The ‘Third Testament’ and the Prophetic Witness of Bishop Flunder: God Is Still Speaking

Posted on April 21, 2026 by Fr. Peter

In the days following her sermon on April 19th, much has been made of the claim by Bishop Yvette Flunder, Presiding Bishop of the Fellowship of Affirming Ministries and Pastor of City of Refuge United Church of Christ, that “we need a third testament.” Predictably, the phrase was lifted from its pastoral and theological context and, by detractors, recast as a rejection of Scripture or an attempt to supersede the biblical witness. Such readings, in my view, miss not only her intent but the deeper tradition from which she speaks.

To understand what Bishop Flunder was pointing toward, we must begin with a truth the Church has long professed, even if we have not always lived it fully: God is not finished speaking. The canon of Scripture is closed, yes, but the revelation of God’s presence and activity in the world is ongoing through the work of the Holy Spirit. The early Church itself bore witness to this dynamic reality, discerning in real time how the Spirit was moving beyond inherited boundaries, most notably in the inclusion of the Gentiles, a development that would have seemed unthinkable to many who first received the law and the prophets.

What, then, might be meant by a “third testament”? This phrase is not intended to suggest a tangible new book to be added to the Bible, nor to claim a replacement for the Old and New Testaments. Instead, “third testament” is a metaphor for the ongoing, living testimony of God’s people in our present age. Through this metaphor, the phrase provocatively and pastorally invites the Church to acknowledge the ways God continues to show up in the lives of those whose testimonies have often been dismissed or silenced.

Bishop Flunder has long ministered among communities that have experienced exclusion at the hands of the Church, particularly LGBTQ+ persons, people of color, and others on the margins. Her reference to a “third testament” highlights the sacred stories of these communities as places where God’s grace, liberation, and truth are revealed, echoing central scriptural themes of liberation, an expanded covenant, and inclusive love.

Indeed, if we read Scripture attentively, we find that it is itself a record of God continually expanding human understanding. The prophets challenged the complacency of religious institutions. Jesus disrupted the boundaries of purity and belonging. The apostles wrestled with what it meant to follow Christ in a rapidly changing world. In each case, faithfulness required both fidelity to tradition and openness to the new thing God was doing.

The discomfort some have expressed in response to Bishop Flunder’s words may, in fact, reveal how uneasy we are with that tension. It is far easier to treat revelation as something safely contained in the past than to grapple with its implications in the present. Yet the Gospel calls us to a living faith, one that listens as well as proclaims, that discerns as well as preserves.

As a bishop, I hear in her words a summons to deeper faithfulness, not a departure from orthodoxy. Believing in the Spirit’s activity means attending to the testimonies unfolding around us and listening for God’s voice where we least expect it.

Ultimately, the phrase “third testament” urges the Church to awaken to God’s ongoing story. The question is not whether God is still speaking, but whether we are listening.

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He Was Made Known to Them in the Breaking of the Bread

Posted on April 20, 2026 by Fr. Peter

There is something deeply human about walking away.

The story from Luke’s Gospel we just heard begins not in triumph, but in retreat. Two disciples, disappointed and uncertain, leave Jerusalem—not fleeing in fear, but not remaining in hope. They are walking away from the place where their deepest beliefs seem to have collapsed.

“We had hoped…” they say.

Those three words carry the weight of grief, disillusionment, and quiet resignation. We had hoped. Not “we hope,” not “we still believe,” but something past tense. Something that has already died. And if we are honest, we know that road.

We know what it is to walk away from something we once believed would change everything. A relationship that didn’t last. A calling that lost its clarity. A vision for the world that seems increasingly out of reach. We know what it is to watch the news, to hear the rhetoric, to feel the tension rising in our own nation and beyond, and to say, perhaps not aloud, but in the quiet of our hearts, we had hoped.

We had hoped for peace, yet we hear threats of war reduced to political theater. We had hoped for unity, yet we find ourselves more divided and fearful. We had hoped for leaders who build up, speak with humility, not bravado. We had hoped.

And so we walk too. Like those disciples, we keep moving, trying to make sense of what has happened, rehearsing the story again and again, as if repetition might somehow produce understanding.

Yet here is where the Gospel surprises us: Jesus comes alongside them, and they do not recognize him.

Not because he is hidden in some mystical way, but because grief has a way of narrowing our vision. Disappointment can make us blind. When hope dies, it takes with it our ability to see what might still be alive.

But they walk with him, this stranger who asks what they are discussing. There is almost a touch of irony here. “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know…?” they ask him.

Of course, he is the only one who truly does know. But he listens.

That, I think, is one of the most pastoral moments in all of Scripture. The risen Christ does not interrupt them with correction. He does not immediately reveal himself. He does not say, “You’ve misunderstood everything.” Instead, he invites them to speak. He allows them to tell their story, to name their disappointment, to articulate their confusion.

Before there is revelation, there is listening.

There is something here for us, especially in a time like ours. We live in an age of constant commentary, where everyone has something to say, and very few are willing to listen. Too often, we speak past one another, shout over one another, and reduce one another to caricatures. But Christ, the one who is Truth itself, begins not with proclamation, but with presence.

He walks with them.

