Reflection for April 26, 2026

Fourth Sunday of Easter (A)

​Acts 2:14A, 36-41 | Psalm 23: 1-3A, 3B4, 5, 6 | 1 Peter 2:20B-25 | John 10:1-10

We’re now on the Fourth Sunday of Easter—often called “Good Shepherd Sunday”—and it also marks the World Day of Prayer for Vocations. As we come together as one family to celebrate the Lord’s Day, let’s take a moment to reflect on who we are because of our baptism, make sense of the struggles we face, and remember that in Jesus, our Good Shepherd, we can always find safety, guidance, and peace.

​Last Monday, we watched The Princess Diaries with our daughter Jill. As we followed Mia’s story, I couldn’t help but see something deeper. She began as a clumsy, quiet, even rebellious teenager—unsure of herself and where she belonged. But when she discovered her true identity as a princess, everything started to change. Not overnight, not perfectly—but steadily, from the inside out. Her transformation wasn’t just about appearance. It was about embracing who she truly was. It reminded me of our baptism. We may feel ordinary, lost, or unsure, but in that sacred moment, God claimed us as His own. We were given a new identity—not just to know, but to live. Like Mia, we are called to grow into that identity every day—wherever we are. Not just on special days, but always. Because in Christ, we are not who we were—we are who we are becoming.

In today’s reading from Acts, Peter speaks with courage: the people had rejected the true Shepherd, yet they were not beyond hope. When they asked what to do, his answer was simple—repent and be baptized in the name of Jesus. That call reaches me too. Baptism is not just a past event; it is my identity. Like a name carefully written on something precious, God has marked me as His own. I carry the name of Christ wherever I go. I am no longer lost, no longer unclaimed—I belong to Him. To be baptized is to be immersed, not only in water, but in His life. My thoughts, words, and actions are meant to reflect Him. Each day becomes a choice: will I live as someone claimed by Christ? Today, I remember who I am—God’s own—and I ask for the grace to live like it.

Even in a busy place like Bacoor, life quietly grows in unexpected corners. Eight years ago, while walking Jill to kindergarten, we paused before something rare—a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. One fragile wing had begun to show, but the rest of it fought to break free. Jill looked at it and said softly, “Daddy, he’s trying.” It seemed stuck, almost helpless. Wanting to help, I gently opened the cocoon. But instead of flying, the butterfly fell out—its body swollen, its wings crumpled. It never flew. That moment stayed with me. I realized the struggle was necessary. It was what would have strengthened its wings. Sometimes, I want an easier path—for myself, for the people I love. But growth doesn’t come without resistance. That day, a small butterfly taught me something I won’t forget: some struggles are not meant to be removed, but embraced—because they are what help us become who we’re meant to be.

In his letter, Peter reminds us that suffering is not meaningless—it can lead us closer to Christ, our Good Shepherd, who Himself suffered to heal and save us. The early Christians understood this: their struggles became a path to deeper faith and new life. I’m reminded of a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. It looks painful, even hopeless, yet that struggle is what gives it strength to fly. Without it, the wings remain weak. In the same way, the difficulties I face are not signs that God has abandoned me, but ways He is shaping me. When I ask for strength, He allows challenges. When I seek growth, He gives opportunities that stretch me. It may not be easy, but it is purposeful. Today, I choose to trust that even in my struggles, God is at work—forming me, healing me, and leading me closer to Him.

One of my most treasured memories as a young seminarian happened during a summer in Bautista, Pangasinan. One morning, I saw two young shepherds sharing lugaw while their flocks grazed—completely mixed together. Curious, I asked how they would separate hundreds of sheep. With a smile, they stood apart and called out, “Unalis ak la!” Then they walked in opposite directions. To my amazement, the sheep immediately recognized the voice of their own shepherd and followed him. But what struck me even more was what came next. They exchanged shirts, disguising themselves, and called out again. Still, the sheep followed the right voice. In that moment, I realized: it wasn’t appearance that mattered—it was relationship. The sheep knew their shepherd. And I asked myself, do I know the voice of my Shepherd that well?

In the Gospel, Jesus calls Himself both the Shepherd and the gate. It’s a powerful image: He doesn’t just lead the sheep—He places Himself between them and danger. His very presence becomes their safety. The sheep trust Him because they know His voice, and they follow without fear. I wonder how often I listen to other voices instead. There are so many—on social media, in conversations, in the noise of everyday life—pulling me in different directions. Some sound convincing, even comforting, but not all lead to life. Unlike the sheep, I sometimes linger and entertain voices that do not truly care for me. Jesus reminds me that real peace is found in staying close to Him. He is not distant; He calls me by name, guides me, and protects me. If I want to recognize His voice, I need to spend time with Him—in prayer, in silence, in His Word. Today, I choose to listen more closely, to trust more deeply, and to follow where He leads—because in Him, I am safe.

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