The girl in the wheelchair couldn’t walk. The doctors didn’t believe her. Her own body had betrayed her, and now the medical establishment was doing the same. “You’re making this up,” they said, their words cutting deeper than any physical pain.

Julia Burzzese was just twelve. One day she was playing softball and singing in the choir; the next, she was watching her world collapse. Her hair fell out in clumps. Her fingernails turned brittle. Her legs – once strong enough to sprint across soccer fields – now lay useless.

And then came that day at Kennedy Airport.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for SECOND SUNDAY OF EASTER – DIVINE MERCY SUNDAY (April 27, 2025). Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.

And for those who prefer listening, you can find the audio version on SoundCloud HERE or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes HERE. Your comments, messages, and the way you’ve embraced these homilies continue to inspire me.  Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim

As we mourn Pope Francis who passed away this past Monday, I keep thinking about what happened next. Picture this: desperate parents bringing their daughter to see the Pope – not for a photo op, not for a blessing, but for a miracle. They had tried everything else. And Pope Francis, in that way that defined his papacy, did what Jesus so often did in the Gospels: he stopped. In a moment that now feels almost prophetic, he paused his procession, walked over to Julia, and blessed her.

And yes, a miracle did unfold – just not the one anyone expected.

Julia didn’t leap from her wheelchair. Instead, something more profound happened – the kind of miracle Pope Francis always taught us to look for. Her story, captured by news cameras, caught the attention of a new set of doctors who actually listened. A blood test finally revealed Lyme Disease. A community rallied. A hospital donated services. Strangers offered help.

And just like that, sensation began returning to her feet.

“If you believe and pray, everything can happen,” Julia said afterward. Simple words from a twelve-year-old that now pierce our hearts with new meaning as we gather in this joyful Easter season – a season that has suddenly become bittersweet as we mourn our shepherd while celebrating resurrection.

Faith like Julia’s is rare. It’s the kind of faith that moves mountains – or in her case, moves doctors to listen and strangers to help. But for most of us, faith isn’t quite so straightforward. Sometimes it comes with questions, with hesitation, with doubt. And that’s why I find myself drawn to another story this Easter – one about a man who struggled to believe even when his closest friends told him the most amazing news in history.

You know him as Doubting Thomas. But I think we’ve never really given him a fair chance.

Poor Thomas, forever branded by that one moment of skepticism. He missed one meeting – one crucial meeting where the risen Christ appeared to the other apostles. And when they told him about it, he reacted exactly as most of us would: with skepticism.

But here’s what we often miss about Thomas: he showed up again the next week. Despite his doubts, despite his questions, he came back. That’s not the action of a doubter – that’s the courage of someone who wants to believe.

Sound familiar? Isn’t that all of us at some point? We come here each Sunday, carrying burdens that feel too heavy to bear. Some of us are like those first apostles, locked away in our private grief. Others are like Thomas, wrestling with questions that keep us awake at night. Many of us might feel like Julia, waiting for healing we’re not sure will come. We look around at a world that often seems broken – at our own lives that sometimes feel beyond repair – and we wonder if we’re foolish to keep believing. Maybe we even hear those same dismissive words Julia heard: “I don’t believe you.”

But here’s the extraordinary thing about Easter: it teaches us that God’s greatest works often begin in our darkest moments. The apostles were hiding behind locked doors when Christ appeared. Thomas was drowning in doubt when he encountered The Lord. Julia was in her wheelchair when a Pope’s blessing set in motion a chain of healing.

And now, as we mourn Pope Francis, we’re reminded of what he taught us through his final years: that God specializes in surprises. That hope isn’t just optimism – it’s the certainty that God can work through anything, even death itself.

Christ stood in that locked room and said, “Peace be with you.” He showed Thomas his wounds. He blessed Julia through his servant Francis. And now, even as we grieve our Holy Father, He stands among us, still offering that same peace, still showing us his wounds, still blessing us through each other.

The question isn’t whether God will work new wonders. The question is: will we, like Thomas, keep showing up to witness them? Will we, like Julia, remain open to unexpected miracles? Will we, like Pope Francis taught us, learn to see God’s hand in the ordinary moments that turn out to be extraordinary?

Because here’s the truth about Easter: it’s not just about what happened in that tomb two thousand years ago. It’s about what’s happening right now, in this room, in our lives, in our moments of doubt and hope and loss and resurrection. It’s about believing even when others don’t believe in us.

“The Lord always surprises us,” Pope Francis once said. “This is the beauty of an encounter with Jesus. What He asks of us is an open mind and a simple heart.” These words ring especially true today as we remember how he stopped for Julia when others walked past, how Jesus appeared to Thomas when others had given up on him, how God continues to work in ways we least expect.

God isn’t finished surprising us yet. In fact, He’s probably just getting started.