And then, gently, he begins to reframe their understanding. He opens the Scriptures to them—not as a set of abstract texts, but as a living story that finds its fulfillment in suffering transformed, in death overcome, in a God who refuses to abandon the world even when the world rejects him.

“Was it not necessary…?” he asks.

Necessary—not in the sense that God desired suffering, but because God enters into the deepest realities of human experience and redeems them from within. The cross was not the end of hope; it was where hope was redefined.

But still, they do not recognize him. Because understanding alone is not enough.

You can have all the right theology, all the correct interpretation, all the intellectual clarity in the world, and still miss the presence of Christ walking beside you. Faith is not merely about what we know; it is about how we encounter.

They arrive at Emmaus. The day is nearly over. The stranger makes as if to continue, but they urge him, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening.”

Stay with us. That simple act of hospitality becomes the turning point of the story.

In a world that is increasingly closed off, guarded, suspicious, and quick to draw boundaries, there is something profoundly countercultural about this moment. They invite the stranger in. They make room at the table. They extend trust where there could have been distance.

And it is there, in that ordinary, domestic, unremarkable setting, that everything changes.

“He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” And suddenly, they see. Not on the road. Not in the explanation. Not in the analysis of Scripture, but in the breaking of the bread.

This is not accidental. Luke points us to the Eucharistic life of the Church. The pattern from the Last Supper—taking, blessing, breaking, giving—is repeated here. The risen Christ is revealed not through spectacle, but through sacrament; not in overwhelming display, but in the simple, sacred act of shared bread.

And the moment they recognize him, he vanishes from their sight.

Which might seem, at first, like a cruel twist. But it is not. Because the point is not to cling to a visible presence, but to recognize a deeper, more abiding one. Jesus is no longer limited to one place, one form, one moment. He is present wherever bread is broken in love, wherever lives are shared in grace, wherever hope is rekindled amid despair.

“He was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.”

And then they say something remarkable: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”

Notice the shift. What once felt like confusion, like emptiness, is now recognized as something else entirely. Even before they understood, even before they saw clearly, something within them was already being stirred.

Grace often works that way. Long before we can name it, long before we can articulate it, God is already at work within us, softening, awakening, kindling something new.

So what do the disciples do next? They get up and go back.

Back to Jerusalem. Back to the place they had left. Back to the community they had distanced themselves from. Back to the very place of disappointment, now transformed by the possibility of hope.

The road to Emmaus is not the end of the story; it marks a crucial turning point. Today, we are at that very crossroads, poised for what comes next.

We are, in many ways, a people on the road, trying to make sense of a world that feels uncertain, often fractured, sometimes frightening. We hear voices that trade in fear and power, in threats and division. We see suffering that seems endless, conflicts that seem intractable, and a political and social landscape that often feels more like a battlefield than a common home.

It is easy to say, we had hoped. Yet the Gospel urges us not to remain in disappointment, because Jesus walks beside us—even when we do not recognize him, especially then.

He is present in the stranger, in the conversation we might otherwise avoid, in the quiet stirring of conscience that calls us to something more than anger or despair. He is present in the breaking of the bread, in this table, in this community, in the shared life that refuses to give up on love.

And here is the challenge, the invitation, the calling for us: Will we recognize him? Will we make space for him? Will we allow our hearts to burn again, not with the fire of outrage, but with the fire of hope?

Because the world already has many voices of despair and division. It does not need more threats or certainty that the worst is inevitable.

What it needs are people who have encountered the risen Christ on the road, who have recognized him in the breaking of the bread, and who are willing to return, to go back into the very places of pain and confusion and proclaim, not with naïve optimism but with hard-won conviction:

Hope is not dead. Jesus is alive. And he is still walking with us.

So, if you find yourself today on that road, if your heart is heavy, if your hopes feel distant, if the world seems more broken than whole, know this: You are not walking alone.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the very one you think is a stranger is already speaking, already listening, already opening the story in ways you have not yet fully seen.

Stay at the table. Break the bread. Pay attention to the quiet burning within.

When you recognize him, do not remain where you are. Get up. Return. Tell the story. The world is waiting for witnesses.

Amen.

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Between the Sword and the Cross: A Reflection on Just War in an Age of Political Fury

Posted on April 17, 2026 by Fr. Peter

The Christian tradition has long struggled with the challenge of war. Central to this is Just War Theory, developed by Augustine of Hippo and refined by Thomas Aquinas—not to justify war, but to restrain it. It asks: When, if ever, is violence morally permitted, and how do we prevent our hearts from baptizing brutality?

Traditionally, the criteria are strict: just cause, legitimate authority, right intention, last resort, proportionality, and a reasonable chance of success. Even when all are met, the Church insists that war is a tragic concession to human sin. It is never a moral good in itself.

This tension between necessity and tragedy has resurfaced, as recent political rhetoric clashes with the Gospel.

Recent statements by President Trump, particularly his threat that an entire Iranian civilization could be obliterated, represent a profound moral rupture. Such language does not merely stretch the bounds of just war reasoning; it shatters them. The deliberate targeting or annihilation of a people cannot be squared with proportionality, nor with the dignity of the human person, which lies at the core of Christian moral teaching.

Equally troubling is the theological framing that has come with this rhetoric. Claims that God supports the war effort because “God is good” are a dangerous inversion of theology. God is not conscripted into our wars. Instead, we are judged by how much we reflect God’s peace.

