love, in the Gospel of John, is not proven in ease but in the shadow of betrayal, fear, and death.
Pope Leo knows this. His choice of the name Leo is no coincidence. Like Leo the Great who faced down the threats of his age, and Leo XIII who charted a path through industrial upheaval with Rerum Novarum, Leo XIV inherits a Church beset by cultural confusion, ideological polarization, and spiritual fatigue. Yet, like Jesus, he doesn’t begin with rebuke but with blessing. His voice—steady, compassionate, and rooted in Christ—echoes the command to love one another, not in theory, but in the hard work of listening, forgiving, and building again.
The Kingdom That Endures
The Psalm today sings of a kingdom that endures through all generations—slow to anger, rich in kindness, merciful to all. That is the kingdom Pope Leo is called to shepherd. Not a kingdom of prestige or privilege, but one that “opens the door of faith” to all, as Paul and Barnabas did. His American roots and missionary heart make him a bridge—between continents, between cultures, between factions within the Church.
But he is not just a bridge. He is a builder. And like all builders in the Kingdom, he knows the work is slow, often painful, and always dependent on grace.
Pilgrims of Hope
As the Church looks ahead to the Jubilee Year of 2025, Pope Leo XIV’s leadership arrives as both a sign and a summons. The theme—Pilgrims of Hope—could not be more fitting. In an age marked by fear, despair, and cynicism, a pope who begins with the simple words, “God loves us,” reminds us of the deeper truth: the Church is not a fortress. She is a people on the move. A people who still believe in love stronger than death, in tears wiped away, in the promise that Christ makes all things new.
And so, with gratitude and great expectation, we pray:
Loving God,We thank You for the gift of our new pope, Leo XIV,a servant-shepherd chosen to guide Your Church with faith, humility, and courage.In a world longing for hope, his first words echoed Yours:“Peace be with you.” Let that peace take root in our hearts and our homes.
Bless Pope Leo with wisdom that comes from You,with gentleness that heals division,and with boldness to proclaim Christ in all things.May he reflect the love of the Good Shepherdand lead us as disciples marked not by power,but by love—love that endures, forgives, and unites.
Make us, Lord, a Church renewed in mission,strengthened through hardship,and radiant with the glory of Your Kingdom.Through Christ our Lord.Amen.
On May 8, 2025, as white smoke curled into the Roman sky and the bells of St. Peter’s rang out in joy, a new chapter in the life of the Church quietly began. The announcement was simple, yet world-shaking: Habemus Papam. We have a pope. Stepping onto the balcony, Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost—missionary, Augustinian, and Chicago-born son of the Church—was introduced as Pope Leo XIV.
His first words echoed gently across St. Peter’s Square: “God loves us… and evil will not prevail. We are all in the hands of God.” These were not the slogans of politics or the formulas of bureaucracy. They were the words of a disciple—spoken with the same spirit of Paul and Barnabas in today’s first reading, who “strengthened the spirits of the disciples and exhorted them to persevere in the faith.” Like those apostles, Pope Leo comes not with easy answers but with hard-won hope.
A New Heaven, A New Earth
This Sunday’s reading from Revelation declares, “Behold, I make all things new.” In a world worn by division, war, and weariness—even within the Church—those words carry power. They’re not a promise of novelty for its own sake, but of renewal rooted in love. That’s exactly what Pope Leo XIV embodies: not a break from the past, but a deepening of the journey begun by his predecessors. Like the early Church returning from mission, Pope Leo inherits a Church shaped by both hardship and grace—and steps forward to continue that work with a pilgrim’s heart.
Born in 1955 in Chicago and formed in the Order of St. Augustine, Pope Leo’s path has been marked not by ambition but by service. It was in the dusty parishes of Peru that he learned how to dwell with the people, just as Revelation promises: “God’s dwelling is with the human race… and He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” He speaks the language of the wounded, not from a distance, but as one who has walked with them.
