Fourth Sunday of Easter

“I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” Now when we hear the word ‘abundance’ it is easy to think of more – more money, more possessions, more comfort. But if that is what Jesus meant, then he failed – because he never made anyone rich – nowhere in the gospel does Jesus help people win the lottery.

Instead, what we see in Jesus is something quite different. He gives people peace, forgiveness, healing, belonging, hope. In other words, abundance is not about the quantity of what we have, but the quality of how we live.

A straightforward way to think of this: Abundance is a life that overflows – not with stuff, but with love, joy, and meaning. You have probably experienced moments like that. A family gathering where laughter fills the room. A quiet moment of prayer that brings deep peace. Sitting on a mountain top and gazing at the beauty of creation. Helping someone and realizing your own heart has grown. That is abundance. Nothing you can buy – but everything you really want.

But Jesus also warns us: there are “thieves and bandits” who try to steal that kind of life. And we know them well. Sometimes it is busyness – we are so busy we do not really live. Sometimes it is worry about the future or regret about the past. Sometimes grief and sorrow have stolen life. Sometimes it is that nagging voice that says, “You are not enough.” Those are the thieves. And they do not steal our possessions – they steal our peace, our joy, our sense of purpose.

That is why Jesus says something else that seems strange: “I am the gate.” A gate does two things. It lets some things in – and keeps other things out. And here is the key: Jesus is not just the gate for us. He invites us to become gatekeepers of our own hearts. That means asking: What am I allowing into my life? And what do I need to keep out?

Do I open the gate to gratitude – or to constant complaining?

Do I open the gate to forgiveness – or hold onto resentment?

Do I open the gate to God – or crowd God out with noise and distractions?

Because the truth is, every day we stand at the gate. And every day we make choices – sometimes small, sometimes big – that either lead us toward abundant life…or away from it.

Let me give you a simple image. Think of your heart like a cup. Some people live with their cup nearly empty – drained by stress, fear, and negativity. But others – maybe not richer, not healthier, not more successful – somehow their cup is full – even overflowing. What is the difference? They have learned what to let in – and what to keep out. They have learned to stay close to the voice of the Good Shepherd.

So, today’s Gospel is not asking us to become more religious – it is asking us to become more aware.

What is filling your life right now? What is draining it? And most importantly: What is one gate you need to open – and one gate you need to close? Because Jesus is very clear – abundant life is not something we wait for someday. It is offered to us right now. And we do not have to be sheepish about it. We just have to choose it.

Third Sunday of Easter

There is something very human – and very striking – about today’s Gospel – the story of the road to Emmaus. Two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem. Away from hope. Away from everything they thought would be. They are discouraged, confused, even a little disillusioned. And as they walk, they talk it all out – what happened, what went wrong, what they don’t understand.

And then, quietly, Jesus comes and walks with them…but they don’t recognize Him. Isn’t that often how God works in our lives? He walks with us in moments of transition, in times of uncertainty, in seasons when things are changing – and we do not always recognize Him right away.

I find myself very much in that place today. In 2010, at the age of 59, I was named pastor here. I remember that moment clearly – full of energy, hope, even a little nervousness about what lay ahead. And now, here we are. As you know, I just celebrated my 75th birthday.

In the Diocese of Ogdensburg, the retirement age for priests is 70. So, as you can see, I have stayed a little longer than expected. But now, the time has come. And like those disciples on the road, I find myself reflecting on the journey – on where we have been, what we have experienced together and where God may be leading next.

The beautiful thing about this moment is this: the parish and school are flourishing. This is not a story of decline. It is not a moment of crisis. It is a moment of grace. There is something very powerful happening here – what we have been calling Divine Renovation. A renewal of faith, of mission, of energy. And the truth is, a younger and more energetic pastor will be able to build on that in ways that are needed for the future. That is not loss – that is good stewardship. Change allows for new growth.

