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Thursday, April 16, 2026
Saturday, April 11, 2026
Divine Mercy Sunday @ Ss. Francis and Clare Parish, Birch Run
The Mercy in the Middle: From Locked Doors to Open Hearts
The "Easter Hangover" and the Sunday Slump
There is a curious nickname for today in the traditional calendar: Low Sunday.
After the high-octane brass fanfares, the lilies that cost more than a used car, and the glorious "Alleluias" of Easter Morning, today can feel a bit like the "Monday morning" of the liturgical year. The leftovers are gone, the relatives have driven home, and the "Easter high" has started to collide with the reality of unpaid bills, a lingering head cold, or the evening news.
In fact, if we are being honest, many of us identify more with the disciples in today’s Gospel than we did with the jubilant crowd last week. Last week was about the empty tomb; this week is about the locked room. Last week was about a miracle; this week is about the messy, human struggle to actually believe it when the world still feels very much the same.
But here is the irony: what we call "Low Sunday" is also Divine Mercy Sunday. It is the day when the Church reminds us that God does His best work not just in the bright lights of the empty tomb, but in the low, shadowy, locked places of our lives.
The Geometry of Fear (John 20:19-31)
In John’s Gospel, we find the disciples huddled behind locked doors "for fear of the Jews." Let’s be clear: they aren't just afraid of the authorities; they are likely afraid of themselves. They had failed. They had fled. The doors were locked to keep the world out, but also perhaps to keep their shame in.
Then, Jesus performs His first post-resurrection "miracle" for the group: He ignores the locks. He doesn't knock; He simply is.
His first words are not "Where were you?" or "We need to talk about your performance on Friday." His first word is Shalom—Peace. In the Greek and Hebrew context, this isn't just a lack of conflict; it is a restoration of wholeness.
The Wounds of Mercy: Notice that Jesus immediately shows them His hands and His side. Why? Because the Resurrection didn't erase the Crucifixion; it transformed it. He keeps the wounds as "ID badges" of His mercy. He proves that God’s love is "thicker" than our trauma.
The Thomas "Problem" (and Our Solution)
We often call him "Doubting Thomas," which is a bit of a localized "Low Sunday" insult. But Thomas is actually the patron saint of anyone who refuses to settle for a second-hand faith. He missed the first meeting. He wasn't there. And he essentially says, "I don't want a story; I want an encounter."
Jesus’ response to Thomas is the heartbeat of Divine Mercy. He doesn't scold Thomas for his skepticism. Instead, He returns a week later—specifically, it seems, for the one person who wasn't convinced.
When Thomas says, "My Lord and my God," he utters the most profound Christological confession in the entire New Testament. He moves from "I won't believe" to "I surrender" because he touched the Mercy of God in the wounds of Christ.
If the Gospel shows us the encounter with Mercy, the reading from Acts shows us the result of it.
The early Church didn't just have nice feelings about Jesus; they lived a radical, almost scandalous communal life. Saint Luke tells us they "devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers."
The Greek word used here is Koinonia. It’s often translated as "fellowship," but it’s deeper than a coffee hour. It implies a "common union" where private ownership was secondary to communal need. This wasn't a political theory; it was a theological explosion. Because they believed Jesus was alive and had shown them mercy, they could no longer look at their neighbor’s hunger as "not my problem."
The logic was simple: If God was that generous with His life, how could they be stingy with their bread?
Finally, St. Peter—the man who knew a thing or two about needing mercy after his triple denial—writes to people who are suffering. He calls them to a "living hope."
Peter acknowledges that faith is often "tested by fire." He brilliantly bridges the gap between Thomas and us. He writes: "Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him."
Peter is explaining how "Low Sunday" people survive: we live in the tension of the "now" and the "not yet." We have a joy that is "indescribable and glorious" not because our lives are easy, but because our "inheritance" is kept in heaven, untouched by the rust of this world.
Becoming a "Vessel of Mercy"
So, how do we move from the locked room of fear to the open doors of the early Church? Divine Mercy Sunday isn't just a day to look at a painting; it’s a day to perform a "liturgical pivot" in our daily lives.
