Holy Thursday - Pilgrims of Hope

Holy Thursday

On Holy Thursday, we begin a sacred pilgrimage with Jesus—from the Upper Room to the Cross and the empty tomb. The Eucharist, which we receive tonight, is not just a ritual but a powerful source of hope: it transforms us, unites us, and gives us a foretaste of eternal life. As Pilgrims of Hope in this Jubilee year, let us allow Christ’s love to shape us into His likeness and carry that hope into the world.

Listen to homily here: 

Holy Thursday Homily – Pilgrims of Hope

In the ancient city of Jerusalem, just outside the Old City walls, there is a famous place of pilgrimage called the Cenacle—sometimes referred to as the Cenaculum or the Upper Room. If you visit this site, you will see pilgrims coming throughout the day to pray and reflect. The current structure, with its Gothic architecture, has been built, destroyed, and rebuilt many times over the centuries. But tradition holds that this is the very place where Jesus celebrated the Last Supper with His apostles.

Some years ago, I had the privilege of visiting this sacred space. Standing there as a pilgrim, I couldn’t help but wonder: what was it like to be at the Last Supper? What would it have felt like to sit with Jesus, to see and hear what He was doing? On the one hand, it was a familiar Passover meal—something the disciples had observed many times before. As we heard in the first reading, the Passover celebrates the Exodus, with blessings over bread and wine. But this particular Passover was different.

Jesus reconfigured the meal. He took bread, broke it, and said, “This is my body. Take and eat.” He took the cup and said, “This is my blood. Drink from it.” Imagine how strange and mysterious this would have seemed to His followers. They had never heard anything like it.

Today, we may not have the opportunity to travel to the Cenacle, but we do have something equally important: the journey of the Triduum. These three days—Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil—form a sacred pilgrimage. We begin tonight at the Last Supper, walk with Jesus through His Passion and Death, and arrive at the Resurrection.

But let us remember: we are not meant to be mere spectators. Pilgrims are different. Pilgrims allow the events they witness to touch their hearts and transform their lives. And this year, the Jubilee Year of Hope, gives this idea of pilgrimage even greater meaning. As Pilgrims of Hope, let us walk these sacred days attentively and prayerfully, asking ourselves: How is Jesus giving us hope? How is He renewing hope in our lives and in the lives of those around us?

Tonight, Holy Thursday, we celebrate several great and intertwined mysteries:

• The gift of the Eucharist, Jesus giving us His very Body and Blood to nourish us;

• The gift of the priesthood—both the ministerial priesthood and the priesthood of all the baptized;

• And the commandment to love, made visible in the Gospel from John, where Jesus stoops to wash the feet of His disciples and tells them, “Do you understand what I have done for you? Now go and do the same.”

How does this evening fill us with hope?

Let us reflect on the Eucharist through the lens of our life’s journey—our pilgrimage from childhood through to old age.

1. The Eucharist at First Communion: Transformation

Tonight, several of our PREP students will receive their First Holy Communion—a joyful and sacred moment. More will follow in May. For many of us, First Communion remains a cherished memory. The sense of awe and wonder may fade with time, but we can remember how special that day was.

Sometimes when distributing Communion, I see parents approach with toddlers in their arms. After the parent receives, the child reaches out, saying, “I want one!” It’s a beautiful sign of desire for this sacred gift.

It wasn’t always the case that children received Communion at a young age. Around 1900, Pope Pius X promoted the practice, recognizing that we need spiritual nourishment early in life to help us grow in holiness.

When we receive the Eucharist, we are transformed into what we receive: Jesus Christ. The Eucharist is not just bread—it is Christ Himself. And as we receive Him, we are called to become like Him. What does that look like? The Gospel shows us: it means service, humility, and love—symbolized in the washing of feet.

This transformation gives us hope. We are not stuck in old patterns—we are being shaped into the likeness of Christ.

2. The Eucharist in Our Journey: Unity

As we continue through life, the Eucharist sustains us and unites us. In the second reading, St. Paul addresses the Corinthians—the earliest written account of the Last Supper. But Paul wasn’t praising them; he was correcting them. The community was divided. The wealthy were feasting and excluding the poor before the Eucharist, making them feel ashamed.

Paul rebukes them because their actions contradict the very meaning of the Eucharist. In the Eucharist, Jesus gives Himself selflessly to unite us. There is no place for division—rich and poor, powerful and weak—all are one in Christ.

In John’s Gospel, one of Jesus’ final prayers is “that they may all be one.” Unity is the deep desire of Jesus’ heart. And in our world today—with its many divisions, wars, and polarizations—the Church is called to be a sign of unity.