In late June, I will be named “Pastor Emeritus.” It is a fancy Latin word that means you “have served your time.” I am not going away; I will be living in the rectory. And I have told the bishop that I will help out whenever possible. I will still be part of the family – just in a different way. And a new pastor will be named, someone who will walk with you in the next chapter of this journey.

Back on the road to Emmaus, everything changes when they get to the table. In the breaking of the bread, their eyes are opened – and suddenly they recognize Jesus. And then he vanishes. Why? Because now they know. He was with them all along.

That is my prayer for all of us in this moment. That we recognize that Christ has been with us all along – in every Mass, every classroom, every baptism, every wedding, every funeral, every quiet act of kindness, every moment of growth. And that same Christ will continue to walk with this parish into the future. Not because of any one pastor – but because Jesus is faithful.

The disciples once they recognize Jesus, don’t stay where they are. They get up and go back to Jerusalem. They go forward with new energy, new purpose, new faith. And so will you. And so will I. Different roles. Same mission.

So today is not really an ending. It is a moment on the road. And if the Gospel teaches us anything it is this: Even when we do not fully understand the road ahead – even when things are changing – even when we are not quite sure what comes next. Christ is walking with us. And that is more than enough! Amen.

Second Sunday of Easter

“The doors were locked.”  That is a simple but powerful line in today’s gospel – “The doors were locked.” The disciples are hiding. They are afraid. Everything they believed in seemed shattered. Jesus is dead. The future is uncertain. The doors are locked – not just physically but emotionally, spiritually. Fear has closed them in. And then – Jesus comes.

Not by breaking down the door. Not by scolding them for their lack of faith. He simply appears in their midst and says, “Peace be with you.” That is how the risen Christ works. He does not wait for us to get everything together. He does not demand that we unlock the doors first. He comes right into the middle of our fear, our confusion, our doubt – and speaks peace.

And then comes Thomas. Poor Thomas gets a bad reputation. We call him, “doubting Thomas,” as if doubt were a failure. But let’s be honest – Thomas is the most like us. He was not there the first time. He missed the experience. And he says what many of us have thought at one time or another. “Unless I see…unless I touch…I will not believe.” That is not stubbornness- it’s honest.

And what does Jesus do? Eight days later, He comes back – for Thomas. He does not dismiss him. He does ot shame him. He invites him: “Put you finger here…see my hands…bring your hand and put it into my side.” In other words, Jesus meets Thomas right in his doubt.

And Thomas responds with one of the most profound professions of faith in all of Scripture, “My Lord and my God.”

Here is the lesson: doubt is not the opposite of faith. Certainty is the opposite of faith. Doubt is the doorway to a deeper faith – if we bring it to Christ.

Every one of us has “locked doors.” Maybe it is fear about the future. Maybe it is regret about the past. Maybe it is grief, loneliness, or questions we cannot answer. And sometimes, like Thomas, we struggle to believe. We wonder:  Where is God in all of this?

Today’s Gospel tells us: Christ does not stay away because of that. He comes precisely because of that. He steps into our locked rooms. He speaks peace into our chaos. He shows us His wounds – not as signs of defeat, but as proof of love. And notice this, the risen Jesus still has His wounds. They are no longer sources of pain – but they have not disappeared. They have been transformed.

That means our wounds, too – our struggles, our losses – can become places where grace breaks through. Places where we encounter Christ. And then Jesus says something that reaches across the centuries to us: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” That is us. We have not seen Him with our eyes. But we have felt His presence. In the Eucharist. In moments of unexpected peace. In forgiveness given and received. In the quiet strength to keep going.

So today, the invitation is simple: What door have I locked? What fear or doubt am I holding onto? And can I let Christ meet me there? Because He is already standing in the room. And he is saying to you, just as He said to them, “Peace be with you.”

And if we let Him in – even with our doubts, even with our fears – we may find ourselves like Thomas, making that same beautiful confession: “My Lord…and my God.”

