Homilies are added as time permits.

Today we come to the end of the Easter season. For fifty days, the Church has rejoiced in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. We have heard how the Risen Lord appeared to His disciples, strengthened them, restored them, taught them, and prepared them.

Now the Easter season reaches its fulfillment in the gift of the Holy Spirit. At Pentecost, the disciples who had walked with the Risen Lord are filled with the Holy Spirit and sent into the world as the Body of Christ, carrying the Gospel to all peoples.

The Gospel brings us back to the moment just before that mission begins. The disciples are gathered together in fear after the death of Jesus. Uncertain and shaken, they do not yet fully understand what God is about to do through them.

And Jesus comes to them there. He does not begin with a rebuke, but with peace. “Peace be with you.” Then He shows them His hands and His side. This is the peace of the Crucified and Risen Lord, who has conquered sin and death.

Then Jesus says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And He breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” The mission of the Church begins not with human strength, but with receiving the Risen Christ.

The locked doors in the Gospel are not only a detail about the room. They can also become an image of the human heart. We can live behind locked doors without ever touching a lock.

We can become closed in by fear, resentment, pride, self-reliance, wounds we refuse to surrender, or sins we excuse rather than confess. Pride is not always loud arrogance. Sometimes pride simply says, “I can do this without God. I do not need to change. I will remain in control.”

But humility opens the heart. Humility says, “Lord, I need You. Lord, I cannot heal or save myself. Lord, I cannot be Your disciple without Your Spirit.”

That is not weakness. That is truth. Humility is the heart standing honestly before God, ready to receive. And Pentecost is about receiving.

The Holy Spirit is not given simply to inspire us emotionally or make us feel close to God for a moment. The Holy Spirit comes to sanctify us, to renew us, to conform us more deeply to Jesus Christ. Just as the breath of God brought life at creation, Jesus now breathes the Holy Spirit upon His disciples as the beginning of a new creation, the sending forth of the Church into the world.

This is why Pentecost begins interiorly, but it never remains private. Jesus does not breathe the Holy Spirit upon the disciples so they can remain behind locked doors. He says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

The Spirit opens the heart, sanctifies the disciple, and sends the Church. We see that in the Acts of the Apostles. The disciples who were once afraid are now filled with the Holy Spirit and proclaiming the mighty acts of God. People from many nations hear the Gospel and are drawn together in one faith. The Church is no longer hidden away. The Church is sent into the world.

That is still the mission of the Church today. We are a mission people. The Gospel is not meant to remain inside these walls or confined to one hour on Sunday. It is meant to be carried into our families, our marriages, our friendships, our workplaces, our schools, and our communities.

Most of us will never preach from a pulpit, but every baptized Christian is called to proclaim Christ. Sometimes with words. Always with a life shaped by the Holy Spirit.

We proclaim the Gospel when we forgive instead of clinging to resentment, when we speak truth with charity, when we pray with our families, when we refuse to let fear rule our decisions, when we serve without needing recognition, and when our lives reflect that Jesus Christ is truly Lord.

Saint Paul tells us, “No one can say, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ except by the Holy Spirit.” Those words are more than a profession. They are an act of surrender. When Christ becomes Lord of the heart, fear, pride, and self-reliance begin to lose their hold, and the Holy Spirit begins to transform us from within.

Paul reminds us that the Spirit gives different gifts, forms of service, and workings, but always for the good of the Body of Christ. The Spirit does not make us identical, but He does unite us in one faith and one mission.

This feast is not only about what happened long ago in Jerusalem. The same Holy Spirit who came upon the disciples at Pentecost is still at work in the Church today. The same Spirit who strengthened the Apostles, sanctified the saints, and renewed the Church across the centuries is at work here and now.

At our parish. 

In our families. 

In our community. 

In each of us willing to open our hearts to God.

So today, as this Easter season comes to completion, let us ask for humble hearts. Hearts open enough to receive. Hearts willing to be changed. Hearts ready to be sent.

Shall we pray…

Come, Holy Spirit. Fill the hearts of your faithful. Kindle in us the fire of your love. Open what is closed within us. Renew what is weary. Heal what is wounded. And send us forth as witnesses of Jesus Christ, proclaiming by our words and by our lives the mighty works of God.

