Homilies & Thoughts

St. Matthew lets the number stand in the open. The disciples climb the mountain in Galilee, and there are only eleven of them. Eleven. A wounded number.

For most of the Gospel, Jesus has walked with the twelve. They were the visible sign of a new Israel, the first stones of a renewed people, the beginning of a Church meant to gather the whole human family into the love of God. Now one place is empty. Judas is gone, and Matthew does not hide that absence. Before the risen Lord sends the Church to the nations, the Church stands before him incomplete.

Absence can reveal the truth. While someone stands near us, the meaning of that life often remains scattered through ordinary days. We remember a gesture without grasping the love behind it. We hear a sentence and only later feel its full weight. After departure, the pieces begin to gather. Death, and even the approach of death, can become a revealing light.

In the quiet of the upper room, Jesus begins to shine that light. The meal is over. The feet of the disciples are still clean from his hands. Judas has slipped into the dark. Jesus remains with his friends, and the hour closing around him will soon make sense of everything he has said and done.

The upper room has the stillness that comes before grief. Jesus has spoken of departure, and the disciples feel the ground shift beneath them. Their daily life has taken shape around his presence. Now the one whose nearness has steadied them speaks as though he will soon be hidden from sight.

That apparent hiddenness is where this Gospel touches us most today. The disciples could look upon the face of Jesus. They could hear his voice without the veil of memory and meet the gaze of the Son who reveals the Father. Their confusion was real, but their privilege seems undeniable. They could see God in the flesh.