Breakfast with Jesus: A Meal that Heals and Sends

 3 Sunday Easter

After the Resurrection, Jesus prepares a simple breakfast for Peter—not just to feed him, but to heal and restore their broken relationship. This powerful moment at a charcoal fire mirrors the Eucharist, where Christ meets us in our pain, nourishes us, and sends us out with purpose. In a time of mourning and sorrow, we gather at the Lord’s table to be strengthened by his love and commissioned to bring healing to the world.

Listen to Homily Here  

“Breakfast with the Risen Lord: A Meal of Healing and Mission”

Something that is very universal across all cultures, places, and times is this: we love to share meals together. Whether as families or as communities, we gather for meals to mark important moments, to enjoy one another’s company, and to strengthen our bonds. We do this here in our parish family as well—celebrating with food, laughter, and shared time.

But we know that when we gather to eat, it’s never just about food. Meals are not only for physical nourishment. Meals build relationships. They strengthen community. They offer comfort and connection. We gather for meals to celebrate life’s joyful milestones—like weddings or baptisms—but we also come together during difficult times, like when a loved one is in the hospital or when we are grieving. In such moments, eating together becomes an act of mutual support and healing.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus prepares a meal for Simon Peter. And once again, we see that this meal is not just about food. Jesus doesn’t simply want to fill Peter’s stomach—he wants to restore his heart. This breakfast by the sea is a moment of healing and reconciliation.

Let’s look more closely at where this meal happens. As we heard, Jesus prepares breakfast on the shore around a charcoal fire. That detail might seem small, but it’s powerful. The phrase “charcoal fire” appears only twice in the entire New Testament. The first time is in John’s Passion account, when Peter warms himself near a charcoal fire while Jesus is on trial. It is at that fire that Peter denies Jesus three times.

Now, after the Resurrection, here is Jesus again—by a charcoal fire, inviting Peter to breakfast. The symbolism is unmistakable. For each of Peter’s three denials, Jesus now gives him a chance to affirm his love: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” This meal becomes a moment of deep healing. Jesus forgives Peter. He restores their friendship. He brings Peter back to life—not just spiritually, but in mission and purpose.

This meal is about reconciliation, about healing a wounded relationship. And this meal becomes for us a profound image of the Eucharist.

We gather today for the Eucharist, which is the greatest meal Jesus offers us. It is not just bread and wine. It is his very Body and Blood, given so that we may be healed, strengthened, and restored. Like Peter, we come with our imperfections, our sins, our pain—and Jesus meets us where we are. He feeds us. He forgives us. He sends us out.

At this moment, our community is in particular need of this healing. We are mourning. Just over a week ago, our city was struck by tragedy during the Lapu Lapu Day celebration. Many lives were lost. Many were injured. Many families are grieving, including here in our own parish community. There is pain. There is sorrow. There is confusion.

And so we gather—just as the disciples did—to be fed by Jesus. In this Eucharist, we ask him to heal us, to comfort us, to strengthen us. In this moment of shared mourning, we turn to the table of the Lord to draw close to one another and to the Risen Christ. Just as Jesus restored Peter at the lakeshore, he wants to restore us—bring us back to life, renew our hope, and give us the strength to go forward.

But the Gospel doesn’t end with healing. Jesus doesn’t just forgive Peter—he sends him. Each time Peter says, “Lord, you know I love you,” Jesus responds with a command: “Feed my sheep.” This is the natural consequence of love. When we receive the healing of Christ, we are called to become healers. The Eucharist is not only for our comfort—it is for mission.

A beautiful example of this is St. Teresa of Calcutta. She and her sisters are renowned for their service to the poorest of the poor. But what many people don’t realize is that before they went out to serve each day, they began with Mass. They received the Eucharist—Christ’s presence and strength—so they could go and bring his love to others.

Jesus knows we are weak. He knows we struggle. But he still chooses us. He meets us where we are, and he sends us out to love.

There’s a beautiful detail in the Gospel that doesn’t fully come through in English. In the original Greek, the words Jesus and Peter use for “love” have different meanings. Jesus first asks Peter, “Do you love me with agape love?”—a word that means self-sacrificing, unconditional love. But Peter responds with a different word: “Lord, you know I love you as a friend”—using the word philia, which means affectionate love between friends.

Twice, Jesus asks for agape, and twice Peter responds with philia. Then, the third time, Jesus changes his question. He meets Peter where he is: “Do you love me as a friend?” And Peter answers: “Lord, you know I love you as a friend.”

