The steward was unjust — and yet he was praised, not for his virtue, but his vision. He saw the end coming and acted shrewdly. Christ does not tell us to admire his dishonesty, but his clarity: the world is passing away, and what we do with what we’ve been given matters eternally. What if even our wealth — so often a trap — could become a doorway?

We are stewards, not owners. What we hold is not ours to keep, but to offer. If we give freely, even of the unrighteous mammon, we make friends who will welcome us into the everlasting home. Our alms are not lost. They are kept in heaven — moneybags that do not grow old, freight trains of mercy.

Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Holiness is not the same as goodness. It is not moralism, nor merely clean hands. It is union — with the One who alone is holy. And this holiness has a shape: not spin, not pretense, but fruit. The fruit of confession, of quick repentance, of humble honesty. The false prophet — and the false thought — both wear wool, but devour. The wolf is not always a person. Sometimes it is the voice in our head that tells us to hide.

But Christ will not be deceived. He looks not at appearances, but at what grows beneath them. Talk is cheap, He says — it is the will of the Father that bears weight. So we watch for our own fruit. We bring our thoughts into the light. We confess, not to be punished, but to be made real again. This is the path to union. And joy begins wherever pride breaks.

He speaks not to frighten, but to awaken — not with condemnation, but with clarity. The law is not discarded but fulfilled; not lessened, but transfigured. What is asked of us is not more precision, but deeper union: a righteousness not measured by rule, but made possible by mercy — the righteousness of repentance, of love that returns, of faith that trusts.

We do not possess this holiness. We receive it. And when we fail — as we will — we are not cast away, but called again to rise, to confess, to walk the narrow way. This is not a system. It is a life. A life tethered to His, shaped by His words: Go, and sin no more.

He is not loitering by the lake. He is looking. The crowd presses near, but His eyes are on those who are not — men still clinging to the safety of nets and night-long toil. They know Him, but they have not yet obeyed. And now the moment arrives: a borrowed boat, a quiet command, and the weight of holiness breaking their nets with more than they can hold.

We are not spectators to this story. We, too, are asked to leave the shore — to stop patching the familiar and to trust the voice that says, Put out into the deep. What we fear to lose may be what is keeping us from the Kingdom.

And if the bucket is empty, if the nets return void, it may be mercy.

We do not gather today for mere memory or symbol. This bread and this wine are not echoes — they are entry. We are drawn into the fullness of Christ’s work: His descent, His suffering, His glory — given now, not long ago, and given wholly. The Eucharist is not only a sacrament; it is the sacrament as the shape of everything: incarnation, passion, resurrection, divinization.

Here is the bread that came down, the gift that is not partial, not diminished. To eat is to receive the whole: not a piece, not a taste — but all. All that He is. All that He has done. The entire mystery, in humble form. We lift the host, not to remember, but to enter. The veil is thin. The signs are radiant. We are surrounded.

He comes as fire — to cleanse, to illumine, to make us sons. At Pentecost, the veil is drawn back, and we glimpse the Triune movement: the Father sends, the Son ascends, and the Spirit descends not only to dwell with us, but to draw us up into God. This is not abstraction — it is love made manifest, power made personal, mission made possible.

We are not left as orphans. We are indwelt, infused, ignited. The Spirit does not come for comfort alone but for conquest — not ours, but Christ’s. The land is His. The call is ours. To refuse is peril. To go is joy. The fields are white, and we have been made ready — not by strength, but by love.

He says it plainly now, though it sounds like a riddle: It is better for you that I go. Better for sorrow to come, better for absence — because from this parting flows the Spirit, not beside us, but within. What could sound like abandonment is, in truth, the great reversal — the way the Comforter makes His home in our very breath, our wills, our joy.

This joy, impervious and unstealable, does not bypass sorrow but is born through it. It is not understanding that clarifies, but the Spirit. The Spirit who Christifies, who makes many minds into one, who takes the very life of the Son and gives it to us. This is why He leaves — that we may not be left.

Joy is not a mood. It is not passive, and it is not optional. Scripture commands it — not because it’s easy, but because it’s true. We are not waiting for joy to come over us; we are called to step into it, to speak it aloud, to live as if Christ is risen — because He is.

In this age of realized hope, joy is no longer a future promise but a present vow. It is not the absence of sorrow, but the fruit of faith — faith that acts, decides, praises. Not led by feeling, but by truth. And when we fulfill that vow, not as a performance but as obedience, we discover: joy is not just strength. It is the rightful atmosphere of resurrection life.

The Shepherd speaks, and his sheep know the sound. It is not a riddle, not a ruse — but the clear, steady voice of the one who laid down his life and took it up again. In this Easter season, we remember that the Risen Lord is not distant. He gathers us still, feeds us still, guards us still. He is not only with us — he is for us.

What scatters us — fear, isolation, lack — is undone by his presence. We are no longer alone. We are no longer empty. We are no longer prey. Even now, surrounded by dangers seen and unseen, we rest. Because Christ is our Shepherd, and he will bring us home.

Easter is not a day, but a season — a commanded joy, a feast that stretches fifty days. And joy, like fasting, requires practice. We are learning, slowly, to receive the feast as the Church gives it: not as sentiment, but as discipline, culture, and life.

This week, we gathered again and again, not out of obligation, but desire — to savor hymns, to hear stories of the risen Christ, to taste and see.

Faith, too, is not born from proof but from hunger. Like Mary at the tomb, we look again — not because it makes sense, but because love won’t let us leave. We remember: doubt is not defeat, and fear is not foreign to the saints. But joy is not optional. It is our inheritance. It is work. And it is worth everything.