At St. Peter’s, it is moving to witness the diversity of people who come forward for Communion: people of every age, background, and culture. We receive the same Body of Christ and, through it, are made into the Body of Christ—the Church. The Eucharist is a sign of hope because it unites what the world so often tears apart.

3. The Eucharist at Life’s End: A Foretaste of Eternal Life

As our journey nears its end, the Eucharist becomes a profound sign of hope. At St. Peter’s, we have the privilege of bringing Communion to parishioners in hospitals and nursing homes. Sometimes, it is the last time they will receive the Eucharist before entering eternal life.

In receiving the Eucharist, they receive not just a symbol, but the Risen Christ Himself—alive, victorious over death. The Eucharist is a taste of eternity.

St. Ignatius of Antioch, writing in the first century, called the Eucharist “the medicine of immortality, the antidote to death.” This is not poetic language; it is a profession of faith. The Eucharist gives us the promise of eternal life.

---

Conclusion: Pilgrims of Hope

So, dear brothers and sisters, as we begin this sacred pilgrimage of the Triduum, let us walk as Pilgrims of Hope.

• Hope that the Eucharist transforms us into the likeness of Christ.

• Hope that the Eucharist unites us as one Body.

• Hope that the Eucharist leads us to eternal life.

Let us open our hearts over these days to what Jesus says and does. And when we say “Amen” at Communion tonight, let it be our joyful affirmation of hope.

From Palms to the Cross: The Cost and Courage of Discipleship

 Palm Sunday, Year C

What do Jesus entering Jerusalem and St. Oscar Romero speaking truth to power have in common? Both were praised by crowds—then rejected when their message became uncomfortable. This Palm Sunday reflection invites us to consider the real cost of discipleship and the courage it takes to follow Christ all the way to the cross—and beyond.

Listen to homily here:  

When I was a teen, I watched the movie Romero, which tells the story of the Salvadoran bishop Oscar Romero—now canonized as a saint. In the late 1970s, Romero was appointed bishop. At first, he was widely respected by all—people in government, church leaders, and both the rich and poor. But over time, Romero began to see more clearly the injustice and oppression around him, often inflicted on the people by a violent regime. He could no longer stay silent. He began to speak out boldly against the violence and the suffering of the poor.

As a result, he was soon targeted by the government. On March 24, 1980, while celebrating Mass, Oscar Romero was shot and killed. He became a modern-day martyr—an example of someone who followed the path of Jesus, the same path we begin today on Palm Sunday and continue through Holy Week and into Easter.

Like the story of Jesus, the story of Oscar Romero begins with praise but moves quickly into persecution. Romero was not always rejected—he was once praised by almost everyone. But after the assassination of his close friend, Fr. Rutilio Grande, Romero’s eyes were opened. He began to see the injustice for what it was. And he had a choice. He chose the difficult path: to speak out, even when he knew it would cost him.

This is also the story of Jesus. At the beginning of Mass today, we heard how the crowds welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem with joyful acclaim. They waved palm branches. They likely believed He was a political or military leader, like Judas Maccabeus—whom we read about in the Books of Maccabees. About 150 years before Jesus, Judas Maccabeus led a revolt against the Greek ruler Antiochus IV. He raised an army, drove out the oppressors, and entered Jerusalem in triumph. The people waved palm branches to celebrate his victory.

Many likely thought Jesus was another such figure—a Messiah who would overthrow the Romans and restore Israel’s independence. But Jesus was not that kind of Messiah. He came not to raise an army, but to serve the poor. He spoke truth to power. He took the violence of the world upon Himself, bore it to the cross, and broke its power.

At first, the crowd praised Him. They called Him king and waved palms. But when they saw what kind of king He truly was—when they realized He called them to live justly, to love their enemies, to forgive—then they turned on Him. They called for His death and demanded the release of a criminal instead. Even His closest friends abandoned Him.

The story of Oscar Romero is like the story of Jesus. It moves from praise to persecution. And as disciples, our lives often follow the same pattern. There is great joy in following Christ—we experience it in the celebrations of our parish, in baptisms and weddings, in community dinners and cultural festivals. There is real joy in being part of this family of faith.

But there is also a cost. Following Jesus is not always easy. Sometimes it’s as simple as choosing prayer when we don’t feel like it, or coming to Mass when we’re tired. Sometimes it’s resisting peer pressure, refusing to gossip, being honest when it would be easier not to. Sometimes it means going against trends, choosing to give rather than to consume, to help the poor, to support the Church, to live generously.

At times, the cost is even greater—like it was for Oscar Romero. Toward the end of his life, he knew the government was trying to silence him. Yet he kept speaking out. One month before his death, Romero said: “If they kill me, I shall rise again in the Salvadoran people.” And indeed, his sacrifice helped bring about peace and justice in his country, though it took time.

