Homilies

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.

Tonight we witness something unexpected: the Lord, the master, the teacher, kneeling at the feet of his disciples. Amidst the echoes of Passover preparations, amidst talk of betrayal and sacrifice, one action pierces through: Jesus washing feet. It might seem odd that on Holy Thursday, the night we celebrate the instituion of the Eucharist, we are given a Gospel that does not explicitly show the Eucharist at all. Instead, we encounter humility in its purest form.

Jesus rides into Jerusalem today not as a conquering king but as the one who willingly goes to the cross. Every step, every gesture of his procession speaks clearly of one thing: the limitless depth of God’s love for us. Yet how often do we doubt this love, feeling isolated by pain, misunderstood by others, or burdened by hidden wounds?

Today, we see Jesus embracing our pain, carrying it deliberately toward the cross. His entry into Jerusalem is more than just a historical event—it is God’s profound declaration that we will never be alone. Our suffering, which we believe isolates us, actually draws us intimately into Christ’s own journey. He makes our loneliness his own; he enters our abandonment, our rejection, our fears, and insecurities.

NB: This Sunday we had the third scrutiny. The homily for the mass with the scrutiny can be found below. The homily for the Year C reading used at the other masses follows immediately:

When the scribes and Pharisees placed a frightened woman before Jesus, they believed they were creating a test—a situation that would trap Jesus into either breaking the law or compromising his message of mercy. But Jesus, seeing beyond their trap, responded differently than anyone expected. Notice an easy to miss detail, his posture, his quiet presence: he bent down, writing silently in the dust. In this simple gesture, he paused the moment, shifting attention away from accusation and judgment.

NB: This Sunday we had the second scrutiny. The homily for the mass with the scrutiny can be found below. The homily for the Year C reading used at the other masses follows immediately:

Every family has its difficult chapters—moments when someone feels distant, misunderstood, or unloved. Each of us, in some way, has been that younger son, wandering far from the love that once grounded us. And each of us has, perhaps unknowingly, also played the role of the older brother, steadfast yet quietly resentful. The power of this parable is that it shows us God’s relentless desire to close those distances and restore every relationship.

When we hear this familiar Gospel story—especially the words, “no prophet is accepted in his own native place”—we often think of the old saying: familiarity breeds contempt. And certainly, that is part of what’s happening here. The people who have known Jesus since childhood cannot believe he is someone extraordinary. But there is something deeper at play.

In this passage, Jesus brings Israel’s history to the forefront. Throughout their history, God’s people have often misunderstood their relationship with him. They believed that because God chose them, he owed them something—that blessings and protection were guaranteed simply because they were his chosen people. They even voiced it aloud at times: “The temple is here, so surely God will protect us.” Yet repeatedly, God reminded them that being chosen does not create obligations for God; rather, it places responsibilities upon his people. Israel was chosen for holiness, chosen to cultivate a genuine relationship with God, chosen to faithfully follow him. Their privilege was matched by a profound responsibility, and they frequently struggled with this reality. Instead of responding with holiness, they relied on entitlement, believing God had to protect and bless them simply because they were chosen.

Whenever tragedy strikes, our first impulse is to search for meaning. We want explanations: Why did this happen? Who is to blame? We instinctively wonder if suffering is punishment for wrongdoing. Yet, Jesus sharply challenges this notion, asking, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were greater sinners than all other Galileans?” His response is clear: tragedy is not a measure of guilt.

In our lives, we frequently see evil or tragedy as signs of divine judgment or abandonment. But God does not operate in this way. The fallen tower of Siloam was not a judgment upon the victims, nor was Pilate’s cruelty proof of their sinfulness. Rather, these events reveal something profoundly different—our world, wounded and broken, yet waiting to be healed.

I have always found the structure of this parable striking. At first glance, the details seem to emphasize the contrast between wealth and poverty and our obligation to care for the poor. Perhaps they even hint at the reality of hell. Yet, by the time we reach the conclusion, it becomes clear that the true focus is on listening to the word of God. That is the heart of the parable: the call to hear and respond to God’s word, for it is in listening that true transformation occurs.