His Wounds Heal Our Wounds

Homily for the 2nd Sunday of Easter - Mercy Sunday

Each year, during the 50 days of the Easter Season, the Lectionary for Sunday Mass uses only New Testament readings. The first reading is always from the Acts of the Apostles. The Gospel stories follow a pattern that emphasizes Jesus as the Risen Savior. Sandwiched in between, the three annual cycles of A, B, and C, present us with a continuous reading of one of the New Testament letters. This year we read from the First Letter of St. Peter.

Scripture scholars tell us that this so-called letter is probably simply a baptismal homily, a homily (given by St. Peter?) that forces us to look at our baptismal commitment. Holy Saturday night introduced thousands to Baptism for the first time. Early reports are showing that this year there was a significant increase. For instance, the Archdiocese of Los Angeles welcomed more than 8,000 new Catholics, a 54% increase over last year. Chicago saw an increase of 52% over last year. Consequently, I am going to concentrate on St. Peter’s letter or homily this year as we pray for all of these newly baptized or confirmed Catholics.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who in his great mercy gave us a new birth to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.” That single line from 1 Peter is the heartbeat of today’s liturgy. A new birth. A living hope. A mercy that does not simply forgive but recreates. Peter is writing to Christians who are scattered, misunderstood, and suffering. They are trying to live faithfully in a world that does not always welcome their faith. And Peter does not tell them, “Just hang on until things get better.” He tells them something far more daring: You already have something the world cannot take away. You have been reborn into a hope that is alive because Christ is alive.

We all know the difference between a fragile hope and a living hope. A fragile hope is the kind we place in things that can break: our circumstances, finances, health, approval from others, our own plans. A living hope is different. It breathes. It grows. It survives storms. It is rooted not in what might happen, but in what has already happened: the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Peter is saying: Your hope is not wishful thinking. Your hope is a Person who walked out of the tomb.

Peter acknowledges that his community is experiencing trials. He doesn’t minimize them. He doesn’t pretend that faith removes suffering. Instead, he reframes it: Your trials are not signs that God has abandoned you. They are the very places where your faith is being refined. He uses the image of gold tested by fire. Gold doesn’t fear the fire; the fire reveals its purity. This is a message many of us need. We often think: “If I had more faith, I wouldn’t struggle.” “If God were closer, this wouldn’t hurt.” Peter says the opposite. Your struggle is not the absence of faith; it is the arena where faith becomes real and is tested.

Peter then speaks a line that echoes beautifully with today’s Gospel: “Although you have not seen him, you love him.” Thomas in the Gospel wants to see and touch the wounds of Christ. Jesus meets him there, not to shame him, but to lift him into deeper faith. And then Jesus blesses us: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” Peter is speaking to that same blessed group. To us. To every believer who has ever whispered a prayer into the silence and trusted that Someone hears.

The first reading from Acts shows what a community looks like when it lives out this hope: They devoted themselves to teaching and fellowship. They shared what they had. They broke bread with joy. They praised God. They cared for one another. This is not a community driven by fear or scarcity. It is a community shaped by resurrection hope.

And the psalm today echoes that same spirit: “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad.” Not because everything is perfect, but because God is faithful. On this Divine Mercy Sunday, the Gospel shows us the risen Christ not hiding His wounds but offering them.

His wounds are no longer signs of defeat; they are fountains of mercy. Thomas touches the wounds and finds not shame, but healing. We bring our wounds to Christ and find the same. Mercy is not God ignoring our brokenness. Mercy is God entering it, transforming it, and breathing peace into it.

If Peter were writing to our community today, I suspect he would say something like this: You may feel scattered. You may feel uncertain. You may carry wounds, doubts, or fears. (God knows that there is enough of that going on.) But you have been given a new birth. You have a living hope. You are guarded by God’s power. And even now, unseen, Christ is with you. Faith does not mean pretending everything is fine. Faith means believing that Christ is alive in the very places that feel most fragile.

So today, the invitation is simple and profound: Let Christ breathe peace into your fears. Let His mercy touch your wounds. Let your trials refine, not define, you. Let your hope be rooted not in circumstances, but in the risen Christ. And like the early Church, let us become a community where hope is visible, mercy is practiced, and joy is shared. Because Christ is alive. And so is our hope.