 The Ascension is not the story of Jesus becoming distant. 

He rises into heaven. The disciples look up. A cloud takes Him from their sight. And if we stop there, the Ascension can almost feel like an absence, as if Jesus has gone away and the disciples are left behind to figure things out on their own.

But that is not what the Church celebrates today. The Ascension is not Jesus abandoning His disciples. It is Jesus entering into glory. It is Jesus, fully divine and fully human, taking our humanity into the very life of God. As our opening prayer says, “where the Head has gone before us in glory, the Body is called to follow in hope.” Christ is the Head. The Church is His Body. And where the Head has gone, the Body is called to follow.

That is why this feast is filled with joy. Jesus has gone before us, not to distance Himself from us, but to draw us more deeply into His life. He is seated at the right hand of the Father, yet He remains with His Church. He reigns in glory, yet He continues to act in and through His Body.

This is why the last words of today’s Gospel are so important: “And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age.” Jesus gives His disciples a mission, but He does not give it to them as an impossible burden. He sends them to make disciples, to baptize, and to teach all nations to observe everything He has commanded. And then He gives the promise that makes the mission possible: “I am with you always.” That promise is the heart of Christian discipleship.

We do not follow Jesus as though He were only a teacher from the past. We do not obey His commandments as though they were merely rules written down long ago. We do not baptize and teach because we are preserving a memory. We do these things because Christ is alive. Christ is reigning. Christ is present. Christ is with His Church. And it is only in recognizing His presence that we can begin to live what He commands.

Sometimes we can think of obedience to God as something we have to force from the outside. We hear the commandments. We know the teachings of the Church. We know the call to love, to forgive, to pray, to repent, to serve, to be faithful, to carry the cross. And if we try to live all of that only by our own strength, it can feel overwhelming.

But Jesus does not begin with a command and leave us alone. He begins with relationship. He draws near. He gives Himself. He pours out grace. He remains with us.

The Christian life is not simply a matter of trying harder. It is a matter of remaining with the One who remains with us. That is why the sacramental life matters so deeply. In Baptism, we are not simply enrolled in a religion. We are joined to Christ. We become members of His Body. We are claimed by the Father, incorporated into the Son, and made temples of the Holy Spirit. When Jesus commands His apostles to baptize in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, He is commanding them to bring others into communion with the living God. That mission continues through the Church.

Parents who bring their children to Baptism are not merely fulfilling a family tradition. They are responding to the command of Christ and opening their child to the life of grace. Godparents are not merely honorary witnesses. They are called to help that child live as a disciple. Every baptized Christian shares in this mission, not necessarily by preaching on street corners or traveling to distant nations, but by living in such a way that others can see Christ.

In the first reading, the disciples are looking up into the sky after Jesus is taken from their sight. Then two men in white garments ask them, “Why are you standing there looking at the sky?” It is a gentle correction, but an important one.

The disciples are not being told to stop hoping for heaven. They are being told that hope for heaven must now shape their life on earth. They are not to stand still, staring upward. They are to wait for the Holy Spirit, and then they are to become witnesses.

That same movement belongs to us. The Ascension lifts our eyes toward heaven, but it also sends us back into the world. We are not meant to live as though this world is all there is. But neither are we meant to escape the world in a false spirituality that avoids responsibility. Christian hope draws us onward, but that hope also changes how we live now.

If Christ is with us always, then He is with us in our homes, our marriages, our work, our suffering, and our temptations. He is with us when prayer comes easily and when it feels dry. He is with us when we are faithful and when we need to repent.

The question is not whether Jesus is with us. The question is whether we are living as though He is.

Do we turn to Him and trust Him? Do we allow His presence to shape our decisions, relationships, priorities, and witness? Do we live our Baptism as a real participation in His life, or as something from the past that no longer directs our daily life?

The Ascension reminds us that our destiny is not small. We were not created merely to get through this life with a little comfort and a little success. We were created for communion with God. Christ has gone before us in glory, and the Body is called to follow in hope.