This moment reveals so much about the heart of Jesus. He calls us to a high ideal—to love with the total, self-giving love of agape. But when we fall short, he doesn’t reject us. He meets us in our weakness. He takes the love we can offer and still entrusts us with his mission.

And so, too, with us. We may feel tired, unsure, grieving, or imperfect. But Jesus meets us in the Eucharist. He restores us. He calls us. And he sends us.

At the end of every Mass, we hear the dismissal: “Go forth, the Mass is ended,” or “Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.” This is not just a way of saying the liturgy is over. It’s a mission statement. We are sent out to love, to serve, to feed others as we have been fed.

So today, let us ask Jesus for healing, for strength, and for the grace to respond to his love. Let us pray that the Eucharist we receive may restore us, as it did Peter. And let us pray for the Holy Spirit to fill us with courage, so that we may go out—into a hurting world—to bring Christ’s love, healing, and hope to those who need it most.

The Mercy That Heals: Honouring Pope Francis and the Power of Christ’s Love

 Divine Mercy

In a world wounded by fear and division, Divine Mercy Sunday reminds us that Christ enters our locked doors with peace and healing. Pope Francis lived this message, teaching us that the Church is a field hospital where mercy welcomes and transforms. As we mourn his passing, we commit ourselves anew to being living instruments of God's mercy in the world.

Listen to homily here:

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy Sunday)

Honoring the Life and Witness of Pope Francis

There is a story told about a monastery that had fallen into decline. The community of monks was aging, and the monastery itself was falling into disrepair. No new vocations were coming, and spiritually, the community was struggling. Years of living together had exposed their human frailties, and their patience with one another had worn thin. They began sniping at each other, becoming increasingly rude and harsh.

Recognizing the dire state they were in, the monks decided to seek counsel. They traveled to a nearby cave where an elderly hermit lived, and they poured out their troubles before him. The hermit listened and then said only this: "One of you is the Messiah." That was all he offered.

When the monks returned to their monastery, they pondered his words deeply. "One of us is the Messiah?" they thought. They didn’t know which one, but the mere possibility changed the way they treated each other. Each monk began to treat the others with new respect, kindness, and mercy — just in case he was the one.

Slowly but surely, the atmosphere of the monastery changed. Mercy replaced bitterness. Patience overcame judgment. Visitors began to notice the warmth and care among the monks. Over time, new novices joined, and the monastery was renewed — all because mercy had breathed life into a community that had been falling apart.

Today is Divine Mercy Sunday, and we celebrate the incredible power of God's mercy — the mercy that transforms hopelessness into hope, that brings life out of death. In today’s Gospel, the apostles are struggling with fear, locked away in a dark room. Yet the Risen Christ enters their fear, breathes upon them, and fills them with His peace and mercy.

As we continue to mourn the death of Pope Francis, we remember him today in a special way as a messenger of God's mercy.
I vividly recall when Pope Francis was first elected in 2013. At that time, I was serving as a deacon at St. Matthew’s Parish. When the white smoke appeared, we gathered all the students in the school gym to watch the announcement live. I remember vividly his first words: "Buona sera — Good evening." He then asked the crowd to pray for him, humbly beginning his papal ministry with a request for prayers rather than a proclamation of authority.

Hearing the news of his passing struck me with a deep sense of grief. It was hard to come to grips with the loss of someone who had journeyed with the Church in such a deeply pastoral and merciful way. I’m sure many of us feel that same sense of loss.
When someone we love passes away, it can feel like the apostles felt in today’s Gospel: locked away in a dark room of sadness, fear, and confusion.

And yet, the good news is this: Christ comes precisely into those dark rooms. Christ meets us in our grief. He doesn't wait for us to fix ourselves. He enters into our locked rooms, into our fears, and breathes His mercy and peace upon us.

This is the heart of Divine Mercy:
God’s heart beats with love for those who are suffering.
The word "mercy" itself comes from the Latin misericordia — meaning "a heart for the miserable." God loves all of us equally, but in a special way, He draws close to the wounded and the struggling.

In the Resurrection, Jesus rises with His wounds. He doesn't erase them. They are glorified. Why?
Because our wounds, our struggles, are not a barrier to God’s love. They are the very places where His mercy enters in and transforms us.
Christ is a Savior who does not stand apart from our pain — He bears it with us. He is, forever, the Risen One with wounds.

This was the path Pope Francis tried to walk. He constantly reminded us that the Church must be a "field hospital after battle" — a place where wounds are bound up, not a place reserved for the perfect.
The Church is not a museum for saints; it is a hospital for sinners.

