Reflection for May 4, 2025

Third Sunday of Easter (C)

Acts 5:27-32, 40b-41 | Psalm 30:2, 4, 5-6, 11-12, 13 | Revelation 5:11-14 | John 21:1-14

​The readings this Sunday share one important message: we are called to be faithful followers of the Risen Jesus and to honor Him through the way we live. From the time of the early Church, to the glory of heaven, and even by the peaceful shores of Galilee, we see the same call—respond to the Resurrection not just through words, but through brave obedience, sincere worship, and renewed love.

​In the quiet shadows of a small village near Shanghai, during the dark days of the communist regime’s rise to power, a young Catholic girl known only as "Xiao Li" bore witness to a love far greater than fear. Her real name may never be known, but her story, told by Venerable Fulton Sheen, continues to echo through the hearts of believers across the world. One day, soldiers stormed into a humble schoolhouse run by a priest. Crucifixes were ripped from the walls, sacred images shattered, and holy statues cast down. The church—once a place of peace and prayer—was now defiled. Among the villagers forced to watch was Xiao Li, who stood firm in her faith, refusing to take part in the sacrilege. The soldiers turned their fury toward the sanctuary. With a cruel sneer, the commander approached the tabernacle, ripped it open, and scattered the consecrated hosts onto the floor, grinding the Body of Christ beneath his boots. The priest, helpless and locked away, counted through tears—there were thirty-one consecrated hosts desecrated that day. But Heaven was not silent. That night, and each night after, Xiao Li crept silently into the church, risking her life with every step. Before the shattered altar, she knelt in adoration, praying for an hour in the darkness. Then, with utmost reverence, she bent low and, one by one, received the consecrated hosts directly onto her tongue, never touching them with her hands. She had made her First Communion only two months earlier—but her love for Jesus in the Eucharist was already boundless. For thirty-one nights, she returned. Thirty-one nights of silent adoration. Thirty-one acts of love. And on the final night—just as she received the last host—a soldier saw her. A gunshot rang through the stillness. Xiao Li collapsed, wounded. But her mission was not finished. With her last strength, she crawled across the sanctuary floor to the final host. And with her dying breath, she received her Viaticum—her final communion—entering eternity in the arms of the One she loved. Xiao Li’s hidden martyrdom is a luminous reminder of what it means to be faithful. Her quiet courage, her fierce devotion, and her unshakable reverence for the Blessed Sacrament stir the soul. In a world that demands compromise, she chose fidelity. In the face of cruelty, she chose love. In the face of death, she chose Christ.

May her story pierce our hearts and open our eyes to the truth she embodied so purely: We must obey God rather than men. Always.
In our first reading from Acts of the Apostles, the apostles stand boldly before the powerful Sanhedrin, refusing to be silenced. Though flogged and humiliated, they rejoice, knowing they were counted worthy to suffer for the name of Jesus. Their defiance wasn't rooted in rebellion but in obedience to a higher authority—God Himself. While Scripture urges us to respect civil leaders (Romans 13:1–2), it also reminds us that when earthly commands oppose God's will, we must choose fidelity to the divine (Acts 5:29). Like Peter and the apostles, we are often faced with choices that test our convictions: to join in gossip or remain silent, to bend to peer pressure or stand for truth, to vote based on popularity or conscience. Civil leaders are called to rule justly, as representatives of God (Proverbs 8:15–16), not as masters of their own will. In times of moral conflict, our loyalty must be clear. If we truly believe in the Resurrection, let us live like we do—with courage, conviction, and a deep awareness that God’s approval matters most.

