Dear Friends,

Christ is risen—He is truly risen. Before anything else is said, before any reflection unfolds, this is the word that must reach you first. Not as an idea, nor as a distant memory, but as a living truth meant to enter your life today. In a world often marked by uncertainty, noise, and division, Easter speaks quietly yet firmly: life has the final word. Not death. Not fear. Not sin. Life—because Christ lives.

As Pope Leo XIV has recently reminded us in his appeals for peace, the resurrection is not an abstract doctrine, but a force capable of renewing hearts and, through them, the world. Where Christ rises, reconciliation becomes possible. Where Christ lives, peace is no longer a dream, but a task entrusted to us.

May this Easter not pass as a beautiful tradition, but become a new beginning. A renewed way of seeing, judging, and living. With prayer and gratitude for each of you,
fr Dominik

Mass Readings:

  • Acts 10:34, 37-43
  • Colossians 3:1-4
  • John 20:19-31

There are many feasts in the Christian calendar, each with its own beauty, its own theology, its own spiritual atmosphere. And yet, if we are honest, only one stands at the very centre. Only one is not simply a celebration, but the foundation upon which everything else either stands—or collapses. Easter is not merely one feast among many. It is the feast. The heart of Christianity itself.

For the resurrection of Jesus Christ is not an ornament of our faith; it is its core. Without it, everything else—our moral teaching, our liturgy, our charity—would hang suspended in mid-air, deprived of its ultimate meaning. The question, therefore, is not whether we profess belief in the resurrection, but whether we truly live from it.

The First Proclamation: Peter in the House of Cornelius (Acts 10:34, 37-43)

The First Reading for Easter Sunday takes us into a surprising setting: not a synagogue, not a gathering of the faithful, but the house of a pagan. Cornelius is the first Gentile to be received into the Church without first becoming a Jew. This moment marks a quiet revolution. Into that house steps Saint Peter, carrying with him a message that must cross not only a threshold of stone, but a threshold of understanding. For those gathered already “knew the story” of Jesus of Nazareth—but only from the outside. They had heard of Him. Now they must encounter Him. Peter does not begin with moral instruction. He does not lay down a system of rules. Instead, he goes straight to the centre. He speaks of Jesus—anointed with the Holy Spirit, doing good, healing those under the power of evil. He speaks of His death—public, undeniable. And then, with equal simplicity, he speaks of what changes everything: “God raised Him on the third day.”

This is the axis upon which the entire proclamation turns. Everything else is condensed into a kind of primitive creed: Christ died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again. Even at this early stage, the Church knows what is essential. Not everything has equal weight. Not every truth stands at the same level. The resurrection is not one theme among many—it is the key that unlocks all the others.

In our own time, voices within and outside the Church propose many definitions of what it means to be Christian: ethical commitment, social engagement, personal spirituality. All of these have their place. But without the resurrection, they lose their centre of gravity. It is only in the light of the risen Christ that everything else finds its proper order.

Living from Above: The Perspective of Resurrection (Colossians 3:1-4)

The Second Reading, from the Letter to the Colossians, takes us a step further. It does not simply proclaim the resurrection—it draws out its consequences. “If you have been raised with Christ,” writes Saint Paul, “seek the things that are above.”

This is not an invitation to escape the world, nor a call to despise it. It is something far more demanding: a transformation of perspective. The Christian is called to live on earth as a citizen of heaven—not in a vague or sentimental sense, but in a concrete, existential way.

To say that we have “died” and that our life is “hidden with Christ in God” is not pious exaggeration. It is a statement about identity. Through baptism, something decisive has already taken place. A new life has begun. But what does this mean in practice? It means that our moral life cannot be reduced to the mechanical observance of rules. It must flow from a deeper orientation—a seeking of what is true, good, and beautiful in the light of eternity. It means learning to distinguish between what merely appears attractive and what truly leads to life.