1. Unlock the Door of Your Own "Room"
We all have "locked rooms"—parts of our past, our regrets, or our current anxieties that we keep barricaded. We think, If people knew this, they’d judge me. If God looks here, He’ll be disappointed. Your Action: This week, invite Jesus into that specific room. Don't try to "clean it up" first. Thomas touched the wounds, not the polished parts of Jesus. Bring your wounds to His. Practice the "Jesus, I trust in You" prayer specifically in the area where you feel the most "Low."
2. Practice "Acts 2" Generosity
The early Church "sold their possessions and goods and distributed the proceeds to all, as any had need." While you might not be called to sell your house tomorrow, you are called to break the cycle of "mine and yours.” Your Action: Identify one person in your "circle of influence" who is experiencing a "Low Sunday" in their life—perhaps through loneliness, financial stress, or grief. Perform one concrete act of Koinonia. Pay for a meal, write a hand-written note, or give an hour of your time to listen without checking your phone. Mercy is a verb.
3. Be a Bridge for the "Thomases"
The world is full of people who say, "Unless I see the mark of the nails... I will not believe." They aren't looking for a better argument; they are looking for a community that lives like the Resurrection actually happened. Your Action: When you encounter skepticism—in your family, at work, or on social media—don't respond with defensiveness. Respond with the "Peace" of Christ. Let your life be the "sign" that John talks about at the end of the Gospel. Show them the "wounds" of your own life and how God’s mercy has healed them.
The Peace of the Pierced Heart
We may call this Low Sunday, but in the eyes of Heaven, it is a summit. It is the day we realize that we don't have to be perfect to be loved; we just have to be present.
Jesus is standing in the middle of our locked rooms right now. He isn't asking for a resume. He’s showing us His hands. He’s offering us His peace. And He’s sending us out to a world that is dying to know that mercy is real.
Go forth this week, not as people of the locked room, but as people of the Living Hope. Amen.
Sunday, April 5, 2026
Easter Sunday @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run
The Empty Tomb and the Full Life
The Unexpected Silence
We are a people who love a good ending. We want the credits to roll over a scene of resolution, a swell of music, and a clear "happily ever after." But on that first Easter morning, as described in the Gospel of John, there was no choir of angels visible to the human eye, no triumphant parade, and no immediate explanation. There was only a heavy stone rolled away and a startling, echoing silence.
Mary Magdalene arrives in the dark—a detail that is both chronological and spiritual. She is operating in the "darkness" of grief, expecting to find a corpse and instead finding an absence. When she runs to Peter and the "other disciple," the tension is palpable. This isn't a moment of immediate "Alleluia!" It is a moment of "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him."
Easter doesn't begin with a celebration; it begins with a race to an empty space. And it is in that empty space that the entire history of the world is rewritten.
From Witness to Transformation
The Evidence of the Empty (John 20:1-9)
When Peter and the beloved disciple reach the tomb, they find something peculiar. If grave robbers had struck, the scene would be chaotic. Yet, the burial cloths are lying there, and the cloth that covered His head is rolled up in a place by itself. This is not the aftermath of a robbery; it is the aftermath of an awakening.
The Gospel tells us that the beloved disciple "saw and believed." What did he believe? At that point, they "did not yet understand the Scripture that he had to rise from the dead." He believed the evidence of his eyes: that death no longer held its captive. The empty tomb is the first "sermon" of Easter. It tells us that the physical world, with all its decay and finality, has been interrupted by the divine.
The Universal Reach (Acts 10:34a, 37-43)
If the Gospel of John shows us the event, the Book of Acts shows us the implication. Peter, standing in the house of Cornelius—a Gentile, a Roman centurion—realizes something revolutionary: "God shows no partiality."
Peter summarizes the entire ministry of Jesus, from the baptism of John through the healing of those oppressed by the devil, culminating in the crucifixion. But he doesn't stop at the tragedy. He testifies that "God raised him on the third day and granted that he be visible."