Into this maelstrom has stepped Pope Leo XIV. He reminded the world, echoing the prophets and Christ, that “God does not listen to the prayers of those who wage war.” This is not a denial of the just war tradition. It is its purification. The Holy Father stands with the tradition’s deepest insight: even justified violence places the soul in peril.

Vice President Vance has questioned the Pope’s stance, invoking just war theory as a counterpoint and urging the Church to exercise caution in matters of statecraft. He presents an important, though ultimately misplaced, concern: tradition allows for war when necessary, but it does not give the state moral autonomy. When the stakes are highest, the Church does not surrender its voice; it strengthens it.

The attempt to confine the Church to “spiritual matters” alone betrays the meaning of the Incarnation. If Christ is Lord of all, then geopolitics is not beyond moral scrutiny. The Church’s role in guiding conscience includes questions of war and peace, as recent commentary has noted.

In the present moment, significant challenges demand consideration.

This is not merely a political disagreement, but a theological crisis. The just war tradition, meant as a restraint, is being invoked as a justification. Vice President Vance, citing wars like World War II as “good,” gestures toward the need to resist real evils, yet forgets that even necessary wars are lamentable necessities, not moral goods.

The danger is not just the war tradition itself, but its misunderstanding. It was never meant to make war easier to justify, but to make it almost impossible.

As a Church leader, I must be clear. When political leaders speak of annihilation, claim divine sanction for violence, or dismiss the Church’s moral voice, they step outside the bounds of Church teaching and basic human decency.

And yet, we must examine ourselves. Have we, as a Church, allowed the language of just war to become a comfort, not a challenge? Have we forgotten that Christ did not say, “Blessed are the victorious,” but “Blessed are the peacemakers”?

We must not abandon the just war tradition. Instead, we must reclaim and restore its moral gravity, humility, and skepticism about the use of force. In an age where power is easily confused with righteousness, the Church must resist equating might with right. Let us actively become a prophetic voice, boldly crying out in the wilderness and contrasting the wisdom of the Cross with the temptation of the sword. Remind the world: the Cross, not the sword, is the measure of truth.

Ultimately, the primary issue is not whether a war can be justified.

The question is whether, in waging it, we, leaders and faithful alike, will rise to prophetic courage—or be complicit in the loss of our souls. So let us act: pray, speak, and strive together for the peace we are called to embody.

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Let Us Also Go: The Courage to Believe

Posted on April 13, 2026 by Fr. Peter

John 20:19-31

There is a tendency in the life of the Church to reduce people to a single moment. A single failure. A single phrase. And once we do that, it becomes very difficult to see them as anything more than that moment.

Thomas has suffered this fate perhaps more than most.

Say his name, and almost instinctively we say, “Doubting Thomas.” We sum up his discipleship in one moment of hesitation, as if that single response defines him above all else. Yet, doing so keeps us from seeing his true character.

Yet, Scripture offers a fuller portrait of Thomas, one that challenges our tendency to reduce him to a moment of doubt. If we listen closely, we see the movement from doubt to a deeper, more courageous faith.

This passage we just heard from John is so important; we hear it every year on this Sunday. We work off a three-year cycle of readings known as the Common Lectionary. Most churches use the lectionary, except for some Evangelical Churches.

Those who put the lectionary together felt that this story of Thomas, which appears only in John’s Gospel, was so significant that it placed it here, on the Sunday after Easter, to remind us what faith really looks like.

Before we reach the locked room in today’s Gospel, we meet Thomas in another pivotal moment, one that reveals an essential part of his character.

In John 11, which we heard on the last Sunday of Lent, just a few weeks ago, when Jesus hears that Lazarus is ill, he delays his departure, and by the time he decides to return to Judea, the disciples are understandably afraid. The last time they were there, the authorities were ready to stone him. To go back is to risk everything.

And it is Thomas, who speaks up and says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

That is not the voice of a doubter. That is the voice of courage. That is the voice of belief.

Thomas is not standing on the sidelines. He is not hedging his bets. He is all in. If Jesus is going to Judea, into danger, into the shadow of death, then Thomas is going too, even if it costs him everything.

“Let us also go.”

Hold onto that, Thomas, for just a moment. When we arrive at today’s Gospel, the scene has changed, but the stakes have not. The disciples now gather in fear behind locked doors. The crucifixion has shattered their expectations; their courage has been replaced by uncertainty and grief.

And then Jesus comes and stands among them and says, “Peace be with you.” Jesus shows them his scars, his hands, feet, and his side, and there is no reaction from any of them. Their friend has just returned from the dead, and John records no reaction.

But Thomas is not there. We are not told why, but consider who Thomas is: someone who does not hide easily or remain content to be passive. Perhaps, true to his character, he is out searching for answers, acting on his need to engage directly with what has happened.

Modern scholarship tends to portray Thomas as someone who tries to figure everything out. A few days ago, he believed they would all die for the cause. The Messiah they expected was a general, someone to free them from Roman occupation—a strong, take-no-prisoners leader, not this love-everyone figure. Thomas was confused. But this is often what belief looks like.