A Love That Perseveres
Today’s Gospel reveals the beating heart of discipleship: “Love one another as I have loved you.” That command is not sentimental—it is sacrificial. Jesus speaks it as Judas slips into the night. Love, in the Gospel of John, is not proven in ease but in the shadow of betrayal, fear, and death.
Pope Leo knows this. His choice of the name Leo is no coincidence. Like Leo the Great who faced down the threats of his age, and Leo XIII who charted a path through industrial upheaval with Rerum Novarum, Leo XIV inherits a Church beset by cultural confusion, ideological polarization, and spiritual fatigue. Yet, like Jesus, he doesn’t begin with rebuke but with blessing. His voice—steady, compassionate, and rooted in Christ—echoes the command to love one another, not in theory, but in the hard work of listening, forgiving, and building again.
The Kingdom That Endures
The Psalm today sings of a kingdom that endures through all generations—slow to anger, rich in kindness, merciful to all. That is the kingdom Pope Leo is called to shepherd. Not a kingdom of prestige or privilege, but one that “opens the door of faith” to all, as Paul and Barnabas did. His American roots and missionary heart make him a bridge—between continents, between cultures, between factions within the Church.
But he is not just a bridge. He is a builder. And like all builders in the Kingdom, he knows the work is slow, often painful, and always dependent on grace.
Pilgrims of Hope
As the Church looks ahead to the Jubilee Year of 2025, Pope Leo XIV’s leadership arrives as both a sign and a summons. The theme—Pilgrims of Hope—could not be more fitting. In an age marked by fear, despair, and cynicism, a pope who begins with the simple words, “God loves us,” reminds us of the deeper truth: the Church is not a fortress. She is a people on the move. A people who still believe in love stronger than death, in tears wiped away, in the promise that Christ makes all things new.
And so, with gratitude and great expectation, we pray:
Loving God,We thank You for the gift of our new pope, Leo XIV,a servant-shepherd chosen to guide Your Church with faith, humility, and courage.In a world longing for hope, his first words echoed Yours:“Peace be with you.” Let that peace take root in our hearts and our homes.
Bless Pope Leo with wisdom that comes from You,with gentleness that heals division,and with boldness to proclaim Christ in all things.May he reflect the love of the Good Shepherdand lead us as disciples marked not by power,but by love—love that endures, forgives, and unites.
Make us, Lord, a Church renewed in mission,strengthened through hardship,and radiant with the glory of Your Kingdom.Through Christ our Lord.Amen.
A Mother’s Voice, A Shepherd’s Love: A Mother’s Day Reflection 05-11-25
Fourth Sunday of Easter | Acts 13:14, 43–52 | Psalm 100:1–2, 3, 5 | Revelation 7:9, 14b–17 | John 10:27–30
May arrives like a gentle hymn—sunlight softening the edges of long days, flowers lifting their heads toward heaven, and life awakening again in full color. In this season of renewal, the Church invites us to honor those whose love gives life—mothers, grandmothers, godmothers, and all caregivers whose hearts echo Mary’s. On this Fourth Sunday of Easter, which also marks Mother’s Day, the Scriptures speak with tender clarity about voices that guide, hands that serve, and love that never abandons.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” There is something sacred about being known by voice. A mother knows her child’s voice in a crowd, and a child knows the soothing cadence of a mother’s lullaby or prayer. Long before children recognize faces, they are calmed by the familiar sound of the one who carried them. That is what love sounds like: patient, attentive, and fiercely present.
And so it is with God. Like a shepherd calling out to each sheep by name, Christ calls us—tenderly, persistently—reminding us that we are never forgotten. Mothers and caregivers participate in this divine love when they rise at midnight for crying infants, when they hold the hands of the sick, or when they guide young hearts with wisdom forged in sacrifice.
In May, when the Church honors Mary, the Mother of God, we are invited to widen our gaze. To see that motherhood—at its core—is not defined by biology, but by love that nurtures life. And that kind of love comes in many forms. It is found in foster parents, stepmothers, godparents, teachers, nurses, neighbors, and friends who stand in the gap and pour out their hearts. It is present in quiet hospital rooms, bustling kitchens, and late-night prayer vigils. These women—and men, too, who embrace caregiving—are not just filling roles. They are fulfilling vocations.