Notice Peter’s emphasis on witnessing. He notes that they ate and drank with Jesus after He rose. This wasn't a ghost or a collective hallucination; it was a physical reality with social consequences. The Resurrection isn't a private miracle for a select few; it is a public declaration that forgiveness of sins is available to everyone who believes. The barriers between Jew and Gentile, saint and sinner, are dismantled by the empty tomb.
The New Perspective (Colossians 3:1-4)
Finally, St. Paul gives us the "so what?" in his letter to the Colossians. If Christ is raised, and we are "raised with Christ," our entire orientation must shift. Paul tells us to "seek what is above."
This isn't an invitation to ignore the world or escape into a spiritual daydream. Rather, it is an instruction to stop letting the "logic of the grave" dictate our lives. If we are "hidden with Christ in God," then our true identity is no longer defined by our failures, our debts, or our mortality. We are living in a temporary "hidden" state, waiting for the full manifestation of glory.
Paul uses the metaphor of clothing or "setting the mind." He is arguing that the Resurrection is a lens through which we see everything else. If the worst thing that could happen—the death of the Son of God—has been overturned, then nothing else in our lives is beyond the reach of God’s redeeming power.
Living as "Resurrection People"
The empty tomb poses a question to every one of us today: Are you living as if the stone is still there?
We often live as "Saturday people"—stuck in the space between the trauma of the cross and the hope of the Resurrection. We get bogged down in the "darkness" Mary Magdalene felt, focused on what has been lost or what is missing. But the message of these readings is that we are called to be "Sunday people."
Seek the Things That Are Above This week, I challenge you to audit your perspective. When you face a conflict at work, a struggle in your marriage, or a personal failure, ask yourself: Am I looking at this through the lens of the grave, or the lens of the Resurrection? To seek things above is to prioritize mercy over vengeance, hope over cynicism, and generosity over fear.
Become a Witness Peter was "commissioned" to preach and testify. You may not stand in a pulpit, but your life is a testimony. In a world that is increasingly polarized and weary, your "Alleluia" is found in how you treat the "Cornelius" in your life—the person who is different from you, the person you were taught to exclude. Invite them to the table. Show them that God shows no partiality.
Embrace the "Not Yet" Like the disciples who "did not yet understand," it is okay if you don't have all the answers today. Faith is not the absence of questions; it is the presence of a person. Jesus met the disciples in their confusion, and He meets you in yours.
The stone is rolled away. The burial cloths are folded. The tomb is empty so that your life can be full. This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Alleluia! Christ is Risen!
Saturday, April 4, 2026
Easter Vigil @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run
The Threshold of the New Day
The Space Between
A threshold is a strange and unsettling place. It is the architectural equivalent of a deep breath held in the lungs. When you stand on the threshold of a room, you are technically in two places at once, yet you belong to neither. You have left the hallway behind, but you have not yet inhabited the room.
In our lives, we encounter these "thin spaces" during the most profound moments of our existence: the quiet minutes in a hospital hallway before a birth; the heavy silence in a childhood home after a funeral; the pause before signing a contract that changes your life's direction. We are currently sitting in the greatest threshold in the history of the universe. Tonight is the "Great Gap." Behind us lies the trauma of the Cross and the silence of the tomb. Ahead of us lies the blinding light of a Sunday morning that changes the laws of physics. Tonight, we do not just observe the Resurrection; we stand at the door and decide if we are brave enough to cross it.
The Architecture of Salvation
To understand why we are standing here, the Church takes us back through the "blueprints" of how God builds a way through the impossible.
1. The Threshold of Creation (Genesis 1:1—2:2) We began in the ultimate dark. Before there was a "where" or a "when," there was the Tohu wa-bohu—the formless void. Imagine God standing at the threshold of non-existence. He does not simply let the darkness be; He speaks. "Let there be light." This is the first threshold: the transition from nothing to something. It reminds us that God is the Master of the Void. If you feel like your life is currently "formless and void"—empty of meaning or overwhelmed by chaos—remember that this is exactly the kind of darkness God likes to work with. He is the God who organizes the chaos into a Garden.