When the others tell him, “We have seen the Lord,” Thomas responds as someone determined not to accept secondhand accounts: “Unless I see… unless I touch… I will not believe.” His motivation is not skepticism for its own sake, but a desire for the same direct experience the others had.

But what if we have been hearing that wrong? What if this is not a rejection of belief, but a refusal to settle for anything less than the same encounter the others have had? Thomas is not asking for more than the others; he is asking for the same. Until now, they all shared the same experience—except this time, Thomas was left out, and he feels cheated.

This story hinges on Thomas’s absence. It is not about doubt; it is a story of faith.

Thomas is not doubting Jesus; he is doubting what he is hearing from the others because he needs personal confirmation before believing such extraordinary news. He wants to see the Lord he has already committed his life to—the one he was willing to die with, whom he followed into danger back in Bethany.

Thomas believes in Jesus and the resurrection, but struggles to believe the story he heard from others.

Thomas’s words are not the opposite of faith; they are born from it. He believes enough to want the real thing, not just someone else’s experience of it. And once again, just as in Bethany, Jesus meets him there.

A week later, Jesus comes again. The doors are shut, not locked, but that does not stop resurrection. He stands among them, speaks peace, and then turns directly to Thomas.

“Put your finger here. See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side.”

Jesus does not shame or rebuke Thomas. Instead, he honors the depth of Thomas’s longing and meets him in it.

And Thomas responds, not with hesitation, not with doubt, but with one of the clearest and most powerful confessions in all of Scripture: “My Lord and my God.” This is the only time in John’s Gospel where Jesus is referred to as God. That does not sound like someone who is doubting.

For Thomas, it all comes together in the moment. He has been a witness to everything that has happened; he believed before and was willing to die for that belief. But now, his belief has turned to faith, and it was the word, not a touch, that cemented that faith.

This is the same man who once said, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” Only now, having encountered the risen Christ, does he proclaim not just a willingness to die with Jesus, but recognition that Jesus is life itself.

See how Thomas’s story unfolds: He journeys from courageous belief to an even deeper faith.

He moves from following Jesus into the shadow of death to recognizing Jesus as the source of life. From mere commitment to transformative confession. This is the heart of Thomas’s story—and perhaps our own journey as well.

Thomas is called the twin, but it is never revealed who the other twin is. In fact, the name Thomas is derived from an Aramaic word meaning ” twin. Thomas is also called Didymus, which is the Greek word for twin. So, Thomas is actually called Twin, Twin.

It has been suggested that Thomas was the “twin” of Jesus, not in the biological sense but in the faith sense. Thomas has the kind of faith that all believers should have, that all believers should desire to have. A faith that is not perfect, but rather a faith that is being worked out.

Belief is not static; it grows, deepens, and is refined through life’s realities—grief, fear, loss, and uncertainty.

There are moments when we, like Thomas from a few weeks ago, feel strong enough to say, “Let us go. Whatever comes, we will follow.” We want to be that Thomas.

And there are moments when we, like today’s Thomas, need to see, to touch, to know that resurrection is not just a story we have been told but a reality we can trust. The Thomas we actually are.

Both are part of belief. Both are holy. And in both, Christ comes to meet us.

That is the good news of this Gospel. Not that we must have perfect, unwavering certainty at all times. But that Christ is not deterred by our questions, our searching, or even our absence.

He comes through locked doors, stands among us, speaks peace, and invites us into deeper belief again and again.

Tradition tells us that after the Ascension of Jesus, Thomas went to India and established seven churches. He is said to have died for Jesus in India, being killed by a spear. St. Thomas Cathedral in India, built in the 16th century, is believed to be on the spot where his tomb is said to be.

So perhaps it is time to retire the name “Doubting Thomas.” Instead, let us remember him as he truly is: Thomas the courageous. Thomas the committed. Thomas the believer. Thomas the twin—whose faith moved from fear to a profound confession of Christ.

The one who dared to follow Jesus into danger. The one who longed for a real encounter. The one who, when he saw the risen Christ, proclaimed with clarity and conviction: “My Lord and my God.”

May we have that kind of courage. May we have that kind of honesty. And may we, in our own time and in our own way, come to that same confession.

Amen.

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Becoming Resurrection People in a Broken World

Posted on April 6, 2026 by Fr. Peter

We have walked a long road to get here.

From the palms of celebration to the quiet tension of the upper room… from the basin and the towel to the darkness of the cross… from the silence of the tomb to this moment.

And if we are honest, we do not arrive this morning unchanged.

Holy Week does something to us, if we allow it. Sometimes, it strips away the illusion of control. In these moments—reflecting on where we’ve come from—we face suffering, betrayal, fear, and loss. We are brought face to face not only with the brokenness of the world, but also with the brokenness within ourselves.

I must admit, this Holy Week was profound for me. It is hard to explain, but it was transformative. Each night this week, I attended a service and listened, really listened to the words of Scripture. On Thursday night, I gathered with many of you for a meal. We sat around a table, broke bread, shared conversation, and shared Jesus in the bread and cup of communion.

We have seen power abused, fear taking hold, and love refusing to walk away. Now, we stand at the threshold of Easter.

I read about a church that held its Easter service on Good Friday. They rushed past the cross to get to the resurrection. Denying the cross denies the humanity of Jesus. Denying the cross denies the love that was poured out in that act. Sure, no one likes to suffer or look upon one who suffers, but without Good Friday, Easter becomes a magic trick that does not make sense.