The way of Christ does not end in death. Holy Week does not stop at Good Friday. The cross leads to resurrection. Jesus’ death brought life to the world. The cost of His life brought salvation to all of us.

So yes, following Jesus costs something. But it also brings goodness, hope, and new life—to us and to those around us.

Today we hold palms. Many people held palms when Jesus entered Jerusalem. But we have a choice: will we be like those who praised Him and later walked away? Or will we follow Him all the way to the cross—and beyond?

Let us pray that we, like Saint Oscar Romero, may walk the life-giving path of Jesus, even when it is difficult.

Called by Name, Not by Sin

5 Sunday Lent, year C

John 8:1–11

Jesus shows us that mercy isn’t earned—it’s a gift that restores dignity and life. In contrast to the religious leaders who use a woman’s sin to trap Jesus, He sees her humanity, forgives her, and offers a new beginning. As we continue through Lent, we’re invited to receive God’s mercy and extend it to others by calling them not by their sins, but by their name.

Listen to homily here:

There is a legend told about a young soldier who served in Napoleon's army. He didn’t want to be there—he had been conscripted into service against his will. Eventually, he decided to desert and ran away, trying to return home. But he didn’t get far before he was arrested by other soldiers. At that time, desertion was considered a serious offense, punishable by death. So the young man was imprisoned and sentenced to die.

His mother, upon learning what had happened, was determined to save her son's life. She managed to find Napoleon one day while he was out in public and begged him to show mercy. Napoleon replied, “But your son does not deserve mercy.” The mother answered, “I know. If he deserved it, it wouldn’t be mercy.”

She was exactly right.

Mercy, which stands at the heart of today’s Gospel, is not something we earn. It's not something we deserve. Mercy is a gift—freely given. And just like the mother's plea for her son's life, God's mercy is not based on merit. It's rooted in love, and it restores life.

In today’s Gospel, we hear the story of a woman caught in adultery, brought before Jesus by the religious leaders. But this is not a scene of justice—it's a trap. They want to corner Jesus, to put him in a no-win situation. The Law of Moses commanded that both the man and woman caught in adultery should be stoned. But under Roman law, Jewish leaders were not permitted to carry out executions. So they ask Jesus, essentially: “Are you going to follow Moses or the Romans?” Either way, they think, he’ll be discredited.

But even worse than the legal trickery is the way the woman is treated. She isn’t spoken to. She isn’t even acknowledged as a person. She’s simply labeled: adulteress, sinner. She's being used—instrumentalized—as a pawn to trap Jesus. Her dignity is ignored.

And yet, in this moment of injustice and humiliation, Jesus responds with extraordinary wisdom and compassion. First, he turns the trap inside out: “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to cast a stone.” He's not rejecting the law—he’s revealing the hypocrisy of those trying to use it as a weapon.

One by one, her accusers slip away, starting with the elders, who perhaps recognized the truth more quickly. Then Jesus, for the first time in the whole scene, turns to the woman. He addresses her directly. He restores her dignity. He doesn't condemn her. Instead, he offers mercy—and a future: “Go, and sin no more.”

Jesus doesn’t deny her wrongdoing, but he refuses to let her be defined by it. He refuses to let her be reduced to her worst moment. In offering her mercy, he restores her life—literally and spiritually. He is the only one in the entire scene who sees her as a person, not a problem.

There’s a saying often associated with this Gospel:
“God knows your sins but calls you by your name. The devil knows your name but calls you by your sins.”

That’s the contrast we see so vividly here. The religious leaders act as the accuser—naming only the sin. Jesus, in contrast, knows her sins, but calls her into a new future. He knows who she is, not just what she has done.

This Gospel is a powerful reminder and challenge for us—to imitate Jesus in our own lives. It’s easy to fall into the trap of naming people by their failings, especially in the age of gossip, social media, and quick judgments. And sometimes we give our gossip a little "Catholic seasoning"—we share unflattering stories about others under the noble-sounding pretext: “I’m only telling you so you can pray for them.”

Let’s be honest: that’s not mercy. That’s what the Pharisees were doing—focusing on someone’s sin and ignoring their name, their humanity.

To be merciful like Jesus, we must first recognize our own need for mercy. When we’re honest about our own faults—our need for forgiveness—it becomes easier to extend that same compassion to others. We’ve all fallen. We’ve all been forgiven. Mercy is not earned—it’s received, and then shared.

As we journey deeper into Lent and approach Holy Week, we’re invited to reflect on this great mercy of God. In the days ahead, we’ll have opportunities to celebrate the Sacrament of Reconciliation—a beautiful chance to accept that mercy for ourselves.

So let us remember today: Jesus knows our sins, yes—but he calls each of us by our name, because he loves us. Let us do the same for others.