Mary’s “yes” to the angel Gabriel was not a one-time moment. It was the beginning of a lifetime of saying yes—to birth, to exile, to ordinary days in Nazareth, and finally, to standing beneath the Cross. Her strength was not in avoiding suffering but in staying. Remaining. Loving. That is the vocation of every caregiver: to choose presence, even when it hurts. To say, again and again, “I am here.”
The Book of Acts reminds us that faithfulness is not always met with applause. Paul and Barnabas speak the truth boldly—and are driven out of town. But they shake the dust from their feet and go on rejoicing. In this, we see a reflection of every mother who keeps giving, even when her love is met with resistance. Every caregiver who quietly endures misunderstanding, exhaustion, or loneliness—but still shows up. Still loves. Still leads.
And in the stunning vision from Revelation, we glimpse the promise that awaits all who walk the long road of love: “The Lamb will shepherd them and lead them to springs of life-giving water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” What an image for every mother who has cried unseen tears, for every caregiver who has grown weary. Nothing is forgotten. Every act of love is remembered by God.
Psalm 100 urges us to “serve the Lord with gladness.” And that is what so many mothers and caregivers do—day in, day out. Through packed lunches, sleepless nights, doctor’s appointments, whispered prayers, and quiet strength. These are not chores. They are offerings. They are the liturgy of love lived out in kitchens and classrooms and hospital corridors.
So today, let us give more than flowers or cards. Let us offer prayer, gratitude, and support. Let us lift up those who nurture life in all its fragile, sacred beauty. Let us honor Mary not as a distant ideal, but as a real woman of courage, tenderness, and strength—a mother who understands.
A Mother’s Day PrayerLoving Father,You chose Mary to be the mother of Your Son,and through her, You gave the world the gift of life and salvation.Bless all mothers and caregivers who follow her example,giving of themselves in love and devotion.
Grant them strength in times of trial,peace in moments of worry,and joy in the lives they nurture.May they find support in their communities,gratitude from those they care for,and the deep assurance that their sacrifices are precious in Your sight.
Through the intercession of Mary, Mother of Life,may all who give and receive careknow the fullness of Your love.We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.
May arrives like a gentle hymn—sunlight softening the edges of long days, flowers lifting their heads toward heaven, and life awakening again in full color. In this season of renewal, the Church invites us to honor those whose love gives life—mothers, grandmothers, godmothers, and all caregivers whose hearts echo Mary’s. On this Fourth Sunday of Easter, which also marks Mother’s Day, the Scriptures speak with tender clarity about voices that guide, hands that serve, and love that never abandons.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” There is something sacred about being known by voice. A mother knows her child’s voice in a crowd, and a child knows the soothing cadence of a mother’s lullaby or prayer. Long before children recognize faces, they are calmed by the familiar sound of the one who carried them. That is what love sounds like: patient, attentive, and fiercely present.
And so it is with God. Like a shepherd calling out to each sheep by name, Christ calls us—tenderly, persistently—reminding us that we are never forgotten. Mothers and caregivers participate in this divine love when they rise at midnight for crying infants, when they hold the hands of the sick, or when they guide young hearts with wisdom forged in sacrifice.
In May, when the Church honors Mary, the Mother of God, we are invited to widen our gaze. To see that motherhood—at its core—is not defined by biology, but by love that nurtures life. And that kind of love comes in many forms. It is found in foster parents, stepmothers, godparents, teachers, nurses, neighbors, and friends who stand in the gap and pour out their hearts. It is present in quiet hospital rooms, bustling kitchens, and late-night prayer vigils. These women—and men, too, who embrace caregiving—are not just filling roles. They are fulfilling vocations.
Mary’s “yes” to the angel Gabriel was not a one-time moment. It was the beginning of a lifetime of saying yes—to birth, to exile, to ordinary days in Nazareth, and finally, to standing beneath the Cross. Her strength was not in avoiding suffering but in staying. Remaining. Loving. That is the vocation of every caregiver: to choose presence, even when it hurts. To say, again and again, “I am here.”