Easter is not an escape, or God pretending Good Friday did not happen. Nor is it a reversal that erases suffering. Easter is transformation. The wounds of Jesus do not disappear in the resurrection; they remain. The story of suffering is not denied; it is redeemed.

And that matters. Because we live in a world that still bears wounds.

We do not have to look far to see it. Turn on the news. Scroll through your phone. Listen to the conversations happening around you. This is a world marked by division, by violence, by fear, by deep and growing mistrust. It is a world where it is easier to shout than to listen, easier to divide than to reconcile. Easier to protect ourselves than to love one another.

And into that world, Easter speaks. Yet as we move from observation to hope, we see Easter does not speak with shallow optimism or easy answers.

Easter speaks with a quiet, defiant hope. A hope that says: this is not the end of the story.

But here is where we often get it wrong. As we continue forward, we sometimes treat Easter as something to be believed rather than something to be lived. We proclaim, “Christ is risen,” and then return to lives that look very much like the world before the resurrection. We celebrate the empty tomb, but we hesitate to step into what it demands of us.

Easter is not just about what happened to Jesus. It is about what happens to us now. And that is why we proclaim Christ IS Risen, not Christ has risen, but Christ IS Risen! Because he is here, present with us now, in this place and in our lives.

And if we want to understand that, we cannot forget what happened just a few nights before the cross.

On that night, and this is profound, in the upper room, Jesus took a towel and washed the feet of his disciples. He knelt. He served. He loved in the most tangible, human way possible. He served others. He loved others.

And then he said, “Do this.” Not admire it. Not turn it into a ritual alone. Do this.

And then, if that was not enough, he took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it. “Do this.” Not as reenactment, but as participation. Take. Bless. Break. Give. This is the pattern of the Eucharist.

But it is also the pattern of resurrection. Because what happens at the table is what is meant to happen in our lives. We are taken, called, claimed, and known by God. We are blessed, given grace beyond anything we deserve. We are broken, not destroyed, but opened by the realities of life, by suffering, by love. And then we are given, poured out for the sake of the world. This is what it means to be resurrection people.

And this is where hope begins. Not in the denial of suffering, but in the transformation of it.

Hope is not naïve. It does not ignore the reality of the world. It looks directly at the brokenness and still dares to say, “There is more to this story.”

Hope is choosing love when hatred is easier. Hope is forgiving when anger feels justified. Hope is staying when walking away would be comfortable. Hope is resurrection lived out in real time.

And the same is true of peace. Peace is not simply the absence of conflict. If it were, we would be waiting a very long time. Peace is the presence of Christ amid conflict.

When the risen Christ appears to the disciples, he does not come with anger or accusation. He does not shame them for their fear or their failure. He stands among them and says, “Peace be with you.” This is not a passive peace. It is an active, living presence.

And then, just as before, he sends them. “Just as the Father has sent me, so I send you.” In other words, do this. Be peace. Carry it into the places where it is most needed.

And what about reconciliation? If Easter means anything, it means that reconciliation is possible. Not easy. Not quick. Not without cost. But possible.

If God can take the worst that humanity can do, the betrayal, the violence, the cross, and bring life out of it, then there is no relationship, no situation, no divide that is beyond the reach of God’s healing.

But, and this is important, reconciliation does not happen on its own. It requires people who are willing to do the work. People who are willing to listen. To confess. To forgive. To begin again. People who are willing to “do this.”

And this is where it comes together: All that has come before leads us to transformation.

Resurrection is not just about life after death. It is about life before death. It is about being changed, here and now. It is about becoming the kind of people who reflect the love, the humility, the courage of Jesus in the way we live our daily lives.

And that is not easy. It means letting go of the need to be right all the time. It means choosing compassion over judgment. It means stepping into uncomfortable places for the sake of love. Quite simply, it means becoming what we receive.

And this is where this turns back to us. After all that has been said about resurrection, it is one thing to talk about it. It is another thing to live it.

The question this morning is not, “Do you believe that Christ is risen?” The question is, “Will you live as if it matters?” Will you carry hope into a world that feels hopeless? Will you embody peace in places of conflict? At home, at work, and in yourself. Will you work toward reconciliation in a divided world? Will you allow yourself to be transformed, not just once, but again and again? Will you do this?

Friends, the world does not need more people who can explain Easter. The world has enough theologians and people who think they are theologians. The world needs people who will embody it and make it real. People who look like resurrection. People whose lives tell a different story, one shaped not by fear or division, but by love.

And that is the invitation of this day. Do not just celebrate the resurrection—live it out. Step into the world committed to embodying hope, peace, reconciliation, and love in your daily life. Choose to become the living presence of resurrection in your words and actions, loving more deeply, serving more humbly, and hoping more boldly.

Because Christ is risen. And that changes everything. So step out today in the power of that truth: let resurrection live in your hands, your words, your love, and your courage. May the world know, through you, that Easter still transforms—and that hope is alive.

Amen.

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Easter Message 2026

Posted on April 4, 2026 by Fr. Peter

Alleluia, Christ is Risen.