And He has not gone before us as one who forgets us. He is seated at the right hand of the Father, interceding for us. He knows our weakness. He knows our struggles. He knows the weight of the mission He has given to His Church. And from the Father’s right hand, He continues to pour out grace so that His work may continue in us. That is why we can follow Him. Not because we are strong enough on our own, but because He remains with us.

And in a few moments, we will come to the altar. The same Lord who ascended into heaven will make Himself truly present to us in the Eucharist. What appears to our eyes as bread and wine will become, through the power of the Holy Spirit, the true Body and Blood of Jesus Christ: His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. The One seated at the right hand of the Father gives Himself to us as real food and real drink, strengthening His Body, the Church, so that we may live as His witnesses.

Jesus has not left us. He is with us always. And because He is with us, we can follow where He has gone. We can live as His disciples. We can help lead others to Baptism, to faith, to the Church, to the sacraments, and to the hope of eternal life.

Where the Head has gone before us in glory, the Body is called to follow in hope.

It is possible to sit in the pews of a church for years and still keep God at a distance.

Not because we are opposed to God. Not because we are against the Church. Sometimes we are here simply because something inside us says we should be here. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of duty. Maybe because deep down we wonder, “What if this is true?” Maybe because some small part of us hopes that simply being here keeps us connected to God somehow.

And honestly, that may already be the beginning of grace. Because God can work even through a small openness. But Jesus does not merely invite us to attend. He invites us into relationship.

That relationship with God is everything. Without it, the commandments feel like burdens, prayer becomes empty routine, and suffering feels meaningless and lonely. But when we begin to live in relationship with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, everything changes. That is what we see happening in Samaria in today’s first reading.

The people became receptive to the Word of God. They listened to Philip proclaim Christ. They opened themselves to baptism. Peter and John came and prayed that they would receive the Holy Spirit. And what happened? Their lives began to change. There was great joy in that city. Not because their lives suddenly became easy, but because they encountered the living God.

I think many people experience faith this way. It often begins quietly. A stirring. A restlessness. A sense that simply “showing up” is no longer enough.

About twenty years ago, that was me. I occasionally sat in the pews of a Catholic church. I was not opposed to God or the Church, but I was not truly living in relationship with him either. Faith was more habit than conviction. More duty than desire.

But over time, something began to stir within me. I became less content with simply attending Mass and then returning unchanged to the rest of life. Then one day a simple question was asked at Mass: “Are you a baptized adult who has not yet been confirmed?”

That question stayed with me. Eventually I answered yes and entered into formation for the sacrament of Confirmation. God was stirring something within me, and I had to open myself to that relationship and say yes. That yes led me toward deeper communion with Christ through the Holy Spirit.

And that one yes slowly became many yeses. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But gradually I began trying to live differently. Prayer became more intentional. The sacraments became more than obligation. I began trying to shape my life around Christ rather than trying to fit Christ around my life.

That is exactly what Jesus speaks about in today’s Gospel. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” Notice what Jesus does not say. He does not say, “If you fear me.” He says, “If you love me.” The commandments are not merely rules imposed from the outside. They are the shape of a life lived in communion with God.

When we truly begin to know Christ, we begin to desire what he desires. We begin to forgive differently. Speak differently. Live differently. Not because we are trying to earn God’s love, but because we are learning how to live within it.

And Jesus promises something extraordinary to those who remain in relationship with him. “I will not leave you orphans.” He promises the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, who remains with us and within us. And then Jesus says something almost impossible for us to fully comprehend: “You are in me and I in you.” This is the heart of the Christian life.

Christianity is not merely about attending church, following rules, or trying to become a better person through sheer effort. Christianity is communion with the living God. And that relationship is what sustains us when life becomes difficult.

Saint Peter reminds us today that sometimes we suffer for doing good. Following Christ faithfully does not remove hardship from our lives. Sometimes it creates hardship. Sometimes living the commandments costs us something. Forgiveness costs something. Fidelity costs something. Truth costs something. Loving difficult people costs something. But suffering changes when we know we are not alone.

The person who has relationship with God suffers differently than the person who does not. Not because Christians avoid pain, but because we know Christ remains with us within it. The Father is with us. The Son remains in us. The Holy Spirit strengthens and guides us.