The Book of Acts reminds us that faithfulness is not always met with applause. Paul and Barnabas speak the truth boldly—and are driven out of town. But they shake the dust from their feet and go on rejoicing. In this, we see a reflection of every mother who keeps giving, even when her love is met with resistance. Every caregiver who quietly endures misunderstanding, exhaustion, or loneliness—but still shows up. Still loves. Still leads.
And in the stunning vision from Revelation, we glimpse the promise that awaits all who walk the long road of love: “The Lamb will shepherd them and lead them to springs of life-giving water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” What an image for every mother who has cried unseen tears, for every caregiver who has grown weary. Nothing is forgotten. Every act of love is remembered by God.
Psalm 100 urges us to “serve the Lord with gladness.” And that is what so many mothers and caregivers do—day in, day out. Through packed lunches, sleepless nights, doctor’s appointments, whispered prayers, and quiet strength. These are not chores. They are offerings. They are the liturgy of love lived out in kitchens and classrooms and hospital corridors.
So today, let us give more than flowers or cards. Let us offer prayer, gratitude, and support. Let us lift up those who nurture life in all its fragile, sacred beauty. Let us honor Mary not as a distant ideal, but as a real woman of courage, tenderness, and strength—a mother who understands.
A Mother’s Day PrayerLoving Father,You chose Mary to be the mother of Your Son,and through her, You gave the world the gift of life and salvation.Bless all mothers and caregivers who follow her example,giving of themselves in love and devotion.
Grant them strength in times of trial,peace in moments of worry,and joy in the lives they nurture.May they find support in their communities,gratitude from those they care for,and the deep assurance that their sacrifices are precious in Your sight.
Through the intercession of Mary, Mother of Life,may all who give and receive careknow the fullness of Your love.We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.
When Failure Meets Firelight Third Sunday of Easter 05-04-25
There are moments in life when the soul gets quiet—not because all is well, but because we’ve run out of excuses. We’re standing in the wreckage of something we didn’t mean to break: a promise, a relationship, a season of faith. And like Peter, we wonder, “Is there a way back from this?”
This Sunday’s Gospel gives us our answer—but not with a lightning bolt or trumpet blast. It begins, instead, with a boat rocking gently in the early morning light and a heart too ashamed to hope.
Peter is fishing again. Not because he’s bored, but because he’s lost. He knows Jesus has risen—he’s seen Him, twice—but they haven’t really talked. Not about that night. Not about the denials. Not about the fire where he swore, again and again, “I don’t know Him.”
So Peter goes back to what he knows. Back to nets and water and the smell of old routines. And yet—even in this, he comes up empty. The nets yield nothing. Until, from the shore, a voice calls out: “Children, have you caught anything?”
It’s Jesus. But He doesn’t call them out. He calls them in.
They cast again. The net nearly bursts. And then John says what Peter’s heart has already begun to feel: “It is the Lord.”
Peter doesn’t walk. He doesn’t row. He jumps. Fully clothed. Flailing, joyful, desperate—he swims toward mercy.
And what does he find?
A fire.
Not a courtroom. Not a lecture hall. A fire. With bread and fish. And Jesus—the Word made flesh, the crucified and risen Lord—cooking breakfast.
It’s here, beside flickering coals that mirror the scene of Peter’s betrayal, that the most powerful healing happens—not through scolding, but through three questions:
“Do you love me?”“Do you love me?”“Do you love me?”
Jesus doesn’t erase Peter’s failure—He rewrites it. Three denials, three declarations. And with each “Yes, Lord,” comes a commission: “Feed my sheep.”
This is what divine mercy looks like. Not just forgiveness—but restoration. Not just “I love you anyway,” but “I still believe in you.”
We see the fruit of that encounter in the first reading from Acts. Peter, once terrified of being associated with Jesus, now stands boldly before the very council that condemned Him. The same voice that once trembled now proclaims: “We must obey God rather than men.”