And yet, if we are honest, we proclaim that ancient truth in a world that often feels anything but resurrected. We look around and see conflict, division, violence, and fear. Nations rage, communities fracture, and even within our own hearts there can be a weariness that wonders if peace is still possible.

But Easter does not deny the reality of the world, it speaks directly into it.

The Resurrection of Christ is not a gentle escape from suffering; it is God’s bold declaration that suffering and death do not have the final word. The tomb, sealed in fear and despair, is broken open not by human power, but by divine love. And that same love still breaks into our world today.

Hope, then, is not naïve optimism. It is a stubborn, defiant trust that light will overcome darkness, even when the darkness feels overwhelming. It is choosing to believe that reconciliation is possible, that mercy matters, and that love is stronger than hatred.

Peace, too, is not simply the absence of conflict. It is the presence of Christ in the midst of it. The risen Christ does not return in vengeance or anger, but stands among his frightened disciples and says, “Peace be with you.” This is the peace we are called not only to receive, but to embody, to become agents of healing in a wounded world.

And resurrection is not just something that happened long ago; it is something that continues to unfold. Every act of compassion, every word of forgiveness, every moment we choose love over fear, these are signs that the resurrection is alive among us.

So, this Easter, we do not ignore the brokenness of the world. We face it honestly. But we also dare to proclaim that it is not the end of the story.

Christ is risen. Hope is alive. Peace is possible.

And because of that, we go forth, not in despair, but in courage, trusting that even now, God is making all things new.

Alleluia.

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Into the Silence: Jesus’ Descent and the Hope of Holy Saturday

Posted on April 4, 2026 by Fr. Peter

Holy Saturday is a strange and unsettling day.

It is a day suspended between what has been and what will be. The cross stands behind us. The empty tomb is not yet before us. And so we wait, in silence and uncertainty.

But the silence of this day is not empty. It is full. While the world holds its breath, the disciples hide, and nothing seems to happen, something profound unfolds beyond what can be seen.

To understand this, we turn to the Creed: “He descended to the dead.” Or, as it is often rendered, “He descended into hell.”

This is not an afterthought. It is not a poetic flourish. It is a theological claim of enormous depth. This tells us Jesus did not simply die and lie still in the tomb. He did not remain passive in death. He entered into it fully, completely, and without reservation.

He went to the very place we fear most: the realm of the dead. He went to the depths of human separation, loss, and finality.

And he did not go there as a victim. He went there as Savior.

Building on this, the early Church held onto this truth with remarkable boldness.

Irenaeus of Lyons reminds us that Jesus “descended into the regions beneath the earth, preaching his advent there also, and declaring the remission of sins received by those who believe in him.” Even in death, Jesus proclaims life.

Cyril of Jerusalem speaks of Jesus going to “redeem the righteous who had been long held captive.” The descent is not defeat, it is liberation.

An ancient Holy Saturday homily, often attributed to Epiphanius of Salamis, offers a vivid image: “Something strange is happening. There is a great silence on earth today… The King sleeps… He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep.”

And then, in that haunting and beautiful imagery, Jesus finds Adam and says: “Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ shall give you light.”

This is what is happening on Holy Saturday. Jesus is not resting. He searches and breaks down doors we thought were permanent.

The gates of death are being shattered from the inside. Places we thought beyond God’s reach are being filled with God’s presence.

This reality reframes how we see this day and our own lives. Holy Saturday is not just about Jesus’ descent; it is about all the places of death we carry within us. The grief we have not resolved. The wounds we have buried. The relationships that feel beyond repair. The despair we try not to name.

We all have tombs. We all have places that feel sealed off, forgotten, or beyond hope.

The proclamation of this day is that there is no such place. Nowhere is beyond Jesus’ reach—not even the deepest darkness, not even death itself.

Continuing this reflection, Augustine of Hippo said that Jesus “freed those who were bound in hell.” He emphasized that the reach of God’s grace extends even into what we would consider the most final of places.

Thus, this is not simply doctrine. This is hope—a hope that is quiet, almost hidden, but no less real.

If Jesus descends into the depths, then there is no depth beyond redemption. If Jesus enters into death, then even death is no longer empty of God. If Jesus searches for Adam in darkness, then Jesus is searching for us as well. Even now. Especially now.

So we wait on this Holy Saturday. But we do not wait in emptiness. We wait in a silence that is alive with possibility. In this silence, God is at work: unseen, unheard, but unmistakably present.

We dare to trust that even in the places that feel most lost, broken, or beyond hope, Jesus has already gone ahead of us.

And is even now calling us by name: “Awake, O sleeper… and rise.”

Amen.

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From Cry to Trust: Praying Psalm 22 at the Cross

Posted on April 3, 2026 by Fr. Peter

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

These words are not polite, tidy, or restrained. They are raw, exposed, painfully honest. And they are Scripture.

Psalm 22 gives us permission to say what we often try to hide. We can speak the truth of our pain without filtering or softening it. No need to pretend everything is alright when it is not.

On this day, as we stand at the foot of the cross, these words take on even greater weight. This is because they are not only the cry of the psalmist; they are also the cry of Jesus.

In his final moments, Jesus does not reach for a triumphant declaration. He reaches for a lament.

He prays. And what he prays is not certainty, but anguish.

