Dear Church Family,

I hope this letter finds you all in good health and high spirits.
It is with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude that I write to you today. Recently, my family suffered a tragic loss. My cousin, Odinaka, was cruelly taken from us through senseless violence in Nigeria. His sudden and heartbreaking departure left us all reeling and, admittedly, struggling to meet the financial burdens of the unexpected funeral costs.

In such a challenging time, I am deeply moved and humbled by the remarkable display of generosity, compassion, and unity this church community has demonstrated.

In the backyard of the house where I live with other priests, there is a lemon tree which produces a huge amount of fruit. One evening in the spring I needed some lemons for a chicken dish. I glanced from the kitchen and saw the tree bursting with large, bright, gorgeous lemons, hanging thick on seemingly every branch. Turning to Fr. Bob (I’ll change his name to protect the innocent) who sat on the couch, I said, “Father, could you pick a few lemons for me?” He said sure and into the backyard he went. He returned a few minutes later empty-handed. “John, there’s no lemons. Sorry.” I said, “What are you talking about?” I looked again and saw the grapefruit tree on the other side of the yard, which had recently been picked clean of fruit. He didn’t see the abundant fruit because he was looking in the wrong place!

God our Father, we give you thanks and praise for fathers young and old. We pray for young fathers, newly embracing their vocation; may they find courage and perseverance to balance work, family and faith in joy and sacrifice. We pray for fathers around the world whose children are lost or suffering; may they know that the God of compassion walks with them in their sorrow. We pray for men who are not fathers but still mentor and guide us with fatherly love and advice. We remember fathers, grandfathers and greatgrandfathers who are no longer with us but who live forever in our memory and nourish us with their love. Amen.

“These two Sacraments were born together,” wrote St. John Paul II of the priesthood and the Eucharist, “and their destiny is indissolubly linked until the end of the world.”

The Eucharist is such a beautiful example of how God, conscious of our limitations, bends to meet us. He once came to us cloaked in the flesh, that we might recognize Him. Now He comes as the very means by which we nourish ourselves: food and drink, the most familiar and comforting thing in the world to us. How easy He makes it to fulfill his command that we become one with Him. How generous He is to make such a sacred thing also accessible.

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Please join us on Sunday, June 11, for our annual Corpus Christi Mass and Procession, a vibrant celebration of our faith, community, and shared devotion to our Lord.

The Mass begins at 10 am at St. Francis Church, promptly followed by a grand procession to Coe Park. There, we will commemorate the conclusion with a moving Benediction. We extend this invitation to everyone— every age, every background, every tongue—to join us in this time-honored tradition.

As we take our faith to the streets, we reaffirm our love for Christ and our unity as His children. Corpus Christi is a powerful testament to our community's spiritual strength and commitment. It is a beautiful opportunity to share our faith publicly, fostering connections with each other and the wider community, and it is a testament to our calling as disciples of Christ.

I find myself filled with profound gratitude, reverence, and awe as I pause to celebrate a remarkable milestone in my life's journey—seventeen years since my ordination to the priesthood. I owe it all to the ceaseless guidance of our loving God and the unwavering support from all of you, my family, and my friends.

Every baptism I've administered, every confession I've heard, every Eucharist I've celebrated, every funeral I have officiated, every wedding I have presided over—these sacred moments have been steppingstones along my journey, shaping me, teaching me, and humbling me. The smiles of our parish children, the wisdom of our parish councils, the shared prayers, the comforting silence, and the resonating hymns are all threads that weave the beautiful tapestry of my priesthood.

Traditionally, the four writers of the Gospels are symbolized by four creatures that make their way into Church art and architecture: Matthew, an angel; Mark, a lion; Luke, an ox; and John, an eagle. These images can be found in churches across the world, a nod to those who recorded the stories of Jesus for us, thousands of years ago.

Today’s Gospel was written by John. There are a few reasons why John is symbolized by an eagle, but my favorite explanation is that his writings soar like an eagle into the sky with their beautiful, poetic language.

The prayer we hear today is no different — Jesus invokes God in a long discourse that might seem mystifying at times, the same way that a poem can be perplexing to understand when we are unfamiliar with the pacing or format.