2. The Threshold of the Sea (Exodus 14:15—15:1) In our second movement, the Israelites reach a terrifying threshold: the shore of the Red Sea. Behind them is the "known" world of slavery—painful, but predictable. Ahead of them is a watery grave. They are trapped. God’s command to Moses is startling: "Tell the Israelites to go forward." Exegesis of this text reveals a profound truth: God does not always remove the obstacle; He creates a path through it. The sea became a wall on their right and their left. The very thing that threatened to drown them became the hallway to their freedom. To cross this threshold, the Israelites had to trust that the ground beneath the waves would hold. Tonight, we ask ourselves: What "sea" is blocking our path, and are we willing to step into it at God's word?
3. The Threshold of Wisdom (Baruch 3:9-15, 32-4:4) The prophet Baruch asks a piercing question: "Why is it, O Israel, that you are growing old in a foreign land?" Exile is a threshold that never ends. It is the feeling of being "out of place." Baruch reminds us that the "map" back home is Wisdom—the commandments of God. To walk in God’s way is to find the "fountain of life." This reading serves as the moral threshold of our night. It asks us if we are tired of wandering in the dark and if we are ready to walk toward the light of the Truth.
4. The Threshold of the Grave (Romans 6:3-11) St. Paul brings us to the most intimate threshold of all: the waters of Baptism. He uses the language of burial. "We were indeed buried with him through baptism into death." This is the theology of the "Point of No Return." When you cross the threshold of the baptismal font, the "old self"—the version of you defined by sin, fear, and the opinions of others—is left on the shore. You go under the water to die so that you can rise as a "New Creation." Paul insists that death no longer has power over Christ; therefore, if we are "in Christ," death no longer has a final claim on us. We are living on the "other side" of the grave.
5. The Threshold of the Empty Tomb (Matthew 28:1-10) Finally, we arrive at the garden at dawn. An earthquake shatters the silence—the earth itself is shivering as the threshold between Heaven and Earth is torn open. The angel sits upon the stone, not to keep Jesus in, but to show the women that the "door" is open.
The angel’s first words are: "Do not be afraid." Why? Because fear is what keeps us standing on the threshold. Fear keeps us paralyzed in the doorway. Jesus meets the women "on their way." Note that He doesn't wait for them to finish their journey; He meets them while they are still in motion, still processing the shock. He says, "Rejoice!" The threshold of the tomb has been transformed from a dead-end into a gateway.
Stepping Across
The Vigil is over 1,000 words into its story, but the real homily begins when you stand up to leave this building. How do we live as "People of the Threshold"?
First, stop looking back at "Egypt." Many of us live our lives looking over our shoulders at our past mistakes, our old addictions, or the versions of ourselves we didn't like. If you have crossed the threshold of the Red Sea, those "Egyptians" are gone. God has closed the water behind you. Tonight, give yourself permission to be new. Leave the "old self" in the dark of the tomb.
Second, embrace the "In-Between" with Hope. If you are currently in a season of waiting—waiting for a diagnosis, a job, or a restored relationship—do not despair. The Easter Vigil proves that God is most active in the silence. Even when the tomb was sealed, the Resurrection was unfolding. Trust that your "Saturday" will inevitably yield to "Sunday."
Third, become a "Door-Opener" for others. The world is full of people trapped in the dark, afraid to move. As an Easter people, our job is to be like the angel at the tomb: to roll back the stones of despair and tell others, "Do not be afraid. He is not here." Bring the "Sunday Light" into the dark hallways of your community.
Conclusion
Tonight, we have walked from the void of Genesis to the victory of Matthew. We have stood at the edge of the water and the edge of the grave. The threshold is no longer a place of fear; it is the place of encounter.
Christ has stepped across the divide between death and life. He has held the door open for us. The night is far spent; the day is at hand. Let us step out of the shadows and into the blinding, beautiful reality of the Risen Lord.
Christ is Risen! Alleluia!