There is something important in that. It reminds us that faith doesn’t require the absence of doubt, pain, or feelings of abandonment. Faith is simply the willingness to bring all of that to God—even anger, confusion, and silence.

Psalm 22 begins in desolation: “Why are you so far from helping me?” It names the experience so many of us have had. We sense our prayers go unanswered, God is distant, and we are left alone in our suffering.

And yet, the psalm does not end there. It moves, slowly and reluctantly, toward something else. The shift occurs not because the circumstances change, but because something changes in the remembering. “Yet you are holy… in you our ancestors trusted…”

Amid despair, there is turning—not away from pain, but through it. There is reaching back into memory, story, and the deep well of faith: “Even if I do not feel it now, God has been present before.”

This is not denial. This is persistence.

Even as suffering is rendered in vivid, almost unbearable detail—”they divide my clothes among themselves… they stare and gloat over me”—a thread, fragile yet unbroken, remains.

“You who fear the Lord, praise him… for he did not despise or abhor the affliction of the afflicted.”

Did you hear that? In the middle of this psalm, which opens with abandonment, comes a quiet, defiant claim: God has not turned away. Even when it feels like it. Even when everything suggests otherwise.

Good Friday lives in that tension: between what we feel and what we dare believe, between God’s silence and the memory of God’s faithfulness, between the cross before us and the hope we cannot yet see.

And perhaps that is where we find ourselves today.

We bring our own Psalm 22 moments—our cries of “why?” We bring experiences of loss, grief, injustice, and fear. We live in a world that echoes the psalm’s early verses—full of suffering and unanswered questions.

But we are also invited to hold onto the latter verses—not as easy answers, nor as forced optimism, but as a quiet, stubborn trust: that God is still present, that suffering is not ignored, and that the story is not over.

When Jesus prays Psalm 22 from the cross, he is not only naming the pain. He is invoking the whole of it, from the opening cry to the final trust, from abandonment to hope.

And so today, we do not rush past the lament. We stay with it. We pray it. We allow it to give voice to what is heavy in our hearts.

We also remember that even in the darkest prayer, there is a thread of hope woven in. This hope does not erase the suffering. It refuses to let suffering have the final word.

And that, perhaps, is the quiet grace of this day. That even here… even now… God is listening. God is present. God is holding the story together until the moment when it will be made whole.

Amen.

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Holy Thursday: The Table and the Towel: Becoming What We Receive

Posted on April 2, 2026 by Fr. Peter

A Reflection on John 13:1–17, 31b–35

There is a quiet holiness to this night that feels different from every other night of the year.

Holy Thursday does not arrive with the noise of Palm Sunday or the stark solemnity of Good Friday. It comes gently, almost tenderly, and invites us into an upper room, into a moment suspended in time, where love is about to be revealed in its most vulnerable form.

John tells us that Jesus, “having loved his own who were in the world, loved them to the end.”

To the end. Not partially. Not conditionally. Not only when it was returned or when it was deserved. But to the fullness, to the completion, to the very edge of what love can bear.

And what does that love look like? It looks like a towel and a basin.

In John’s Gospel, there is no formal institution of the Eucharist as we find it elsewhere. At this table, there are no words over bread and wine, at least not in the same way. Instead, John gives us something else.

He gives us the washing of feet. And we cannot miss what is happening here.

Jesus rises from the table. He removes his outer robe, ties a towel around himself, and begins to wash the disciples’ feet. This is the work of a servant, the work no one else wanted to do.

The work that was beneath them. And yet, not beneath him.

Peter, as he so often does, resists. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” There is discomfort here. There is confusion, because Peter understands something important: this is not how power behaves. This is not how leaders act. This is not how God is supposed to be.

And Jesus responds, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

Later. Because this moment is not just about clean feet. It is about a complete reordering of how we understand God, power, love, and community. What Jesus does here is not separate from the Eucharist—it is the Eucharist.

The Eucharist is not just bread and wine on an altar. It is a life poured out. It is a love that kneels before others, saying, “Let me serve you.”

“Do this in remembrance of me,” he says.

We often limit our hearing to the bread broken, the cup shared. Tonight, though, we are reminded that remembrance is deeper than ritual. To “do this” means to take on Jesus’s posture, to love without counting the cost, to kneel rather than stand above.

And then Jesus says something that should stop us in our tracks: “I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” Not admire it. Not theologize it. Not simply remember it. But do it.

This is where Holy Thursday becomes deeply personal. It’s one thing to receive the Eucharist. It is another thing entirely to become what we receive.

We come to the altar, stretch out our hands, receive the Body of Christ, and are sent out as the Body of Christ, a body that serves, loves, and kneels.

Jesus continues, “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Not as we feel like it, not when convenient or safe, but as he has loved us.

And how has he loved us? With a towel and a basin. With bread and a cup. With a cross already looming in the distance.

Holy Thursday holds these things together: the table and the towel. Sacrament and service. The gift we receive and the life we are called to live. We cannot separate them.

Eucharist alone becomes an empty ritual; service alone becomes an unsustainable effort. Only together do they form the heart of Christian life.

Tonight, we are invited not just to remember, but to enter this mystery. Come to the table, not because we are worthy, but because we are loved. Receive what we cannot earn. Be fed by grace.