And when he is flogged for his faith, he doesn’t sulk or doubt. He rejoices. Because once you’ve been forgiven, truly forgiven, the fear of rejection loses its grip. Shame gives way to courage. Mercy makes martyrs out of cowards.
But the story doesn’t end there.
In Revelation, we are taken into heaven’s throne room. And there, at the center of eternity, is the Lamb who was slain. But look closely: He still bears His wounds. In glory, Jesus chooses to remain scarred.
Why?
Because heaven doesn’t erase suffering—it transfigures it. The scars that once marked failure now shine with love. And the angels cry out, not because they see perfection, but because they see a love that has passed through death and come out radiant.
And so we return to our own firelight moments.
Maybe your nets are empty. Maybe you’ve gone back to old habits, old fears, or old sins. Maybe, like Peter, you know Jesus is risen—but you’re still not sure He’d want you.
Then hear this: He does. He’s on the shore. He’s already got the fire going.
He doesn’t need your résumé. He knows your wounds. And He’s not afraid of your mess.
Let Him ask you the question that matters most: “Do you love me?” Not “Are you perfect?” Not “Will you never fail again?” But “Do you love me?”
Even a whisper is enough. And that whisper, spoken in trembling truth, will change everything.
Because grace always outruns guilt. Mercy always makes room for more. And failure, when handed over to the firelight of Christ, becomes the starting place of resurrection.
This Sunday’s Gospel gives us our answer—but not with a lightning bolt or trumpet blast. It begins, instead, with a boat rocking gently in the early morning light and a heart too ashamed to hope.
Peter is fishing again. Not because he’s bored, but because he’s lost. He knows Jesus has risen—he’s seen Him, twice—but they haven’t really talked. Not about that night. Not about the denials. Not about the fire where he swore, again and again, “I don’t know Him.”
So Peter goes back to what he knows. Back to nets and water and the smell of old routines. And yet—even in this, he comes up empty. The nets yield nothing. Until, from the shore, a voice calls out: “Children, have you caught anything?”
It’s Jesus. But He doesn’t call them out. He calls them in.
They cast again. The net nearly bursts. And then John says what Peter’s heart has already begun to feel: “It is the Lord.”
Peter doesn’t walk. He doesn’t row. He jumps. Fully clothed. Flailing, joyful, desperate—he swims toward mercy.
And what does he find?
A fire.
Not a courtroom. Not a lecture hall. A fire. With bread and fish. And Jesus—the Word made flesh, the crucified and risen Lord—cooking breakfast.
It’s here, beside flickering coals that mirror the scene of Peter’s betrayal, that the most powerful healing happens—not through scolding, but through three questions:
“Do you love me?”“Do you love me?”“Do you love me?”
Jesus doesn’t erase Peter’s failure—He rewrites it. Three denials, three declarations. And with each “Yes, Lord,” comes a commission: “Feed my sheep.”
This is what divine mercy looks like. Not just forgiveness—but restoration. Not just “I love you anyway,” but “I still believe in you.”
We see the fruit of that encounter in the first reading from Acts. Peter, once terrified of being associated with Jesus, now stands boldly before the very council that condemned Him. The same voice that once trembled now proclaims: “We must obey God rather than men.”
And when he is flogged for his faith, he doesn’t sulk or doubt. He rejoices. Because once you’ve been forgiven, truly forgiven, the fear of rejection loses its grip. Shame gives way to courage. Mercy makes martyrs out of cowards.
But the story doesn’t end there.
In Revelation, we are taken into heaven’s throne room. And there, at the center of eternity, is the Lamb who was slain. But look closely: He still bears His wounds. In glory, Jesus chooses to remain scarred.
Why?
Because heaven doesn’t erase suffering—it transfigures it. The scars that once marked failure now shine with love. And the angels cry out, not because they see perfection, but because they see a love that has passed through death and come out radiant.
And so we return to our own firelight moments.
Maybe your nets are empty. Maybe you’ve gone back to old habits, old fears, or old sins. Maybe, like Peter, you know Jesus is risen—but you’re still not sure He’d want you.
