Homilies

At the very heart of reality, beyond the boundaries of space and time, relationship reigns supreme. Before the stars first ignited, before human voices reverberated through history, relationship already existed, eternal and unbounded. “He will take from what is mine and declare it to you,” Jesus assures us, unveiling a divine intimacy that stretches from the Father through the Son to the Holy Spirit and into our lives.

This relationship is not theological poetry; it is the essence of our existence. We glimpse here the inner life of God, a community of love—the Father eternally pouring forth into the Son, the Son reflecting that love fully, and the Holy Spirit binding and breathing through their union. This eternal communion is not merely about God’s identity; it profoundly shapes our understanding of who we are and why we exist.

The Roman Empire loved to boast about its dominance. Emperors carved the names of conquered peoples and lands onto stone monuments, proudly proclaiming their control over the known world. Their message was clear: defiance was futile, resistance impossible. Yet, today we hear a different proclamation, one that echoes not from monuments of stone, but from hearts ablaze with divine fire.

“We hear them speaking in our own tongues of the mighty acts of God.” This declaration from the crowd gathered at Pentecost signals a profound turning point. It is not just another biblical list—“Parthians, Medes, and Elamites, inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia”—but a subversive proclamation of Christ’s universal victory. Each place named is no mere geographical detail, but a declaration that Christ’s kingdom knows no boundary or empire. No earthly power can confine it or stop it.

As summer approaches, we know the familiar feeling of when the sun’s heat presses heavily upon us. On those scorching days, nothing refreshes us more deeply and immediately than cool water. Imagine that feeling—the relief, the refreshment, the renewed vitality from just a simple drink. Jesus invites us today with this very image: “Let anyone who thirsts come to me and drink.”

Yet Jesus is not speaking about physical thirst. He describes the gift of the Holy Spirit as “[r]ivers of living water,” an image that might surprise us. Often, we associate the Spirit with fire—dynamic, powerful, and transformative—especially recalling the flames of Pentecost. But here, in a world scorched by conflict, division, and heated rhetoric, perhaps we need the Spirit precisely as living water—refreshing, soothing, and restoring peace.

“Why are you standing there looking at the sky?” With these words, the angels confronted the disciples in their moment of uncertainty and hesitation. It was a question that pierced their confusion and moved them from paralysis toward purpose. Jesus had departed, leaving them behind, and their gaze was locked heavenward, lost in wonder and in apprehension. They had depended upon Jesus—his presence, his wisdom, his reassuring voice. Now they stood frozen, caught in the unknown.

When Jesus speaks of peace, he promises something very different from what we usually imagine. He declares, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you.” Christ offers us a peace unlike any other—distinct from worldly promises and entirely free of conditions or threats.

Consider how the world typically delivers peace: often through force, dominance, or transactional arrangements. We might think of ancient Rome, whose emperors boasted of establishing peace across conquered territories. Yet this peace was maintained through fear, enforced with violence, and secured only through suffering and loss. Even today, worldly peace often comes disguised as a transaction: “We will give you protection if you give us something valuable in return.” Such peace is fleeting and fragile, inherently unstable because it is built upon conditional promises and shaky foundations.

The early Christians stood out—not because of unique clothing or special customs, nor because they spoke their own language or lived separately from others—but because they behaved differently. They were ordinary people indistinguishable from their neighbors in all outward appearances, yet they were known unmistakably by one profound truth: the way they loved.

Jesus speaks clearly: “This is how all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” It is not our attire, nationality, or language that sets us apart. It is not even the symbols we wear or the places we gather. Rather, it is our willingness to embody love—to make tangible and visible the love that Christ himself has shown us.

When we have doubts about someone’s integrity, we often say, “Actions speak louder than words.” And indeed, genuine love, trustworthiness, and compassion become real to us not through promises or claims, but through what someone actually does.

This is at the heart of Jesus’ words: “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” Jesus makes clear that following him is not about simply knowing the right words or holding correct beliefs. Rather, true discipleship is revealed in our actions—actions that reflect his own. The context of this Gospel is people asking Jesus to speak plainly and reveal whether he is the messiah. Jesus responds by pointing not to what he has said, but to what he has done. His works—healing the sick, caring for the poor, forgiving sinners—speak clearly and powerfully. They are the signs that God the Father is present, working in and through him.

There is a saying we have all heard countless times: “God never gives us more than we can handle.” While it might sound comforting, it is simply not true. Life’s experiences teach us otherwise. Think of the parent who loses a child, the person diagnosed with a terminal illness, or someone facing the shock of unemployment. In these moments, the burdens are undeniably overwhelming, stretching human strength far beyond its limits.

I had a different homily prepared originally, but I spent almost five hours hearing confessions at various places across the diocese yesterday. In the midst of that, I found myself thinking about all of you—thinking about what these past three weeks have been like—and something struck me during that time.

One of the things I have noticed, fairly consistently, is that most of us here, if not all of us, are wounded. As a community, it seems we have all had experiences that have hurt us in some way, and we have held on to those hurts.

When Mary Magdalene first encountered the empty tomb, her heart was filled not with joy but confusion and fear. Her cry was felt deeply in the hearts of Peter and the other disciple: “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they put him.” This emptiness, this initial shock, confronts us too. We, like Mary and the apostles, live in a world overshadowed by the reality of death, faced daily with uncertainty and the haunting question: Is it all vanity?

My dear catechumens, candidates, and beloved friends, this night is unlike any other. Tonight is the heart of our faith, where everything we have known and hoped for comes together: “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised.”

These words spoken to the women at the tomb ring in our hearts tonight. They capture the extraordinary truth that transforms everything. Jesus Christ, who has always been with us, who existed before the world began and who will remain after all things pass away, has conquered death itself. Christ, our Alpha and Omega, has shattered the darkness of sin and death by rising victorious.

Pilate’s question, “What is truth?” echoes through the centuries because it captures the core of our human struggle. Pilate stands in front of Jesus, a man whose innocence he openly acknowledges, and yet he remains trapped in the familiar patterns of human history—a history of power abused, justice twisted, and truth silenced. His question is not flippant or dismissive. Rather, Pilate voices the deep uncertainty within each of us when faced with a world that appears unchanging in its cycles of selfishness, pride, and violence.