And then, rise from the table, take the towel, and consciously seek ways, this week and always, to serve those around you. Go intentionally into the world to show this kind of love.

Holy Thursday teaches that the world needs love shown in action. Love that serves. Love that kneels. Love that endures. Love to the very end.

As we move from this night into the darkness of Good Friday, let us not forget what we have seen here. Let us remember: the One who knelt before his friends. The One who fed them. The One who loved them to the end.

Let us each ask, honestly and prayerfully: Where am I called, right now, to kneel as a servant? Who in my life is waiting for my service? How, concretely, can I show this kind of love today and in the days to come?

This is Christ’s commandment. This is the gift and the call of the Eucharist. This is the way of love we are asked to embody, love that transforms, love that breaks us open and sends us out, love that changes the world.

So let us go forth, changed, called, and sent, to love as Christ has loved us. Amen.

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A Holy Week Reflection on Grief and Bereavement

Posted on April 1, 2026 by Fr. Peter

There are seasons in the life of the Church that do not simply invite reflection; they demand honesty. Holy Week is one of those seasons.

Abstraction is not allowed here; neither is tidying things up too quickly. Rather, we are drawn into the raw, unvarnished reality of grief, loss, and the disorienting experience of love wounded.

For those who carry grief, and, in truth, that is all of us in one way or another, Holy Week feels less like a story we remember and more like a landscape we recognize. Grief often begins with a kind of dissonance.

Palm Sunday gives us that: joy and sorrow mingle in uneasy tension. The crowd shouts Hosanna, yet the shadow of the cross looms already. In moments of beauty, we sense something is not right; something is slipping away.

This feeling is well known to those who have grieved. Laughter catches in the throat; celebrations feel incomplete. We sense, quietly, that life has changed—possibly forever. Holy Week does not begin by denying grief, but by anticipating it.

As the week unfolds, our attention shifts, and we move closer to the intimate spaces where grief is most deeply felt.

In the upper room on Holy Thursday, there is a tenderness that is almost unbearable. Jesus gathers with those he loves. There is bread, wine, conversation, and closeness. Yet beneath it all, there is the knowledge—this is a farewell.

Anyone who has waited at a bedside, shared final words, or sensed a goodbye was coming understands this. The moment takes on a sacredness, a heaviness. Love feels both full and terribly fragile. In this stage, grief is present, though loss has not yet fully arrived.

After the upper room comes the garden. Gethsemane is where grief becomes visceral. Jesus prays in anguish, naming his fear, his sorrow, his desire for another way. “Let this cup pass from me.” There is no pretense here. No spiritual bypassing. No attempt to explain away the pain.

This matters. Too often, those who grieve are told, whether explicitly or implicitly, to move past their pain too quickly. They are urged to find meaning before they have had time to feel loss, or to speak of resurrection before they have acknowledged death.

But Jesus does not do this. He grieves. He wrestles. He remains present to the depth of what he is about to face. And in doing so, he sanctifies our own grief.

When Good Friday arrives, grief comes in its fullness. The cross stands as a stark and unrelenting reality. There is no escaping it. No softening its edges. This is loss. This is death. This is the moment when all that was hoped for seems to collapse.

We stand with Mary, with the beloved disciple, with the few who remain, and we watch helplessly, silently, and broken.

There exists a kind of grief for which no words are sufficient. Some sorrows cannot be explained or fixed. By allowing us to remain in this space, Good Friday grants permission—not to rush, not to resolve, but simply to be present with loss.

And then, perhaps most difficult of all, comes Holy Saturday. After the starkness of Good Friday, we enter the day we often overlook. This is the day of silence. Jesus is in the tomb. The work seems finished. The world goes on, but everything has changed.

This is the day that most closely mirrors the experience of bereavement. Grief is not only the moment of loss, but also the long, quiet aftermath. It is an empty chair and a silence where a voice once was. Sometimes, ordinary moments now feel anything but ordinary.

Holy Saturday is the day of waiting without answers. The day when God seems absent. The day when hope feels distant, if not impossible.

And yet, it is a holy day. Not because it feels holy, but because God is present even here, hidden, unseen, working in ways we do not yet understand.

If Holy Week ended there, it would be unbearable. But it does not. The resurrection comes, but not as a denial of grief, and this is important. The risen Christ still bears the wounds. The nail marks are not erased. The trauma of the cross is not undone as if it never happened. Instead, it is transformed.

This tells us something essential about our own grief. We do not “get over” loss. We do not erase what has been. We carry it, but it changes over time. The sharp edges soften. The weight becomes something we learn to bear. The love that once caused pain becomes, in time, a source of quiet strength.

Resurrection does not remove grief. It redeems it.

And so, Holy Week offers us not an explanation for grief, but a companion in it. A Christ who knows what it is to love and to lose. A Christ who stands at the grave. A Christ who weeps. A Christ who dies. A Christ who rises and carries the wounds still.

For those of us who grieve, this is not a distant theology. It is a promise. That we are not alone. That our sorrow is seen. That even in the darkest moments, God is at work.

In the end, grief is the cost of love.

Holy Week reminds us that love, even when it leads to the cross, is never wasted. It is gathered into the heart of God and transformed.

And somehow, mysteriously, slowly, faithfully, it becomes new life.

Amen.