Homily: Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper
Exodus 12:1–8, 11–14 / 1 Corinthians 11:23–26 / John 13:1–17
2 April 2026
Fr. Ricky Cañet Montañez, AA
This morning, at the Chrism Mass, Bishop Eli invited the faithful to say to their priests, “We love you, Father!” And we priests were asked to respond, “I love you, too.” It sounded beautiful—but if we are honest, there was a certain awkwardness. Some felt shy, some smiled nervously, some were unsure whether to say it at all. And that simple moment reveals something very human: it is not only hard to love—sometimes it is even harder to receive love.
We see this in ordinary life. How do you feel when someone goes out of his or her way to take care of you? Imagine visiting a friend’s house—she prepares a feast, fix everything, attends to you the whole time, almost like rolling out a red carpet. And what do we say? “Wow, this is too much… it’s embarrassing. Don’t go to all this trouble.” Even at home, mothers say to their grown children, “Your back is wet—change first. Have you eaten? I’ll cook your favourite.” And the children reply, “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Why does it seem easier to love than to be loved? Why is it so hard to let ourselves be seen, known, and accepted as we are?
Peter knew this struggle. At the Last Supper, when Jesus knelt to wash his feet, he protested, “You will never wash my feet” (John 13:8). He was not rebelling—he was just afraid. Because to let Jesus wash his feet meant admitting, “I need You.” And that is exactly what Jesus desires—not only that we serve Him or imitate Him, but that we allow Him to love us. We are used to doing things for God—praying, helping, giving, asking for grace—but tonight is different. Tonight, Jesus asks us not to act, but to receive.
And that can feel unsettling. We begin to wonder: Is there a hidden cost? What will God ask from me? Can love really be this free…gratuitous.
I remember a young woman who carried guilt for many years. She had made choices she regretted, hurt people she loved, and felt she had nothing to offer. Every Sunday, she would sit quietly at the back of the church, afraid that God’s love might demand more than she could give. Then one day, during a retreat, she heard these words: “I love you—not because of what you do, but because of who you are.” For the first time, she allowed herself to believe it. And she wept—deep, long tears—as years of shame began to fall away. In that moment, she discovered something both painful and beautiful: when you let God love you, it can break your heart open—but it also sets you free.
Many of us carry shame, exhaustion, and regret. We are painfully aware of our sins and weaknesses. We think we must fix ourselves first before God can love us. Some even stay away—from the Church, from prayer, from the Lord—because they feel unworthy. But the Gospel tells us otherwise. Jesus washes Peter’s feet before Peter understands, before he is ready (John 13:6–10). In the same way, God loves us before we feel worthy. And the Eucharist we celebrate tonight proclaims this truth: “This is my body that is for you” (1 Corinthians 11:24). Not “for you when you are perfect,” but simply, “for you.” The Cross is the fullest proof of that love—given long before we were born, long before we made our mistakes.
Peter learned that night that receiving love does not make him weak—it makes him alive. And the same is true for us. So tonight, let us ask ourselves honestly: Where am I resisting God’s love? What fear, shame, or pride keeps me from His embrace? What if, even for a moment, I let my guard down and simply say, “Lord… yes. Love me as I am.”
Let us pray for the courage to do that. For when we make space for God to love us, He gently unveils the wounds we have long kept hidden—and it is precisely there where healing begins. And only there, in a heart that surrenders, do we discover what it truly means to be God’s beloved.
Sunday Gospel Reflections 