Father's Corner

Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy Sunday) Acts 2:14a, 22–32 | 1 Peter 1:3–9 | John 20:19–31 The doors are locked. That is where the Gospel begins—not in triumph, confidence, or bold faith, but in fear. The disciples are hiding. The cross has shattered their expectations, and the resurrection has not yet settled into their hearts. They have heard the reports, but they are not yet living in that reality. So they lock the doors. And if we are honest, we know something about locked doors too. We close off our hearts when we are afraid—after disappointment, after grief, after loss—when faith feels fragile and hope uncertain. Christ Enters Our Fear And it is into that very space—into fear and confusion and doubt—that Jesus Christ comes. He does not wait for them to get it together. He does not wait for perfect faith. He does not stand outside and knock. He simply appears among them and says, “Peace be with you.” This is the first gift of the resurrection: peace...

Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia. Beginning in the Dark The Easter Vigil begins in darkness. Not just symbolically—but truly. The church is dim. The world is quiet. We wait. And that’s important, because this is how God so often works. “In the beginning… darkness covered the face of the deep.” Before light—darkness. Before creation—silence. Before resurrection—the tomb. Again and again in Scripture, God moves in that in-between space: when things are unclear, unfinished, unresolved. The Vigil invites us to stay there for a moment. The Garden of Grief After all the readings, we arrive in a garden. Not the garden of creation—but a garden of grief. In the Gospel we heard tonight from Matthew, the women come to the tomb in fear and trembling. The earth shakes, the stone is rolled away, and the angel speaks: “He is not here; for he has been raised.” It is  a proclamation—clear, powerful, overwhelming. And yet, even with that proclamation, something in the human ...

On Good Friday, we remember the death of . But this day is more than a story from the past. It shows us something real about God, about people, and about ourselves. Here are some of the big themes we see in this story. Love that stays Jesus is betrayed, denied, and abandoned. Still, He does not walk away. He stays. This is not easy love. It is love that keeps going even when it hurts. Good Friday asks us a simple question: Can we love like that—even a little? How people really are The story is honest about human nature. Religious leaders hold on to power. Political leaders avoid doing what is right. The crowd turns quickly. Friends disappear when things get hard. It’s uncomfortable—but real. We see ourselves in this story. When power sacrifices the innocent One of the hardest parts of Good Friday is this: people in power protect themselves by offering someone else. knows Jesus is innocent. But instead of doing what is right, he gives in to pressure. It...

  Maundy Thursday draws us into a quiet, intimate space—the upper room. It is easy to see this as a moment in history, something that happened long ago. But if we listen more deeply, we begin to realize: this room is not just a place—it is a mirror. It reflects something of our own spiritual journey, our own discipleship. Because the upper room is also the inner room of the heart. It is the place we enter when we step away from distraction and allow ourselves to be present with God. Discipleship does not begin with action. It begins with presence. And then comes the unexpected. Jesus rises from the table, removes His outer garment, and wraps a towel around Himself. This is more than an act of service—it is a revelation. He lays aside what identifies Him in the eyes of others and takes the position of a servant. In this, we see the deeper invitation of discipleship: the laying down of ego, status, and the need to be seen. Following Christ is not about becoming impressive. It...

Palm Sunday begins at the gates of Jerusalem. Jesus enters the city, and everything feels full of hope. The crowds are excited. They spread their cloaks on the road, wave palm branches, and shout: “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:9). It’s a moment of celebration. A moment where it seems like everything is finally coming together. And yet—we already know what’s coming. Because in just a few days, the voices will change. The same crowd, or one very much like it, will cry out: “Crucify Him!” When Approval Doesn’t Last Palm Sunday forces us to face something uncomfortable: how quickly people can change. One day you are praised. The next day you are rejected. One day you are welcomed.The next day you are pushed aside. This isn’t just about what happened in Jerusalem. It’s something most of us have experienced in our own lives. A relationship that slowly turns cold. A workplace where appreciation becomes criticism. A community or  Church...

The Fifth Sunday of Lent always feels like standing at the edge of something. Easter is near—but not yet. Light is coming—but for now, we are still walking through shadow. Today’s readings take us into three places of death: a valley of dry bones, a mind set on death, and a sealed tomb. This is not easy or comfortable faith. This is God stepping directly into death—and speaking. When Hope Feels Gone In Ezekiel, the prophet is carried into a valley filled with bones. Not just bones—but very dry bones. These are not recent losses. These are long gone. Forgotten. Without hope. And the people say: “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost.” That line feels real. Because we all know moments like that: when prayer feels empty when faith feels distant when something inside us feels worn down or gone Then God asks a question that almost feels impossible: “Can these bones live?” Ezekiel answers honestly: “Lord, you know.” And maybe that is where faith begins—not with certainty, ...