Deacon Jim Hostutler: You know, when I was writing this homily, I had a nice folder to put it in, then all of a sudden, I looked up and I saw this. Blah blah blah. Some of my friends that are here knows what that means. I did a few extra words in. You know, I like to start with a little humor.
So here's one for you. After forty years as a deacon, I learned that a good homily should be like a cup of coffee, strong enough to keep you awake, but short enough that you don't need a refill. I'll try to keep the one just right. Today is a day of deep gratitude and joy. As the church celebrates divine mercy Sunday, I also celebrate forty years as a deacon.
Forty years of God's undeserved mercy and unfailing grace. My actual anniversary falls next Sunday when they're offering you cake, April 19. But what better time to give thanks than on this day when the church proclaims that God's mercy endures forever. I still remember that April day in 1986, when I placed my hands in the bishops and promised to serve, to proclaim the word, to assist at the altar, and bring Christ's love to his people. At the time, I couldn't imagine all the ways that could call would unfold.
Looking back now, one truth shines through it all. God's mercy has guided every step, patiently working even through my human imperfections. Through these forty years, I had blessings beyond measure. I've stood beside couples as they begin their married life, including three of my own children. I baptized eight of my grandchildren, holding them as the font as grace was poured out in water and love.
I've accompanied families through sorrow and hope, prayed by hospital beds and stood at gravesides to commend loved ones to God through every smile, every tear, and prayer, and mercy has been the golden thread binding it all together. And truly, some of the most grace filled years of my ministry have been right here at Saint Patrick Catholic Community. For fourteen years now, under father Eric's leadership. I've been blessed to serve among people who have treated me with dignity, kindness, and respect. You have welcomed me into your lives, your homes, and your hearts.
And for that, I am profoundly grateful. Today's gospel from John brings that mercy to life. The disciples are huddled behind locked doors, hearts full of fear and shame. They know they abandoned Jesus in his hour of need, and suddenly there he is standing among them, not with anger or condemnation, but with peace. Peace be with you.
That simple greeting changes everything. Jesus doesn't erase the wounds of the cross, he shows them. Those wounds have become windows of mercy, proof that love triumphs over sin and death. And then he breathes on them the very breath of new creation, and sends them forth to continue his mission of mercy. Then comes Thomas.
We call him doubting Thomas, but really and just honest Thomas, he wants proof, something he can see and touch. We've all been there. Moments when we faith feels easier to talk about than to live. But notice what Jesus does, he comes back just for Thomas. Put your finger here, see my hands, he says, no scolding, no harshness, only an invitation to believe.
That's what mercy does. It meets us where we are and gently leads us home. The gospel isn't just about Thomas's doubt. It's about Jesus's persistence. The doors are locked.
The disciples are hesitant, but that doesn't stop the Lord. He walks straight through the barriers bringing peace, and he still does the same for us today. When fear, guilt, or busyness lock us away, Jesus quietly enters and whispers, peace be with you. Over forty years of ministry, I've seen that peace again and again. When forgiveness healed an old wound, when a grieving family found comfort through prayer, when someone rediscovered hope after despair.
That's design mercy at work every single day. Not always in lightning bolts, but in quiet resurrections that happen in ordinary lives. It's also been an incredible blessing to share the diaconate with my son. What's your name again? Deacon Kevin, now in his ninth year of ordained service.
Standing beside him at the altar is a joy beyond words. A reminder that God's mercy doesn't stop with one generation, but keeps flowing forward through time and family. And when I look back over these forty years, I don't see statistics, I see faces, families, couples, children, parishioners, and friends who have shaped my life and strengthened my vocation. You've all become living icons of God's mercy to me. Through it all, one prayer has anchored me.
Jesus, I trust in you. I'm it's I've whispered it before funerals, before preaching, before hospital visits, and many times right here at this ambo when I realized the holy spirit might have gone off script. And speaking of the unexpected, after forty years, there's been no shortage of those I've read the whole gospel wrong more than once. Nothing like confidentially proclaiming next week's message a week early. My cell phone has somehow decided to sing during the reading of the passion.
Talk about dramatic timing. And recently, I've managed to preach an entire homily before realizing I wasn't wearing my hearing aids. So, if anyone said amen, I probably missed it. What do you say? Those moments remind me that mercy has a sense of humor.
God doesn't tolerate our imperfection. He uses them to keep us humble, to remind us that ministry is his, not ours, and that grace still works even when the deacon forgets his hearing aids. So as I celebrate forty years of service, I wanna thank the Lord for his endless mercy. Father Eric, for his friendship and guidance. My brother clergy and parish staff for their support.
Deacon Kevin for sharing this call, and all of you, my parish family here at Saint Patrick's, whose faith, laughter, and kindness have made these years a true joy. May the risen Christ continue to walk into the lock rooms of our fear and whisper his peace. May we recognize him not through our perfection, but through his mercy. And may our hearts echo the great confessions of faith that Thomas spoke. My Lord and my God.
After forty years, I can say with confidence, even when the wrong gospel gets read, the phone rings or I forget my hearing aids, God's mercy always has the last words. Jesus, I trust in you.