At World Youth Day in Lisbon last year, Pope Francis said beautifully, "The Church is for everyone, tutti, tutti, tutti — everyone, everyone, everyone."
The doors of the Church must be open to all — especially to those most in need of mercy.

Pope Francis’s first journey as pope was not to the grand cathedrals of Europe, but to a tiny island called Lampedusa — a place many had never heard of. It was a major arrival point for migrants fleeing violence and poverty. There, Pope Francis celebrated Mass on an altar built from a refugee boat wreckage, honoring those who had died trying to seek a better life. In that act, he showed us what it means to extend God's mercy to the peripheries.

We, too, are called to be instruments of that mercy.

In the Gospel, Jesus meets Thomas in his doubt and weakness — not with condemnation, but with mercy.
He invites Thomas to touch His wounds, to believe again. Thomas’s faith is renewed, and tradition tells us that he became a great missionary, eventually traveling to India to spread the Gospel.

In the same way, God’s mercy transforms us — so that we, too, might go forth and extend mercy to others.
In our families, our parishes, and our communities, there are many locked doors and hidden wounds. By acts of patience, kindness, service, and forgiveness, we become living instruments of Divine Mercy.

Mercy breathes new life into dying communities. Mercy transforms fear into courage, bitterness into hope.

As we give thanks for the life and witness of Pope Francis, let us remember his words:

"Mercy is the force that reawakens us to new life and instills in us the courage to look to the future with hope."
(Misericordiae Vultus, §10)

May that mercy live in us today. Amen.

Keep the Flame Burning

 Easter Sunday

Easter reminds us that no matter how fierce the storms of life may be, the light of Christ’s resurrection can never be extinguished. Like lighthouse keepers, we are called to tend the flame of faith and shine it for others. In a world often clouded by fear and despair, we are pilgrims of hope, carrying the light that leads to life.

Listen to Homily here

Easter Homily: Keep the Flame Burning

There is an old story told about a lighthouse keeper. In the days before electricity, his job was to tend the flame at the top of the lighthouse on a remote and barren coast. The flame had to remain burning through the night, no matter the conditions, because if it went out, ships approaching the shore could be lost or destroyed. It was lonely work, but essential.

One weekend, a family member came to visit. That night, a terrible storm struck—winds howled and waves crashed violently against the cliffs. In the morning, the guest asked, “Weren’t you afraid the wind would blow out your light?” The lighthouse keeper replied simply, “The wind could blow all it wanted. My job wasn’t to fight the storm. My job was to keep the flame burning.”

Easter is all about hope. It is the victory of light over darkness, of life over death. Because of our faith in the resurrection, we are called to be like that lighthouse keeper. In baptism, we received the light of Christ—a flame we are called to carry into the world to give hope, to give direction. And like that keeper, it isn’t always easy. Each of us faces storms—grief, health struggles, fractured relationships, fear, anxiety, and loss. We don’t need to look far to find winds that try to blow out our light.

On Good Friday, the disciples of Jesus were scattered. Their hopes were crushed. Peter hid in fear. Only a few faithful women remained, hoping beyond hope as they approached the tomb. But on Easter morning, everything changed. The tomb was empty. Mary Magdalene heard her name spoken by the risen Jesus—and suddenly, her sorrow was turned into joy.

The resurrection of Christ ignites a flame that no storm can extinguish. The Paschal candle, which stands before us today, is our lighthouse. It proclaims that Christ has conquered death, that His light still shines, and that we are never alone. Jesus is the true lighthouse keeper, and we are invited to follow Him—not in fear, but in faith.

Today, in this Jubilee Year, we are called to be Pilgrims of Hope. Hope is not naïve optimism. It is the quiet, steady flame that continues burning even in the darkest night. Pope Francis, in his Easter message this year—though unable to speak it himself due to illness—reminded us of the light we received at baptism. It is a small, gentle light, but one that must be kept alive. Easter is the time to strengthen that flame.

In a few moments, we will renew our baptismal promises. As I sprinkle the congregation with holy water—blessed last night at the Easter Vigil and used to baptize new members of our Church—remember the flame you were given. You were told to “receive the light of Christ.” That light calls us to reject the darkness: cynicism, bitterness, unforgiveness, despair. Instead, we are to embrace kindness, service, compassion, and above all, hope.

We are called to be lighthouse keepers—faithfully shining light for others. We are meant to give hope and direction amid the storms, to point others toward a different path—a path that leads to life.

Dear brothers and sisters, we are Pilgrims of Hope, and our hope is rooted in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. His flame, His light, His life can never be extinguished. Let us pray that this Easter, His light will enter our hearts again, and that we, in turn, will become beacons of His hope, peace, and joy in the world.