That is also why the Eucharist matters so deeply.

We do not come here each week merely to fulfill an obligation. We come because God desires communion with us. Here Christ feeds us with his very life. Here the Holy Spirit strengthens weak hearts. Here we are drawn more deeply into relationship with the Father.

And slowly, through continual yeses to God, we are changed. That transformation does not happen all at once. For most of us, it happens gradually through prayer, repentance, the sacraments, suffering, forgiveness, and grace. But it begins with openness.

The people in Samaria became receptive to God’s Word and to the Holy Spirit. The same invitation stands before us today. Simply sitting in the pews is not what saves us. Christ desires something far greater for us. He desires relationship.

And when we open ourselves to him, even in small ways, the Father draws us to the Son, the Holy Spirit remains within us, and slowly we learn what it means to truly love.

There is a line from the second reading that we could easily hear and move past, but if we stay with it, it begins to open up everything else we have heard today.

We are chosen. We belong to God. We have been called out of darkness into His light.

That is not something meant for someone else. It is spoken to you. To all of us. Through our baptism, we are drawn into something real. We are not just people who attend Mass or try to be good. We have been claimed by God and adopted as sons and daughters. We have been given a dignity that we did not earn.

We are royal, not in the sense of status in the world, but because we belong to Christ the King, and we share in His way of reigning, not by power, but by love, sacrifice, and service.

We are priestly, not in the ordained sense, but because our lives are meant to be offered back to God through Christ.

There is, however, a tension in this. We are called out of darkness into light, but we know how easy it is to drift back into the darkness.

This does not usually happen in dramatic ways. It is often subtle. We can go about our lives, even our faith, and remain at a distance from Christ. We say the words and we show up, but in the heart there can be a kind of unfamiliarity with Him. There can be a lack of real relationship.

That is exactly what we see in the Gospel. Philip has been with Jesus. He has listened to Him, walked with Him, and seen His works. Yet he says, “Master, show us the Father, and that will be enough for us.”

Jesus responds with a question that carries both clarity and sorrow: “Have I been with you for so long a time and you still do not know me?” That question is not just for Philip. It is for us.

Have I been with you in the Scriptures, in the sacraments, in the Eucharist, and still you do not know me? It is possible to be around Jesus and not truly know Him. It is possible to profess faith with our lips while keeping our hearts at a distance.

If we do not know Him, we cannot know the Father. Jesus makes this very clear. He is the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Him.

So the question becomes simple and personal. Do I know Him? Not do I know about Him, and not do I believe certain things about Him, but do I know Him in a lived and relational way?

If we do not, then we remain, in some way, in the darkness. That darkness is not always obvious. Sometimes it looks like going through the motions. Sometimes it looks like being content with a surface-level faith. Sometimes it looks like avoiding the deeper conversion that Christ is inviting us into.

This is where that image becomes so powerful. Christ is the cornerstone. Everything is built on Him. Not on our preferences, not on our own understanding, and not on the shifting foundations of the world. And we are being drawn together, built into something that belongs to Him. We are not isolated individuals. We are a people. A spiritual house. A holy nation.

We see a glimpse of this in the first reading from Acts. There is a real problem in the early Church. People are being neglected. There is tension and division. What happens in response?

They gather the community. They listen. They discern. They order their lives according to what God is calling them to do. The result is clear. The word of God continues to spread, and the number of the disciples increases greatly.

When the Church lives in right order, grounded in Christ and open to the Spirit, the fruit is always the same. There is growth, life, and light.

The same is true for us personally. When we are grounded in Christ, when we truly seek to know Him, and when we allow Him to shape our lives, there is fruit. There is a movement out of darkness into light.

This requires intentional effort from us. We cannot remain passive. We cannot settle for a faith that stays at the level of habit or obligation. God is constantly at work within us, drawing us deeper into the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection. But that work calls for our cooperation.

We must respond. We make space for Him in prayer, in silence, and in the way we approach the sacraments. We examine our lives and allow Him to bring light into the places we would rather keep hidden.