Friday, April 3, 2026
Good Friday @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run
The Power of the Unspoken Word
The Tyranny of the "Last Word"
We live in the era of the "clapback." In our digital town square—X, Instagram, TikTok—the greatest sin is to be silenced, and the greatest perceived victory is to have the last word. We are conditioned to believe that if you don’t defend your reputation instantly, if you don’t "call out" your enemies with a sharp-tongued retort, you have lost. Influence is measured by the volume of your voice and the speed of your rebuttal. We are a culture addicted to self-justification. We spend our days crafting the perfect image, the perfect response, and the perfect defense to ensure that no one misinterprets us, no one mocks us, and no one gets the upper hand.
This social performance is exhausting. It requires us to be our own PR agents, constantly spinning our failures and amplifying our virtues. We live in fear that a single moment of silence in the face of an accusation will be interpreted as a confession of guilt or a sign of weakness. We have forgotten the dignity of quietude. We have lost the ability to let our character speak louder than our keyboards.
But today, on this Friday we dare to call "Good," we stand before a scene that contradicts every instinct of our modern age. We look at a King who has every right to speak, every power to condemn, and every reason to defend himself—and yet, he remains largely silent. In a world of noise, the silence of Jesus Christ is the most disruptive sound in history. While the world demands a shouting match, Jesus offers a sacrifice. While we scramble for control, he stretches out his arms and lets go.
The Sovereignty of the Lamb
As we navigate the readings from Isaiah, Hebrews, and the Gospel of John, we see three distinct movements that explain why this silence is not a sign of weakness, but the ultimate expression of divine power.
1. The Silent Exchange (Isaiah 52:13—53:12) Seven hundred years before the Roman nails were forged, the prophet Isaiah gave us the blueprint for this moment. He describes a Servant who was "pierced for our transgressions" and "crushed for our iniquities." But the most haunting line is this: "He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth."
To understand this silence, we must understand the gravity of what was being carried. In the ancient sacrificial system, the lamb didn't argue. The lamb didn't plead its innocence or file a legal appeal. It simply bore the weight of the moment. Isaiah makes it clear that this "Man of Sorrows" was not just a victim of Roman politics or Jewish jealousy; he was the bearer of a cosmic burden. The text says, "the punishment that brought us peace was on him."
If Jesus had spoken to defend himself, he might have saved his life, but he would not have saved ours. His silence is the sound of a debt being paid in full. He allows the accusations of the world to wash over him like a flood, absorbing the poison of our "last words" so that he can give us a new word: Mercy. He was "assigned a grave with the wicked," not because he belonged there, but because we did. By remaining silent, he accepted our identity so that we might inherit his.
2. The High Priest of Our Tears (Hebrews 4:14-16; 5:7-9) The author of Hebrews pivots from the external suffering of the Servant to the internal heart of the Priest. We are told that Jesus offered up "prayers and petitions with fervent cries and tears." This is the "behind-the-scenes" of the Passion. While Jesus was silent before Pilate, he was crying out to the Father in the garden and on the wood.
This tells us something vital about the God we serve: He is not a stoic statue. He is a "Great High Priest" who is able to "empathize with our weaknesses." Because Jesus felt the sting of betrayal, the physical agony of the lash, and the psychological weight of being misunderstood, he has "been tested in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin."
In his humanity, he learned "obedience from what he suffered." This does not mean he was disobedient before, but that he walked the full path of human limitation. He didn't just come to fix us; he came to be with us. Because he suffered, the throne of God is no longer a seat of distant judgment; it is a "throne of grace." When we feel silenced by our own suffering, or when we feel like the world is shouting us down, we do not pray to a distant deity. We pray to a God who has salt-water in his eyes and blood on his brow. The Cross is the bridge that turns our greatest fears into our greatest access to the Divine.
3. The Coronation of the King (John 18:1—19:42) In John’s Gospel, the Passion is not a tragedy; it is a coronation. Throughout the lengthy trial, notice the irony: Pilate is the one with the Roman legions, the marble halls, and the power of life and death, yet he is the one pacing nervously. Pilate is the one asking frantic questions: "Where are you from?" "Will you not speak to me?" "What is truth?" Jesus, bound and bleeding, is the only person in the room who is truly free. When he does speak, he doesn't speak to save himself; he speaks to testify to the Truth. He tells Pilate, "You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above." This is a staggering claim. It means the nails didn't hold him there; his will did. The soldiers didn't take his life; he laid it down.