The resurrection introduces a new criterion. It exposes the difference between the passing and the permanent, between what dazzles and what endures. It teaches us to recognise, as it were, the difference between a healthy fruit and one that is already decaying beneath the surface.

The Empty Tomb: Between Seeing and Believing (John 20:1-9)

The Gospel of Easter morning, from Saint John, presents us with a scene at once simple and profound. It is early. It is still dark. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb and finds it empty. She runs to Peter and the beloved disciple. They, in turn, run to the tomb. There is something deeply human in this running—in the urgency, the confusion, the mixture of hope and fear. And then comes the detail that has puzzled generations: the linen cloths lying there, the face cloth folded separately. Nothing is explained. No interpretation is offered. And yet, the beloved disciple “saw and believed.” What did he see?

Certainly not the resurrection itself. The empty tomb, taken on its own, proves nothing. It could suggest many things—removal, theft, confusion. And yet, something in the arrangement of those cloths speaks. Something breaks through the ambiguity. Perhaps it is not only what he sees, but how he sees. Faith does not replace evidence; it transforms perception. The resurrection, in this sense, is not simply an event to be proven, but a reality to be recognised. It is confirmed, later, by the appearances of the risen Christ. But here, at the threshold, belief begins in a moment of silent insight.

To speak of the resurrection today is not to retreat into abstraction. We live in a world marked by conflict, uncertainty, and a deep longing for peace. In recent months, Pope Leo XIV has repeatedly called for an end to violence and for a renewed commitment to reconciliation among nations. These appeals are not merely political or humanitarian. At their deepest level, they are rooted in the Paschal mystery itself. For if Christ is risen, then death does not have the final word. If Christ is risen, then hatred and division are not ultimate realities. If Christ is risen, then peace is not a naïve dream, but a possibility grounded in the very structure of reality. The resurrection does not remove the wounds of the world. The risen Christ still bears His wounds. But it transforms them. It opens a horizon in which suffering is not meaningless, and in which even the darkest situations are not beyond redemption.

There is a subtle danger in the life of faith: that secondary things gradually take the place of what is primary. At times, we may emphasise the Passion of Christ to such an extent that the resurrection recedes into the background. At other times, private devotions or particular causes—even good and necessary ones—can occupy the centre. But the Church, from the beginning, has known where the centre lies. Peter did not preach a system. He preached the Person—crucified and risen. The resurrection is not one truth among many. It is the principle that orders all the others. It is the light in which everything else must be seen.

And so we return to the question with which we began: do we live from the resurrection? This is not easy to measure. It is not something that can be reduced to external indicators. But it manifests itself in a certain style of life—a quiet but decisive shift. It is seen in the way we evaluate what matters. In the way we respond to suffering. In the way we resist the patterns of sin that the world proposes as normal. To live from the resurrection is to begin, even now, to live the life of the world to come.

Is this difficult? Undoubtedly. But the very fact that God has done so much—has entered into death itself in order to overcome it—is a sign of His desire. He wants us to live. He wants us to share in His life. And if both He and we desire it, then the path, however demanding, is not closed. Christ is risen. This is not only a truth to be proclaimed once a year. It is a reality to be lived, day by day. First of all: the resurrection. Everything else follows.

Fr Dominik Domagala

Points for personal meditation:

  1. First Reading (Acts 10:34, 37-43)
  • What stands at the centre of my faith: Christ Himself, or something secondary?
  • Do I truly believe that the resurrection changes the meaning of my life?
  1. Second Reading (Colossians 3:1-4)
  • Do I evaluate my life from the perspective of eternity, or only from immediate concerns?
  • Where do I still live as if Christ had not risen?
  1. Gospel (John 20:19-31)
  • What signs of new life has God placed in my path?
  • Do I allow myself to move from seeing to believing?
  1. Take-Home Resolution:

This week, consciously choose one situation—personal or relational—where you will act not from fear, habit, or resentment, but from the new life of the resurrection. Let Easter become visible.