The call is not only to be brought out of darkness once, but to live in the light. That is not always easy. To live in the light means truth. It means honesty. It means allowing Christ to transform the way we think, the way we act, and the way we relate to others. It means letting go of what keeps us in the dark, even when it feels comfortable.

But that is where life is found. Jesus does not simply show us the way. He is the way. He does not lead us into something less, but into fullness. He leads us to the Father’s house, where there is a place prepared for each one of us.

His promise is deeply personal. He desires that we be with Him. The path to that place is not separate from Him. It is through Him, in knowing Him, in following Him, and in becoming like Him.

As we come to the altar today, this becomes real. We are not just recalling something from the past. We are entering into the mystery. The same Christ who is the cornerstone and who reveals the Father is given to us.

We are invited, once again, to move out of darkness into His light. Not only in word, but in truth. Not only in appearance, but in the heart.

We are His. The question is whether we will live as who we truly are. Whether we will come to know Him, and in knowing Him, come to the Father, and live not in the shadows, but in the light of God.

There is a moment in the first reading that is easy to pass over, but it is everything. After Peter speaks, the people are cut to the heart, and they ask a simple question: What are we to do?

That question does not come from curiosity or intellectual interest. It comes from encounter. Something has happened inside of them. The truth has reached them, not just in their minds but in their hearts. And that is where conversion always begins.

Peter does not simply give them information about Jesus. He speaks with conviction and with the power of the Holy Spirit. When they hear him, they recognize that what he is saying is true, even though it is uncomfortable and calls them to change. And so they ask the only question that matters: What are we to do?

That same movement is at the heart of the Gospel today. Jesus speaks about the shepherd and the sheep, and He says something very simple, yet very demanding. His sheep hear His voice, He knows them, and they follow Him. Everything rests on that. They hear His voice, they recognize Him, and they follow. Not because they are forced, but because they know Him.

That raises a question for us. Do we know His voice? Not in a general or abstract way, but in a real and lived way.

There are many voices in our lives. Some are loud and persistent. Others are subtle and persuasive. Some promise fulfillment, security, or freedom, but not all of them lead to life. Jesus is clear that there are voices that do not come from Him, voices that lead us away even while appearing good on the surface.

The danger is not always obvious. It is often quiet and gradual. This is why recognizing His voice matters so much. But we cannot recognize His voice if we do not know Him. And we cannot know Him if we are not in relationship with Him.

That relationship is not something we create on our own. It begins with grace.

In baptism, grace is given and we are brought into new life in Christ. In the sacraments, grace is given again and again, strengthening and healing us. In prayer, grace is given as we open ourselves to Him.

In truth, grace is always being offered. God is not distant or waiting for us to find Him. He is always moving toward us, always drawing us, always offering Himself. But grace must be received.

We begin to receive it fruitfully when we turn toward Him, when we orient our lives toward Him, and when we make space for Him. If we are not turning toward Him, His voice becomes harder to recognize. Not because He has stopped speaking, but because we are not listening. Over time, other voices begin to take their place.

This is where the second reading becomes so important. “You had gone astray like sheep, but you have now returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.” That is not only a past statement. It is a present reality. We are always in need of returning, because it is very easy to drift.

We do not usually walk away from Christ all at once. It happens slowly through small compromises, small distractions, and subtle shifts in priority. Before we realize it, we are being led by something else.

This is why Peter’s words are crucial. “Repent and be baptized.” Repentance is not simply turning away from sin. It is turning toward someone. It is a reorientation of our lives toward Christ.

When that happens, we change. We begin to hear differently. We begin to recognize His voice, not only in major moments, but in the ordinary circumstances of daily life. We hear it in a prompting to be patient when we would rather react. We hear it in a call to forgive when it would be easier to hold on. We hear it in a quiet invitation to trust when we feel uncertain.

These are not random thoughts. These are the ways the Shepherd speaks. The more we listen and the more we follow, the more familiar His voice becomes. Over time, it becomes something we trust.

And that trust leads to following, even when the path is difficult.

The second reading reminds us of this. Christ suffered for us, leaving us an example. When He was insulted, He did not return insult. When He suffered, He did not threaten but entrusted Himself to the One who judges justly.

