6th Sunday of Easter, Year A (May 10, 2026)

The Easter season is beginning to turn. The bright joy of the Resurrection does not fade but deepens, drawing us toward its fulfillment in the great feast of Pentecost. There is still much of Easter to celebrate, yet already the Church invites us to listen more closely, to linger with the words of Jesus in the upper room. 

In these final Sundays, the Gospel no longer shows us the empty tomb, but the heart of Christ – speaking to his disciples on the night before his Passion, preparing them not only for his departure, but for a new and deeper presence.

If you love me, you will keep my commandments.
And I will ask the Father,
and he will give you another Advocate…
the Spirit of truth.

Not absence, but indwelling.
Not departure, but communion.

Jesus continues his teaching:

You know him
because he remains with you,
and will be in you.

And then, this astonishing promise:

I am in my Father,
and you are in me,
and I in you.

Here, the Church is given a glimpse into the very life of God – a communion of love between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – and, even more wondrous, an invitation to share in that life.

Before it was doctrine, it was promise.
Before it was defined, it was lived.

That promise begins to take visible form in the Acts of the Apostles. Philip goes down to Samaria – a place marked by prolonged division, where history itself had drawn lines between peoples. And yet the crowds listen. They see. They believe. The apostles come, lay hands upon them, and pray that they might receive the Holy Spirit. And they do.

The Spirit accomplishes what we cannot:
crossing boundaries we defend,
healing wounds we remember,
making one what had long been divided.

The Spirit gathers what was scattered.
The Spirit heals what was wounded.
The Spirit makes one what had been estranged.

And so, Saint Peter speaks to the Church:

Always be ready to give a reason for your hope,
but do it with gentleness and reverence.

Not force.
Not argument.
Not the need to win.

But a hope that is patient.
A faith that is gentle.
A life that speaks.

How easily we forget this. How quickly we reach for louder voices or sharper words, as if faith were something to be proven rather than something to be lived. But the Spirit of truth does not overwhelm. The Spirit abides. 

And if the Spirit truly dwells within us, then our lives themselves begin to reveal what words alone cannot. We become, slowly and quietly, a dwelling place of God: living temples in whom Christ remains – not as memory, but as presence.

We do not need to prove that Christ is alive.
We need only become the place where he lives.