For some time, I have worn a brown scapular. If you don’t know much about this devotional practice, here is a very quick-and-dirty version, greatly lacking in detail: it’s two little pieces of brown cloth, connected by a cord and worn around the neck beneath one’s clothing. One of the cloth pieces depicts Our Lady of Mount Carmel appearing to St. Simon Stock, and the other piece — the one that is sometimes visible at the nape of my neck — depicts Our Lady’s “scapular promise:” Whosoever dies clothed in this Scapular shall not suffer eternal fire.

If you had to summarize the essential core of the Christian life, what would it be? Mercy, truth, or love, perhaps? The readings today suggest another word which may surprise you. That word is priesthood. St. Peter says to us, “You are a ‘chosen race, a royal priesthood…’” To be part of a priesthood is to offer a particular sacrifice in order for the community to survive and thrive.

Everyone who has been married knows this feeling: you’re in the midst of a disagreement with your spouse. You’ve really dug in your heels. You’re ready to die on this hill. And you have the awful, heartbreaking realization that you are wrong. Whatever it is you’re arguing about, you’re wrong. You.

So where do you go from here? The only way forward is to own it. Fess up. Grab a fork and dig into that humble pie. It makes me cringe just to write about it, because it’s the worst feeling.

I use the example of marriage because it’s the one I’m most familiar with — my closest relationship, the one that teaches me the most about who I am and who God asks me to be. But this is a universal experience, and everyone — single or married, child or adult, lay or ordained — knows how badly it feels to realize that you’re wrong. You’re human. You messed up.

Have you ever felt like you weren’t doing the work you should be doing? We have all had jobs that leave us feeling unfulfilled. Bored. Dreading the next day. We may even experience a sensation of unfamiliarity, of being unable to recognize ourselves.

Most of us have also been lucky enough to have a job that we love — a vocation, a calling that makes us look in the mirror and think, This. This is who I’m supposed to be. I recognize this person.

For me, that work is the work of marriage and motherhood. The hours are terrible, the pay is even worse, and my coworkers are frequently disappointed in me — but it doesn’t matter. When I look in the mirror every morning and see my tired, wrinkled face gazing back, choruses of “I said I don’t want the BLUE SHIRT, MOMMY, ugh!” and “Honey, I’ve got an early meeting, I’m so sorry but I have to run,” ringing in the background, I think to myself: I recognize this girl. She was born to do this.

As a child, and even for a while as a teenager, I experienced an enormous amount of anxiety whenever I went to confession. For so many years I feared it. For so many years I waited in the confession line trembling, feeling sick to my stomach. In the upper room after Christ’s Passion and death, the anxiety of the disciples was so strong that they locked themselves away. But still Christ found a way into their midst. He would not be prevented from bringing mercy and hope to a place shrouded in despair. No door barred in a moment of fear could keep him out.

As the sun rose on that first Easter Sunday, the disciples of Jesus were filled with grief and despair. Their leader and friend had been crucified, and their hopes for a new kingdom had been shattered. But despite the overwhelming odds, something miraculous was about to happen.

In John 20:1-9, we read about Mary Magdalene's discovery that the tomb where Jesus had been laid was empty. She ran to tell the other disciples, and Peter and John raced to the tomb to see for themselves. They found the linen wrappings that had covered Jesus' body, but the body itself was gone.

At this point, the disciples were still struggling to understand what had happened. They had seen Jesus die on the cross, and they couldn't imagine how he could have possibly risen from the dead. But as they began to piece together the evidence, they realized that something incredible had occurred.

This week, we will give thanks for the pearls of great price in our lives. (Matthew 13:45). As we prepare for Easter, we want to finish our gratitude journey by reflecting upon those things that matter the most to us.

Palm Sunday, Apr 2
SELF-CARE SUNDAY: Share one kind thing you can do for yourself today in thanksgiving for all you have done in the previous week.

Mon, Apr 3
TODAY, WE INVITE YOU TO GIVE THANKS FOR YOURSELF, YOUR HEALTH, YOUR ABILITY, YOUR MIND, AND FOR WHO YOU ARE.
It is easy to give thanks for others but often more challenging to sit and say thank you to ourselves.