This is the voice of the Shepherd. It is not a voice that dominates or forces. It is a voice that leads through love, sacrifice, and truth. If we are honest, that voice can be difficult to follow, because it often leads us in a direction different from what the world proposes. But it is the only voice that leads to life.

“I came so that they might have life and have it more abundantly.” This is not only a promise for the future. It is a life that begins now. It is a life marked by peace even in difficulty, clarity even in confusion, and freedom even in sacrifice. It begins in something very simple. Hearing His voice, recognizing Him, and choosing to follow.

So the question for us today is the same question asked in the first reading. What are we to do?

The answer is just as direct. Turn toward Him. Listen for His voice. And follow where He leads.

The Shepherd is not silent. He is speaking.

The question is whether we are listening.

Most of us are busy with work, family, and responsibilities.

We are making decisions, solving problems, and trying to keep everything moving. But it is possible to live that way and slowly lose sight of what everything is actually for.

That is where the disciples are in today’s Gospel.

“We were hoping…”

Not “we hope,” but “we were hoping.”

Something in them has shifted. Their lives have become disoriented.

They are still walking, still talking, still trying to make sense of things, but what once gave them direction is now gone. The one they believed in has been crucified, and whatever hope they had placed in Him now feels lost.

And so they walk away.

What they do not realize is that Jesus is already with them, walking right beside them, and they do not recognize Him.

Not because He is absent, but because something in them is no longer rightly ordered.

Their hopes had become too tied to what they expected, how they thought God should act, what they thought redemption would look like. And when it did not unfold that way, they lost their bearings.

If we are honest, that can happen to us as well.

Not necessarily in dramatic ways, but slowly and subtly.

We can begin to place our hope in things that cannot last. We stay busy, we stay productive, we take care of what is in front of us, but little by little, our lives begin to drift, not away from activity, but away from God.

St. Peter speaks directly into this. He reminds us that we were not ransomed by perishable things, not by silver or gold, but by the precious blood of Christ, so that our faith and hope are in God.

That is the question beneath everything today. What is my hope actually in?

Not what I say, but what my life is built around.

Because whatever we place at the center of our lives, that is what will shape us, that is what will direct us, and ultimately, that is what we will look to for meaning.

The disciples had hoped for something, but their hope was too small. And so when the cross came, they could not see beyond it.

But the truth that Peter proclaims changes everything.

God raised this Jesus.

What looked like failure was not failure. What looked like the end was not the end. God was at work even there.

And if that is true, then life is not found in what passes away, but in Him.

The turning point in the Gospel comes here.

The disciples do not recognize Jesus on the road, not even as He opens the Scriptures to them.

They recognize Him in the breaking of the bread.

That is where Christ makes Himself known, not just in words, not just in explanation, but in the breaking of the bread.

And that is not just their story.

That is what happens here.

We come in with the weight of our lives, our responsibilities, our concerns, sometimes our disappointments.

We hear the Scriptures, just as they did on the road.

And then, at the altar, Christ makes Himself known.

Not in a symbol, not in a memory, but truly present, giving Himself to us.

This is where our lives are meant to be reoriented.

Christ makes Himself known here, whether we recognize Him or not. But whether our lives are changed depends on whether we are open, whether we are paying attention, whether we are willing to receive Him.

We often think we need clarity first, understanding first, everything to make sense.

But in the Gospel, it happens the other way around.

Jesus walks with them first. He listens. He draws them in.

And only then do they come to see.

The same is true for us.

Christ is already walking with us, even when we do not recognize Him, even when we feel distracted, tired, or unsure.

He is patient.

But He does not leave us where we are. He leads us back to Himself.

And when they finally recognize Him, everything changes.

They do not stay where they are. They get up immediately and return.

Their lives are now oriented again, not around their disappointment, but around Christ.

So this becomes very concrete for us.

What is my life actually oriented toward?

When I go through my day, what is at the center?

When I am stressed, where do I turn?

When I have time, how do I use it?

These are not small things. They reveal where my hope really is.

If our lives are oriented toward the things of this world, even good things, they will never be enough.

They can fill our time, but they cannot fill our hearts.

But when our lives are oriented toward Christ, something changes.