In John’s vision, the Cross is Jesus’s throne. The purple robe and the crown of thorns were intended as mockery, but they were accidentally accurate. He is the King. Even the sign above his head, "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews," written in three languages, serves as a global proclamation of his reign. At the very end, he does not whisper a plea for help. He lets out a victory cry: "It is finished." In Greek, this is one word: Tetelestai. It was a business term meaning "Paid in full." It was a priestly term meaning "The sacrifice is perfect." Jesus had the last word after all, but it wasn't a "clapback" against his enemies. It was a declaration of completion for his friends.
Living in the Silence
What do we do with a day like today? How do we respond to the "Man of Sorrows" who died so that we might live? The world will tell you to move on, to get back to the noise, to keep defending your brand and your ego. But the Cross calls us to a different way of being.
First, stop trying to save yourself. Many of us are exhausted by the "religion" of self-improvement and the "law" of social media approval. We are tired of trying to be "good enough," tired of trying to prove our worth to people who don't care, and tired of carrying the guilt of our past. Look at the Cross. Jesus said, "It is finished." He didn't say, "I've done my part, now you do yours." He didn't say, "Here is a template, now go earn your salvation." He paid the debt. Your worth is not found in your "last word" or your latest achievement; it is found in the fact that the King of the Universe thought you were worth dying for while you were still his enemy.
Second, approach the Throne of Grace. Hebrews tells us to "approach God’s throne of grace with confidence." Some of you feel you cannot pray because you are too broken, too messy, or too sinful. You feel like you need to "fix" your life before you can talk to God. But look at the High Priest. He was "marred beyond human semblance" so that your marring wouldn't keep you from God. He was rejected so that you could be accepted. Don't clean yourself up to come to the Cross; let the Cross clean you. Bring your "loud cries and tears" to the one who has already felt them.
Third, embrace the "Weakness" of Love. The world sees the Cross as failure. We see it as the ultimate power. This week, I challenge you: where can you choose silence instead of a stinging retort? Where can you choose to serve someone who has wronged you, instead of "calling them out"? To follow the Crucified Christ is to believe that love is stronger than hate, and that losing your life for the sake of others is the only way to truly find it.
We are called to be Cyrenians—to pick up the cross for others. Look for the "Man of Sorrows" in your own neighborhood—the lonely, the grieving, the misunderstood—and stand with them. Show them a love that doesn't need to shout to be heard.
Today, the King is silent. The tomb is waiting. The world is dark. But we do not fear the darkness, for we know that the light of the world is simply resting, having finished the work of our salvation. Let us sit in that silence, not with fear, but with the quiet confidence of those who know that Sunday is coming—but only because Friday was so "Good."
Thursday, April 2, 2026
Holy Thursday @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run
The Master at Our Feet: A Homily for Holy Thursday
The Scandal of the Basin
If you have seen the portrayal of the Last Supper in the series The Chosen, you know it doesn’t look like a polished Renaissance painting. There is no symmetrical seating, no pristine white tablecloth, and no serene, distant expressions. Instead, the room is crowded, dimly lit, and thick with the tension of men who know something momentous—perhaps something terrible—is about to happen. It is noisy with the clatter of cups and the low hum of nervous conversation.
Then, the room goes silent.
The camera lingers on the disciples' faces as Jesus rises from the table. He doesn’t stand to give a formal toast or a military briefing on the coming insurrection. Instead, he begins to strip. He takes off his outer robe—the garment that identified him as a Rabbi, a Teacher, a Leader. He ties a rough, common towel around his waist. He picks up a heavy ceramic basin, and the sound of water splashing into it echoes like a thunderclap in the sudden quiet.
You see the shock on the disciples' faces—real, visceral, uncomfortable shock. These men had spent the last three years arguing about who among them was the "Greatest." They had jockeyed for position, wondered who would sit at the right hand in the coming Kingdom, and envisioned themselves wearing crowns and wielding authority.
Then, in one silent, bone-chilling motion, their King kneels in the dirt.
