On this fifth Sunday of Easter, the liturgy weaves together three readings that say, with three different voices, the same astonishing thing about us. The Acts of the Apostles tells of a young community that organises itself so that no widow is forgotten. Saint Peter, in his first letter, calls us “living stones” built into a spiritual house, “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation”. And in the Gospel, Jesus assures hearts that are about to be torn open: “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places… I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” The Easter Jesus is leading a chosen people into a Father’s house, and along the way he is making them, slowly, into the very house they are walking towards.
At that time, Jesus said to his disciples: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places; if not, would I have told you, ‘I am going to prepare a place for you’? When I have gone and prepared a place for you, I will come back and take you to myself, so that where I am, you also may be. Where I am going, you know the way.” Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?” Jesus said to him, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life; no one comes to the Father except through me. Because you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him, and you have seen him.” Philip said to him, “Lord, show us the Father, and we shall be satisfied.” Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you so long, and yet you do not know me, Philip? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words I say to you, I do not say of myself; the Father, who dwells in me, does his own works. Believe me: I am in the Father, and the Father is in me. If not, believe at least because of the works themselves. Amen, amen, I say to you, whoever believes in me will do the works that I do; and even greater than these will he do, because I am going to the Father.” (Jn 14, 1-12)
In the first reading (Ac 6, 1-7), we are at a delicate moment in the life of the early Church. “As the disciples were increasing in number,” a tension surfaces: the Greek-speaking believers complain that their widows are being overlooked in the daily distribution. The Twelve do not deny the problem, nor minimise it. They take it seriously. They gather the whole community and say, with great honesty, “It is not right that we should neglect the word of God to serve at tables.” And so seven men “filled with the Holy Spirit and with wisdom” are chosen — Stephen, Philip, Prochorus, Nicanor, Timon, Parmenas, and Nicolaus, a convert from Antioch. The Apostles pray over them and lay hands on them. And then, with disarming simplicity, Luke writes: “The word of God continued to spread; the number of disciples in Jerusalem increased greatly.” The Spirit-led organisation of charity is itself a form of evangelisation. When a community arranges itself so that no one is forgotten, the Word grows.
In the second reading (1 P 2, 4-9), Saint Peter lifts our eyes from this practical scene to the mystery underneath it. “Come to him, the living Stone, rejected by men but chosen and precious in God’s sight. Like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house…” The image is breathtaking. Christ is the cornerstone. We are the stones. And Christianity is not, first of all, a religion of solitary souls; it is a building under construction. Each stone is shaped to fit its neighbours. Each stone bears, and is borne by, the others. And then Peter dares the most daring sentence: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people destined for salvation, that you may proclaim the wonders of him who called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.” The dignity is staggering. We are not visitors of this house; we are part of it. The whole Church, baptised, is a priestly people.
And then comes the Gospel (Jn 14, 1-12), the discreet centre of all this. We are in the upper room, the night before the Passion. Jesus speaks to friends whose hearts are about to be shattered: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” He promises that, in his Father’s house, there are many dwelling places — enough for everyone he is leading there. He promises to come back and to take us with him, “so that where I am, you also may be.” And when Thomas asks the question we all secretly carry — “Lord, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?” — Jesus answers, with disarming simplicity: “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” Then Philip’s deeper longing breaks out: “Lord, show us the Father, and we shall be satisfied.” And Jesus replies, with infinite tenderness: “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me?” And finally, the great promise: “Whoever believes in me will do the works that I do; and even greater than these will he do, because I am going to the Father.”
Three readings, one Easter movement. We are stones being built. We are a people being called. We are travellers being led. And it is the same Christ — cornerstone, Way, beloved Son — who does all three.
Let us look briefly at how this knits together. The Twelve, faced with a real injustice in their community, do not centralise everything to themselves. They share the ministry. They set apart seven men, filled with the Spirit, to make sure that the Greek-speaking widows are not invisible. The Word of God grows precisely because the table is reorganised in love. This is what Peter calls a “spiritual house” — a community where each living stone is in its right place, bearing and borne by the others, all together a priestly people. And this house is, mysteriously, the very Father’s house Jesus speaks of in the Gospel: not a distant, post-mortem destination only, but a reality already breaking in wherever the Risen Christ is welcomed and his disciples love one another. The Way is also a household. The Father’s house begins now.
In the spirituality of the Child of Bethlehem, this is profoundly familiar. The God who came small, poor, hidden in a manger does not reveal himself to majestic individuals; he reveals himself in a household. Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the Magi: from the very first Christmas, the Saviour is surrounded by a chosen people in miniature. The manger is the first “spiritual house,” its first cornerstone the small body of the Child. And every Christian community that organises itself, like the Twelve, so that no widow is forgotten, every parish that lets the smallest find their place, every missionary fraternity that consents to be a stone fitted to other stones, prolongs that first Bethlehem.
This Sunday, then, we may pause and let the three readings examine us together. Where, in my own community, am I tempted to remain a solitary stone, when the Lord wants to build me into a wider house? Whose “widows” — whose forgotten ones — am I being asked to notice today, so that the Word may grow? Where am I refusing to be a living stone, because life among other stones costs more than I had imagined? And, deepest of all: do I really believe that Jesus has gone to prepare a place for me — not as a distant promise, but as the secret architecture of my own daily life?
Easter does not deliver us into solitude. It gathers us. The chosen people, the royal priesthood, the holy nation are not slogans; they are us, this Sunday, gathered around the Word and the table, called out of darkness into his marvellous light. The Way is open. The cornerstone is in place. The Father’s house is already being built, and we are its stones. May our hearts not be troubled.
Prayer of the Day
Lord Jesus, living Stone, Way, Truth, and Life, you who reveal the face of the Father and prepare a place for us in his house, calm our troubled hearts on this fifth Sunday of Easter. Build us into the spiritual house you have begun, stone fitted to stone in your love. Make us a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation called out of darkness into your marvellous light. Like the early Church gathered around the Twelve, teach us to organise our charity in the Spirit, so that no widow, no stranger, no forgotten one is overlooked at the daily table of our community. And as we walk the Way that is your very person, let our small works, joined to yours, become greater than we dared imagine, for the glory of the Father and the joy of those who do not yet know him. Amen.
For Meditation
- Where, in my own community, am I tempted to remain a solitary stone, when the Lord wants to build me into a wider house?
- Whose “widows” — whose forgotten ones — am I being asked to notice today, so that the Word may grow?
- “I am going to prepare a place for you.” Do I let this promise shape my daily life now, or do I keep it only as a distant horizon?
