Sixth Sunday of Easter

There is a line in today’s Gospel that speaks to something deep in the human heart. “I will not leave you orphans.”  And on this Mother’s Day, that line takes on a special meaning. Because if there is one person in our lives who most tries to make sure we are never alone…it is our mother. 

Think about it. A mother’s love says, often without words, “I’m here.” “I’ve got you.” “You are not alone.” From the very beginning – before we could walk, before we could speak – someone held us, fed us, comforted us. And even as we grow older, that presence does not really go away. A mother may no longer be physically present…but her love remains within us – guiding, shaping, comforting. 

That is exactly the kind of presence Jesus is talking about in the Gospel. The disciples are anxious. Jesus has just told them he is leaving. And you can imagine the fear rising up in them. “What are we going to do now?”  

Those are the same questions we ask in life when something changes: a spouse dies – a child moves away – our health weakens, when the ground shifts beneath our feet and suddenly the world feels unfamiliar. They are what one writer calls the “orphan questions.” Who is with me? Where do I turn? What happens next? And into that fear, Jesus speaks this promise: “I will not leave you orphans.” Not, “I won’t leave” – because he is leaving. But I will not leave you alone.”  

In a way, that is something every good mother teaches her child. There comes a moment when a mother lets go – first steps, first day at school, first time leaving home. She cannot always stand right beside her child. But what she has given – her love, her values, her strength – lives inside that child. So, the child is never truly alone. A simple image: Think about a child learning to ride a bike. At first, the parent runs alongside – hand on the seat, steadying them. But there comes a moment when the parent lets go. And for a second, the child might feel alone – maybe even panic. But the truth is – everything the parent gave them is still there – the balance, the confidence, the strength. They are not abandoned – they are empowered. 

That is what Jesus is doing. He is not abandoning the disciples. He is deepening his presence. He promises the Advocate, the Holy Spirit. “I am in my Father – and you in me – and I in you.” His presence moves from beside them to within them. 

And so today we give thanks for our mothers – for those who are still with us, and for those who now live in God. We thank them for all the ways they have reflected God’s own promise. “I will not leave you.” And we also recognize something deeper: Even the best mother’s love is only a glimpse of God’s love. Because human love, as beautiful as it is, has limits. But Christ’s love does not. And Jesus tells us how to stay connected to that love: “If you love me, keep my commandments.” In other words – love as I have loved you. Love your neighbor. Love your family. Love the person who annoys you. Even love your enemy. Because every time we love, we make room for Christ to live in us more fully.  

So, on this Mother’s Day, here is the invitation: If your mother is still with you – honor her, thank her, love her. If she has passed – remember her, pray for her, and give thanks for the love that still lives in you. And no matter your story – whether it is filled with gratitude, or grief, or even wounds – hear the Lord’s promise again: “I will not leave you orphans.” Not then. Not now. Not ever. 

Fifth Sunday of Easter

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.” That sounds comforting but Jesus speaks those words when the disciples have every reason to be troubled. The disciples are anxious, confused, even afraid. Jesus told them he is going away – their world is about to fall apart.

So, Thomas asks the question we have all asked in one way or another. “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” We want clarity. We want directions. We want a plan. But Jesus does not hand over a roadmap – rather he says, “I am the way.”

The first year that I was here I did some hiking – the trail wasn’t exactly obvious. The markers were a bit spread out, the path got rocky, roots everywhere and some mud thrown in for character. And every now and then I had one of those moments where you stop and think, “Am I still on the trail…or am I about to become a story someone tells later?”

Now if you are hiking alone, that moment can make your heart beat a little faster. You start second guessing every step. But if you are with someone who knows the trail – someone who has hiked it a dozen times – it’s different. They walk ahead a bit, step over the roots, point out the markers you might have missed, and say, “You are doing well – stay with me.”

You may not know exactly where you are on the map, but you trust them. And somehow, that is enough. That is what Jesus is saying. “I am the way.” He does not say, “Here’s a perfectly marked path with no confusion.” But rather he says, “Stay close to me. I know where we are going.”

And let’s be honest – sometimes in life, we wander a bit off the trail. We get distracted. We make a wrong turn. We follow something that looks like a path – until it isn’t. And if life had a GPS voice, that would be the moment it says, “Recalculating.” No yelling. No shame. Just, “Let’s get back on track.”

And that is Jesus. Patient. Steady. Not panicking when we do. Then Philip says, “Lord, show us the Father, and that will be enough.” And Jesus answers, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.”  In other words, if you want to know what God is like, look at the one walking beside you on the trail. The one who forgives. The one who does not rush you. The one who waits when you are tired. The one who notices when you are struggling. The one who never says, “You are on your own now.” That is God.

And that is why Jesus can say, even when life feels uncertain, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”  The promise is not that the trail will always be easy. The promise is that we will not walk it alone.

Yesterday (Friday) this message of Jesus came into my office. Many of you know about Evan and Agnes who owned the Greek Restaurant on Main Street.  Agnes is a Catholic from Indonesia who lived with fear of religious persecution. She came to the States as an asylum seeker and has regularly reported to the Immigration Center in Champlain NY and was daily monitored by her cell phone. On Dec. 8 she reported to Champlain as required and was unexplainably snatched up by ICE, sent to jail in Plattsburgh for four days and then to a detention center in Texas – where she still is. She was following the law. In recent months all of the letters and efforts to legally secure her release have been completely ignored by our government officials – she will be deported to Indonesia in the next few days. I met with her husband Evan on Friday – and in his great grief and frustration he echoed to me the words of our Lord Jesus from today’s gospel– the Lord is with us on the way – He is our life…. He is with us! Evan should be giving this homily! From his troubled and broken heart Evan spoke powerfully that the Lord was with them. But as for me, as I listened to this man of faith I could not help but think that as a taxpayer, I am supporting this unjust and cruel treatment of human beings.

Secure borders are necessary - the deportation of criminals is understandable. This is completely different.  Evan and Agnes know deep in their hearts that God is with them in this troubled time…. I wish that I could be as certain that God is with us as a country.

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.”