There is a deeper peace, even in the midst of difficulty. There is a deeper clarity, even when life is not easy. There is a deeper hope, because it is not dependent on circumstances.

The psalm says, “You will show me the path of life, abounding joy in your presence.”

That path is not something we discover on our own.

It is given to us in Christ, in His Word, and in the Eucharist.

And it is lived day by day, in the choices we make, not all at once, but in a life that is continually being turned back toward Him.

So today, the invitation is simple.

Not to do more. Not to add something new.

But to ask honestly:

What is my life oriented toward?

And to allow Christ, who is already walking with us, who speaks to us, and who gives Himself to us, to gently reorient our lives back to Him.

Because when that happens, we begin to see what we could not see before.

And like those disciples, we will not remain where we are.

We will return with hearts burning, and lives directed not toward what passes away, but toward the One who gives life that never ends.

There is a moment in the Gospel that we can easily pass over… but it holds everything.

Jesus stands in their midst and says, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And then he breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

Receive… and be sent.

Not one or the other… but both.

And the order matters.

They are not sent because they are ready. They are not sent because they are strong or courageous. They are still locked in a room, afraid.

They are sent only after they have received… after the peace of Christ enters into their fear… after the Spirit is breathed into them.

And that same pattern is not just for them… it is for us.

Today, we will receive… and then we will be sent.

We come here carrying many things… fear, distraction, fatigue, even doubt. And the Lord comes into the midst of that… not after we fix it, but right there… and he says, “Peace be with you.”

And then he gives.

He gives himself.

He gives his Spirit.

He gives his mercy.

But we have to receive it.

Not just hear it… not just acknowledge it… but receive it in a way that allows it to penetrate… and then to flow through us.

Because we cannot give what we have not first received.

And that is not just a spiritual idea… we see it lived out in the first reading.

The early Church is not just a group of people trying to be good. Something has happened to them. They have received something… or rather, Someone.

They devoted themselves to the teaching of the apostles… to the breaking of the bread… and to the prayers.

They lived in communion.

They shared what they had.

They responded to the needs of each.

And notice… their sharing is not abstract.

“They divided them among all according to each one’s need.”

They were attentive.

They saw one another.

They recognized what was lacking… and they responded.

Sometimes from abundance.

Sometimes by making up what was lacking in another.

And this is where it begins to touch our lives.

Because we are surrounded by needs.

In our families… in our parish… in our workplaces… even among strangers.

There are wounds… burdens… loneliness… confusion… sin.

And often, we are placed right in the middle of it.

The question is not simply, “Do I see the need?”

The deeper question is… “Have I received enough to respond?”

Because if we try to give from ourselves alone, we will run out.

We become frustrated… depleted… even resentful.

But if we are receiving… continually receiving… then something different happens.

We are no longer giving what is ours… we are allowing what we have received to pass through us.

And that is the beginning of mercy.

This is why what we do here matters so much.

Because what are we doing here?

We are not just remembering something.

We are receiving.

We are being nourished by the Body and Blood of Christ.

We are being filled again with the Holy Spirit.

And that changes us.

The Church even prays that we who are nourished by the Body and Blood of Christ… and filled with his Spirit… may become one body, one spirit in Christ.

In other words… what we receive here is meant to become who we are out there.

The early Church in Acts is not something we admire from a distance.

It is what happens when people actually live this.

They receive… and they are sent.

And over time, a community is formed that reflects the life of Christ.

The same is true for us.

We may not feel ready.

We may still feel like those disciples… a bit locked in… a bit hesitant.

But the Lord does not wait for perfect readiness.

He comes into the midst of where we are… he gives… and then he sends.

Not just for our sake… but for the sake of others.

For the one who is lacking…

for the one carrying a burden…

for the one who needs more than our effort… who needs Christ.

So the question we might carry with us today is not simply, “What am I being asked to do?”

But first… “What am I receiving?”

Am I open?

Am I allowing the peace of Christ to enter where I am still locked in fear?

Am I receiving his mercy… or holding back?

Am I allowing the Spirit to move in me… or resisting?

Because if we receive… truly receive… then being sent is no longer a burden.

It becomes the natural movement of grace.

Receive… and be sent.