Then hear this: He does. He’s on the shore. He’s already got the fire going.
He doesn’t need your résumé. He knows your wounds. And He’s not afraid of your mess.
Let Him ask you the question that matters most: “Do you love me?” Not “Are you perfect?” Not “Will you never fail again?” But “Do you love me?”
Even a whisper is enough. And that whisper, spoken in trembling truth, will change everything.
Because grace always outruns guilt. Mercy always makes room for more. And failure, when handed over to the firelight of Christ, becomes the starting place of resurrection.
From Fear to Forgiveness: The Power of Mercy Unleashed 04-24-25
A Reflection for Divine Mercy Sunday
There are moments in life when fear closes in so tightly, it becomes a second skin—when the wounds we carry, the failures we fear to confess, and the betrayal we feel, leave us locked behind emotional and spiritual doors. The disciples knew that feeling. On the evening of the Resurrection, even after hearing the news that Jesus was alive, they stayed behind locked doors—crippled by fear, guilt, and uncertainty.
And then it happened.
“Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’” (John 20:19)
No thunder. No judgment. No rebuke.Only mercy.
This is the first proclamation of the Risen Christ: not condemnation for their cowardice, not “I told you so,” but peace. And then something astonishing—He shows them His wounds. The very marks of pain, betrayal, and death become the source of peace and healing.
This moment captures the essence of Divine Mercy Sunday. It is not just a celebration of forgiveness—it is a revelation of God’s heart: a heart that bears wounds, not grudges. A heart that doesn’t come to shame us, but to set us free.
Locked Doors, Open Wounds
So often, we are like those disciples.We lock ourselves away—behind pride, behind pain, behind the deep fear that maybe our sins are too much, our past too broken, our hearts too hard. We may even believe in the Resurrection in theory, but deep down we wonder: Could He really want to come to me?
And yet He does.Over and over again.
Jesus enters our most locked rooms.Not only does He pass through walls—He passes through our defenses, our excuses, and our silence.And He brings mercy.
The Divine Mercy image revealed to St. Faustina shows rays of red and white streaming from Christ’s pierced heart—symbolizing the blood and water that flowed from His side. But these rays are not past tense. They are present and active. Mercy is not a memory; it is a movement—from God’s heart to ours, and from ours to the world.
The Peace of Forgiveness, the Mission of Mercy
In that upper room, Jesus did more than comfort the disciples—He sent them. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And then He breathed on them, giving them the Holy Spirit, and with it, the authority to forgive sins.
In that moment, the Sacrament of Reconciliation was born—not out of fear, but out of freedom. Not as a courtroom, but as a field hospital for wounded souls. When we confess our sins, we are not crawling to an angry God. We are walking toward the One who already carries the wounds of our healing.
The world desperately needs this kind of mercy.
We are surrounded by fear—fear of being rejected, fear of being exposed, fear of being unloved.But mercy is stronger than fear.Mercy does not pretend sin doesn’t exist—it simply refuses to let sin have the final word.
The Courage to Receive and to Give
To truly live Divine Mercy is to receive it with open hands and to extend it without conditions.
And that’s hard.
It’s hard to forgive those who’ve hurt us deeply. It’s hard to let go of bitterness we’ve carried like armor. It’s hard to believe God still delights in us when we can’t even delight in ourselves.
But mercy is not a transaction—it’s a transformation.
When we receive mercy, we become merciful. When we forgive, we begin to heal. When we stop living from fear, we begin to live from grace.
Mercy Is the Face of Love
Pope Saint John Paul II, who instituted Divine Mercy Sunday for the universal Church, once said:“Mercy is love’s second name.”
Love, when faced with failure, becomes mercy.Love, when wounded, becomes healing.Love, when poured out, becomes new life.
On this Divine Mercy Sunday, let us look upon the wounds of Christ—not with shame, but with awe.Those wounds are for us.Those wounds are healing us.Those wounds are still open—because mercy is still flowing.