The "Big Three"—Peter, James, and John—look on in literal horror. In the ancient world, washing feet wasn't just a "nice gesture"; it was a task so menial that even Jewish slaves were often exempted from doing it for their masters. It was the work of the lowest of the low. And yet, here are the hands that healed the blind, the hands that multiplied the loaves, the hands that commanded the winds and the seas to "be still"—and those hands are now scrubbing the mud, the grime, and the manure of the Jerusalem streets off the calloused, stinking feet of fishermen. It is a moment that shatters every human expectation of what a King should be. It is the moment the hierarchy of the world was turned upside down forever.
The Thread of Sacrifice
This shattering of expectations is the golden thread running through tonight’s scriptures. To understand why Jesus picked up that towel, we have to look at the story he was stepping into.
The Passover Foundation (Exodus 12) In our first reading, we see the origins of this night. The Passover was not a comfortable tradition; it was a meal of "haste." The Israelites were instructed to eat with their sandals on and their staffs in hand, ready to flee slavery at a moment’s notice. It was a meal of survival. The blood of the lamb marked their doorposts, a sign of identity and protection that spared them from the shadow of death.
By the time of Jesus, the Passover had become a liturgical memory of liberation. But tonight, Jesus takes that ancient memory and transforms it. He isn't just celebrating a past liberation; he is initiating a new one. He is the Lamb whose blood will not just mark a wooden doorframe, but the very "doorposts" of the human heart.
The Gift of Self (1 Corinthians 11) St. Paul provides us with the oldest written account of the Last Supper. He reminds us that on "the night he was betrayed"—not a night of triumph, but a night of impending abandonment—Jesus took the bread and the cup. He didn't just say, "Remember me." He said, "This is my body for you."
When we celebrate the Eucharist, we are not performing a play or watching a historical reenactment. We are entering into a "perpetual institution." The sacrifice of Christ on the Cross is made present to us here and now. The Bread of Life is the fuel for our exodus from the slavery of sin into the freedom of God’s children.
The Scandal of the Towel (John 13) However, John’s Gospel gives us a surprising twist. While the other Gospels focus on the bread and the wine, John skips the "Words of Institution" entirely to focus on the "Action of Institution": the washing of the feet.
Why? Because for John, the Eucharist and the Basin are two sides of the same coin. You cannot have one without the other.
Note the profound theological statement in John 13:3: "Jesus, knowing that the Father had put all things into his hands..."Stop there for a moment. If you knew you had "all things" in your hands—all power, all authority, all divinity—what would you do? Most of us would build a monument, smite our enemies, or demand worship. But what did Jesus do with those all-powerful hands? He used them to hold the dirty, stinking feet of his friends.
And not just his "good" friends. He washed the feet of Peter, who would deny him three times before the sun rose. He washed the feet of Thomas, who would doubt him. Most staggeringly, he washed the feet of Judas Iscariot—the man who already had the silver of betrayal in his pocket. Jesus didn't just teach humility; he performed it for the very person who was about to kill him.
When Peter protests, "You will never wash my feet," he is speaking for all of us. We are uncomfortable with a God who gets his hands dirty. We want a God who stays on a high throne, someone we can admire from a safe distance. But Jesus tells Peter—and us—"Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with me." We cannot share in his life if we are too proud to let him touch our mess. We cannot be part of the Kingdom if we refuse to accept the radical, self-emptying love of the King.
The Mandate of the Basin
The Chosen depiction of this story ends with the disciples looking at one another, visibly changed. The bickering stops. The "greatest" is now the one who is lowest. The hierarchy is gone, replaced by a circle of service.
Tonight, as we prepare to transition into the silence of the Passion, we are left with a Mandate (the Mandatum). It is where we get the name "Maundy Thursday." It is not a suggestion or a pious thought; it is a command. Jesus says, "If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet."
How do we live this out when we leave this building?
1. Accept Your Own "Washing" Where are you like Peter, saying, "You will never wash my feet"? Where are you hiding your shame, your "dirt," or your failures from God because you think they are too undignified for Him to see? This week, bring that specific mess to Him in prayer or confession. Allow yourself to be loved in your unworthiness. You cannot give the love of Christ to others until you have let Him scrub the grime off your own soul.