Receive his mercy… and become mercy for others.

This is the life of the Church.

This is the life of the disciple.

And this is the life that begins… again… right here… today.

There is a reason the Church begins this holy night in darkness.

Not because darkness has the last word, but because we need to remember what it is like to live without the light… to feel, even for a moment, the weight of a world marked by sin, confusion, and death.

And then, into that darkness, the light is brought forth.

From the beginning, that is what God does.

When the earth was a formless wasteland and darkness covered the abyss, God spoke… and light came forth. When His people were trapped in slavery, He opened a path through the sea. When they wandered, defiled and scattered, He promised to cleanse them, gather them, and give them a new heart.

Tonight, all of that is fulfilled.

This is the night when God brings His people out of darkness and into light… out of slavery and into freedom… out of sin and into new life.

But this night does not stand alone.

What we celebrate tonight has been unfolding over these past days.

On Holy Thursday, we saw Christ kneel before His disciples… not to be served, but to serve… to wash… to give Himself. And we were reminded that before we can do anything for God, we must first allow God to act for us… to receive what we cannot give ourselves.

On Good Friday, we stood before the Cross… and we were invited to see more clearly, more honestly, the reality of sin… not in the abstract, but in our own lives. The Cross does not accuse from a distance. It reveals… it exposes… it tells the truth about what still lives in us.

And tonight… Tonight, what Christ offered on Thursday… and accomplished on Friday… is now given to us. Not as an idea. Not as a memory. But as a reality.

Saint Paul tells us… we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death. We were buried with Him… so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead, we too might live in newness of life.

That is what baptism is. Not a symbol. Not a ceremony. A death… and a rising.

And tonight, for those who are about to be baptized, this becomes real in a new and powerful way. Tonight, they will be drawn into the very mystery of Christ. Their sins will be washed away. Their old life will be put to death. They will be claimed by Christ. They will be raised into a new life that this world cannot give.

But tonight is not only about them. It is also about all of us. Because the grace of baptism is not something that belongs only to the past. It is not something that happened once and is now behind us. It is a living reality… a present grace… a call that remains.

You have been baptized into Christ. You have passed through the waters. You have been brought out of darkness and into light. But the question is… are we living it? Because what was begun in us must still be lived out.

On Good Friday, we saw the truth about sin… how it takes hold in our words… our relationships… our habits… our hearts. And tonight, the Church proclaims something even greater:

That sin does not have the final word.

In baptism, the old self is put to death.

The life turned inward on itself…

the life that clings to control…

the life that prefers darkness to light…

that life is meant to die.

And a new life is given.

A life in Christ.

A life of grace.

A life lived in the light of God.

But this is where the mystery becomes personal. Because grace is given… but it is not forced. God does not compel us to live in the light. He gives us everything we need… but we must still choose. Every day. Every moment. Until our last breath.

To live as one who has died with Christ…

or to return to what was buried.

To live as one who has been raised with Christ…

or to drift back into the shadows.

To forgive… or to cling to resentment.

To pray… or to grow distant.

To live in truth… or to protect ourselves with falsehood.

To love… or to remain closed in on ourselves.

This is the Christian life. A continual dying… and rising. Not once… but daily.

And so tonight, as the Church celebrates the Resurrection… as the waters are blessed… as new life is given… we are not simply remembering something that happened long ago.

We are standing in it.

The tomb is empty.

Christ is risen.

And that means something for us.

It means we are not bound to remain as we are.

It means our past does not define us.

It means sin does not have the final word.

It means the darkness does not win.

But we must live from that truth.

So tonight, for those being baptized… and for all of us who have already been baptized… the call is the same:

Let Christ do in you what you cannot do for yourself.

Let Him put to death what is sinful. Let Him raise up what is new.

Let Him lead you out of darkness… and into His light. And then choose that life. Again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after that.

Until the day when faith gives way to sight… and we stand before the risen Lord… not by our own strength… but because we have lived the grace we were given.

This is the night. The night of creation. The night of deliverance. The night of cleansing. The night of new life. The night of resurrection. So come out of the darkness. Live in the light. Die to sin. Rise with Christ.

And do not be afraid.