From Fear to Forgiveness: A Final Word
If you are hiding in fear today—fear of sin, fear of shame, fear of not being enough—know this:The Risen Christ is standing in the middle of your life, right now.And He is not here to scold you.He is here to say, “Peace be with you.”
Let Him in.Let mercy do its work.Let forgiveness set you free.
Because the doors may be locked, but Jesus still enters.And when He does, He brings only one thing:Mercy.
There are moments in life when fear closes in so tightly, it becomes a second skin—when the wounds we carry, the failures we fear to confess, and the betrayal we feel, leave us locked behind emotional and spiritual doors. The disciples knew that feeling. On the evening of the Resurrection, even after hearing the news that Jesus was alive, they stayed behind locked doors—crippled by fear, guilt, and uncertainty.
And then it happened.
“Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’” (John 20:19)
No thunder. No judgment. No rebuke.Only mercy.
This is the first proclamation of the Risen Christ: not condemnation for their cowardice, not “I told you so,” but peace. And then something astonishing—He shows them His wounds. The very marks of pain, betrayal, and death become the source of peace and healing.
This moment captures the essence of Divine Mercy Sunday. It is not just a celebration of forgiveness—it is a revelation of God’s heart: a heart that bears wounds, not grudges. A heart that doesn’t come to shame us, but to set us free.
Locked Doors, Open Wounds
So often, we are like those disciples.We lock ourselves away—behind pride, behind pain, behind the deep fear that maybe our sins are too much, our past too broken, our hearts too hard. We may even believe in the Resurrection in theory, but deep down we wonder: Could He really want to come to me?
And yet He does.Over and over again.
Jesus enters our most locked rooms.Not only does He pass through walls—He passes through our defenses, our excuses, and our silence.And He brings mercy.
The Divine Mercy image revealed to St. Faustina shows rays of red and white streaming from Christ’s pierced heart—symbolizing the blood and water that flowed from His side. But these rays are not past tense. They are present and active. Mercy is not a memory; it is a movement—from God’s heart to ours, and from ours to the world.
The Peace of Forgiveness, the Mission of Mercy
In that upper room, Jesus did more than comfort the disciples—He sent them. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And then He breathed on them, giving them the Holy Spirit, and with it, the authority to forgive sins.
In that moment, the Sacrament of Reconciliation was born—not out of fear, but out of freedom. Not as a courtroom, but as a field hospital for wounded souls. When we confess our sins, we are not crawling to an angry God. We are walking toward the One who already carries the wounds of our healing.
The world desperately needs this kind of mercy.
We are surrounded by fear—fear of being rejected, fear of being exposed, fear of being unloved.But mercy is stronger than fear.Mercy does not pretend sin doesn’t exist—it simply refuses to let sin have the final word.
The Courage to Receive and to Give
To truly live Divine Mercy is to receive it with open hands and to extend it without conditions.
And that’s hard.
It’s hard to forgive those who’ve hurt us deeply. It’s hard to let go of bitterness we’ve carried like armor. It’s hard to believe God still delights in us when we can’t even delight in ourselves.
But mercy is not a transaction—it’s a transformation.
When we receive mercy, we become merciful. When we forgive, we begin to heal. When we stop living from fear, we begin to live from grace.
Mercy Is the Face of Love
Pope Saint John Paul II, who instituted Divine Mercy Sunday for the universal Church, once said:“Mercy is love’s second name.”
Love, when faced with failure, becomes mercy.Love, when wounded, becomes healing.Love, when poured out, becomes new life.
On this Divine Mercy Sunday, let us look upon the wounds of Christ—not with shame, but with awe.Those wounds are for us.Those wounds are healing us.Those wounds are still open—because mercy is still flowing.
From Fear to Forgiveness: A Final Word
If you are hiding in fear today—fear of sin, fear of shame, fear of not being enough—know this:The Risen Christ is standing in the middle of your life, right now.And He is not here to scold you.He is here to say, “Peace be with you.”
Let Him in.Let mercy do its work.Let forgiveness set you free.
Because the doors may be locked, but Jesus still enters.And when He does, He brings only one thing:Mercy.