Fr. Emerico removed his chasuble as Alfred quietly folded the altar linens nearby. “Father... do you think God listens, even when He doesn’t answer?” Alfred asked. Fr. Emerico smiled gently. “Ah, the age-old question. Sit down. That purificator won’t fly away.” Alfred sighed. “I prayed hard for a bike last year—even promised Tito Jun my old one. But... nothing. I think God left me on read.” Fr. Emerico chuckled. “God doesn’t leave anyone on ‘read.’ He replies in divine timing—sometimes slower than 3G. Prayer’s not a vending machine; it’s not about getting things—it’s about relationship.” “So... no bike?” “Maybe not yet. Or maybe you're learning to pedal through life differently. Saint Teresa said, ‘We pray not to change God’s heart, but our own.’” “So… I’ve been trying to bribe God?” “You and half the Church,” Fr. Emerico said. “We love God not for blessings, but because He’s worthy.” “Even without the bike?” “Especially then.” Alfred gave a small smile. “I guess that’s true... but if He does surprise me with one, I’ll name it Grace.” “Deal. Now go light the candles of your heart, kid. Worship isn’t about what we get—it’s about who He is.”

The Apostle John, in the Book of Revelation, lifts all of us to a heavenly vision where angels, elders, and all creation cry out in worship: “Worthy is the Lamb!” This cosmic chorus reminds us that worship is not confined to eternity—we are invited to join this song now. Every Mass is a taste of heaven, yet we often find ourselves glancing at our watches instead of gazing at the altar. The early Church to whom this vision was given was weary—persecuted, ignored, disheartened. Yet they were called to worship not because of answered prayers or favorable outcomes, but because Jesus is always worthy. Mature faith worships even in silence, even through trials. Do we worship only when life goes our way? Or do we come with expectant hearts, ready to be lifted, comforted, and renewed? Today, let us reclaim the joy of worship—not out of routine, but with reverent love. Jesus, the Lamb who was slain, deserves nothing less than our full adoration.

One quiet Saturday afternoon, Jill tiptoed into the kitchen, her heart pounding. In her small hands, she held the shattered pieces of her mother’s favorite ceramic bowl—a soft blue one with little daisies painted on the rim. She had been reaching for a snack when the bowl slipped from the counter and crashed to the floor. Now, all that remained were fragments and guilt. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Mom,” she whispered, “I... I broke your bowl. I didn’t mean to. I’m really sorry.” Mother Bessie looked up from her book and saw the trembling hands, the glassy eyes, the courage it took for her little girl to tell the truth. She gently set the book aside and knelt down beside her. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, wrapping Jill in a warm hug. “Thank you for telling me the truth. That means more to me than any bowl ever could.” “But it was your favorite,” Jill sniffled..“It was,” Bessie said, brushing a strand of hair from Jill’s face. “But do you know about Kintsugi?” Jill shook her head.

Bessie smiled and took one of the broken pieces. “It’s a beautiful Japanese tradition. When a bowl like this breaks, they don’t try to hide the cracks. They fix it with gold—real gold. So the lines where it broke shine bright. It’s not about pretending it was never broken. It’s about honoring the fact that it was broken... and made beautiful again.” Jill's eyes widened. “You mean the cracks become part of the design?” “Exactly,” Bessie nodded. “Just like how telling the truth—especially when it’s hard—makes your heart stronger and more beautiful.” That evening, they gathered the pieces and promised to fix the bowl with care. Jill felt lighter, not because the bowl would be repaired, but because she had been honest—and her mom had met her truth with love and gold.

Like Peter, we may experience moments of discouragement, uncertainty, or painful awareness of our shortcomings. Yet the Risen Jesus meets us exactly where we are—not with condemnation, but with a gracious invitation. In our Gospel, the disciples are weary and adrift, but Jesus draws near with a simple command: “Cast your net.” He prepares a meal for them, restores Peter, and entrusts him with a mission. Peter—the impulsive follower, the one who denied Christ, the slow learner—is not disqualified by his failures. Instead, he is transformed by divine love and sent forth to “feed my sheep.” That same invitation is extended to us today. Whether we sit in church pews or walk through busy public spaces, whether burdened by past mistakes or facing an uncertain future, Jesus still asks, “Do you love me?” If our answer is yes, then we are called to serve. The Church endures—not because its members are flawless, but because Christ has never abandoned it. We are not called to perfection, but to faithfulness. May we respond with courage, with love, and with unwavering trust—glorifying the Risen Lord not only through our words, but through the witness of our daily lives.

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