Easter 2026

Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb “early, while it was still dark.” That detail matters. It is not just the time of day – it’s the condition of the heart. Darkness, confusion, grief. She is not expecting resurrection. She is simply trying to hold on to what she has lost. And what does she find? Not answers. Not angels – at least not yet. Just a stone rolled away and an empty space.

Peter and the beloved disciple run to the tomb. One looks in, the other enters. They see the burial cloths – and the Gospel tells us something very quiet but powerful. “He saw and believed.” Not because everything was explained – but because something in that empty space spoke to the heart. And that is where Easter meets us.

All through Lent we have heard God’s promise from Ezekiel: “I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” The heart of stone is closed, protected, unmoved. It is safe – but it cannot love deeply, and it cannot hope beyond what it can control.

But a heart of flesh – that is different. A heart of flesh can break, it can feel. It can be surprised. It can believe.

On that first Easter morning, the tomb is not just empty – it is open. And maybe that is the real miracle beginning to unfold: not just that Jesus has been raised but that the disciples’ hearts are beginning to open. Because resurrection is not only something that happened to Jesus. It is something that begins to happen to us.

Think about it: where have our hearts grown a little stoney? Maybe from disappointment – prayers that seemed unanswered. Maybe from hurt – someone we trusted who let us down. Maybe from fatigue – just carrying for life for so long that we stop expecting anything new.

A stoney heart says: “I’ve seen how this goes.” A heart of flesh says: “Maybe God is not finished yet.” The beloved disciple looks into an empty tomb and begins to believe – not because he understands everything, but because his heart is no longer closed.

Easter is God rolling away more than a stone from a grave. It is God rolling away the stones around our hearts. And here’s the beautiful, almost humorous part of the story: nobody in the Gospel account actually sees the resurrection happen. There’s no dramatic moment, no spotlight. Just an empty tomb…and a slow dawning. Which is often how it works for us.

Resurrection does not always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it comes quietly:

In a moment of unexpected peace.

In the courage to forgive.

In the strength to begin again.

In a small hope you did not think you had anymore.

That is a heart of flesh awakening.  So today, maybe the simplest Easter prayer is this: “Lord, roll away whatever stone is still covering my heart. Take whatever in me has grown hard or closed. And give me again a heart that can feel, trust, and believe.”

The good news of Easter is not just that the tomb was empty then. It is that God is still opening tombs now. Still softening hearts. Still bringing life out of places we thought were finished. Alleluia – Christ is risen!

Good Friday

On Good Friday, we often focus on what Jesus did for us on the cross. But today, I want to shift that just a little. What if the cross is not only something Jesus did…

But also, something Jesus asks?

Because in Passion, there is a moment we can easily overlook. Pilate stands before the crowd and asks, “Whom do you want me to release to you? Jesus Christ…or Barabbas?” And the crowd chooses Barabbas.

That moment is not just history. It is a mirror. Because that same choice lives in us. Jesus represents love, mercy, forgiveness, self-gift. Barabbas represents anger, self-protection, violence, getting even and if we are honest, we carry both.

There are moments we choose Jesus – when we forgive instead of holding a grudge, when we listen instead of lash out, when we serve instead of demand.

But there are other moments…when we choose Barabbas – when we want to win at all costs, when we justify harsh words, when we quietly decide someone is not worth our compassion.

Good Friday does not just tell us that Jesus died. It asks us: Which way will you choose? Because the cross does not magically remove cruelty from the world. We still see it – in our homes, in our communities, in our world and in our hearts. 

But the cross reveals another way. A way where love does not retaliate. Where mercy is stronger than revenge. Where forgiveness breaks cycles of hurt. And here is the hard truth: The world changes only when we start choosing Jesus more often than Barabbas. Not once. Not just today. But in the small, daily decisions.

So today, as we venerate the cross, do not just look at what Jesus endured. Listen to what he is asking.

In that relationship that is strained…

In that resentment you are holding…

In that situation where you want to be right more than loving…

What is the Jesus choice? Because Good Friday is not the end of the story – it is the beginning of a decision…and that decision is ours.