2nd Sunday of Easter, Year A [Sunday of Divine Mercy] (April 12, 2026)

For fifty days, the Church sings one word more than any other: Alleluia. 

And yet, if we are honest, Easter can feel quieter than Lent. We rehearse extra music for the Triduum. We plan meticulously. We stretch ourselves artistically and spiritually. Then Easter arrives in a blaze of glory… and suddenly the calendar moves on.

But the Church gives us fifty days because resurrection cannot be contained in one liturgy.

The Order of Christian Initiation of Adults reminds us that the newly initiated now enter Mystagogy – not a winding down, but a deepening. They are learning how to live from what they have celebrated.

So are we.

For musicians, Easter is not about volume. It is about radiance. It is about allowing joy to settle into the bones of the community. On this Second Sunday of Easter – Divine Mercy Sunday – that radiance takes on a particular color: tenderness.

This Sunday of Divine Mercy, placed into the Roman Calendar by Pope John Paul II and inspired by the visions of Saint Faustina Kowalska, focuses our attention on the heart of the Risen Christ – still wounded, still open.

The Collect prays that we may “grasp and rightly understand in what font we have been washed.” As musicians, we stand near that font every week.

The Acts of the Apostles describes a community that held all things in common. Their unity was visible. Their love was tangible. In many parishes, music is the first place where that unity becomes audible. A congregation breathing together. Phrasing together. Trusting one another in tempo and tone. Mercy sounds like belonging.

The Second Reading speaks of faith tested by fire. Musicians understand that image well. Voices strain. Rehearsals fall short. Schedules overwhelm. Yet what is refined in those fires is not perfection – it is offering. Divine Mercy sustains us not because our ministry is flawless, but because it is faithful.

And then there is Thomas, in the upper room of Gospel of John. Notice what precedes his confession of faith: Silence. Fear. Locked doors.

Jesus enters that room not with fanfare, but with peace. He does not erase his wounds; he presents them. The Risen Christ keeps the marks of suffering and transforms them into the source of mercy.

This is profound. Our ministry is not about polishing away imperfection. It is about allowing Christ to enter the locked rooms of our assemblies – grief, doubt, fatigue – and breathe peace there.

The Gospel acclamation this season is especially luminous. The Alleluia returns after its Lenten absence. But on this Sunday, perhaps it should carry not only triumph, but compassion. The Resurrection we proclaim is not abstract glory. It is wounded glory.

Thomas responds, “My Lord and my God.”

Every time the assembly sings the Sanctus, every time they proclaim the Mystery of Faith, every time they dare to sing “Amen” with conviction, that same confession echoes.

Divine Mercy Sunday invites us to lead not just with strength, but with gentleness. Not just with clarity, but with warmth. The Risen Christ stands among us and says, “Peace be with you.” Our ministry gives that peace a melody.

Easter is not over. Mercy is still flowing. And through every Responsorial Psalm, every Easter Alleluia, every carefully chosen hymn, Christ continues to breathe on his Church.