2. Kneel First In your home, your workplace, or your community, look for the "low" task. Look for the job everyone avoids—the dishes left in the sink, the difficult email that needs a kind response, the lonely neighbor who is "too much work" to visit. Don't wait for someone else to step up. Don't wait for a "thank you." Pick up the towel yourself. In the Kingdom of God, the one who kneels first is the one who leads.
3. The Eucharist in Motion Tonight reminds us that the "Liturgy" does not end when the priest says, "Go in peace." The grace we receive at this altar—the Body and Blood of Christ—is meant to be the fuel that drives us to serve the "Body of Christ" in the streets. If we receive the Host but refuse to pick up the basin, we have missed the point of the meal.
The Master is at our feet tonight. He has taken off his robe, he has tied the towel, and he is looking at us with eyes of infinite mercy. He has shown us the way.
Now, let us go and do as he has done.
Saturday, March 28, 2026
Palm Sunday @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run
The Tale of Two Loves
In his masterwork, The City of God, St. Augustine famously observes that "two loves have created two cities." The earthly city is built on the love of self, even to the point of contempt for God; the heavenly city is built on the love of God, even to the point of contempt for self.
Today, as we stand at the threshold of Holy Week, we see these two cities collide in the dust of Jerusalem. We witness a parade that begins with "Hosanna" and ends with "Crucify him." It is a moment that forces us to ask: In which city do we truly reside? Are we seeking a King who serves our ego, or are we ready to follow the King who empties Himself for our sake?
The Suffering Servant and the Poured-Out King
The scriptures today map out a journey of profound descent. In our first reading from Isaiah, we encounter the "Suffering Servant." He does not turn his back on those who beat him or shield his face from spitting. Why? Because the Lord God is his help. He has "set his face like flint," a term denoting an unshakable, hardened resolve to endure the coming storm for the sake of a higher calling.
This resolve is echoed in Psalm 22. It is a haunting preview of the Passion: the mocking crowds, the piercing of hands and feet, and the casting of lots for clothing. Yet, it ends not in despair, but in a vow of praise. It reminds us that even in the depths of feeling abandoned—"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"—the bridge to the heavenly city is built on trust.
St. Paul, in Philippians, provides the theological heart of this mystery. He describes the kenosis, or the "emptying" of Christ.
Though he was in the form of God, [Jesus] did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave.
This is the ultimate rejection of the "earthly city." While the world teaches us to grasp for power, status, and self-preservation, Christ reveals that true divinity is found in self-gift.
In the Gospel of Matthew, we see the cost of this gift. We see the betrayal of Judas, who chose the currency of the earthly city (thirty pieces of silver) over the person of Christ. We see Peter’s denial and the silence of Jesus before Pilate. Jesus walks the path of the "contempt of self" that Augustine spoke of—not because He lacks value, but because His love for us is so expansive that He is willing to be stripped of everything to find us in our brokenness.
Moving from the Crowd to the Cross
Palm Sunday is a mirror. It shows us how easily we can be part of the crowd—cheering for Jesus when we think He will overthrow our enemies or fix our problems, only to abandon Him when He calls us to take up a cross.
The "earthly city" is comfortable. It values safety and "love of self." But the "heavenly city" is where life truly begins. To live there, we must learn the language of the Suffering Servant.
This week, I challenge you to do three things:
Practice Kenosis: Identify one thing you are "grasping" onto—perhaps a grudge, a need to be right, or a material comfort—and intentionally "empty" yourself of it this week as an offering to God.
Sit in the Silence: Jesus remained silent before His accusers. Find 10 minutes of total silence each day this Holy Week to listen for the voice of the Spirit rather than the noise of the "earthly city."
Walk the Triduum: Don't skip from the palms of today to the lilies of Easter Sunday. Attend the Holy Thursday and Good Friday liturgies. Accompany the Lord in His passion so that you may truly share in His resurrection.
The gates of the Heavenly City are open, but they are shaped like a cross. Let us walk through them together.
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