Fr. Dawid Kwiatkowski, St. Anne Catholic Church

The joy of Easter does not come suddenly. It rises slowly, quietly, from the ashes of suffering. To truly grasp the meaning of the Resurrection, we must walk the road that led to it — a road that began on Palm Sunday.

Palm Sunday sets the tone for Holy Week. It is a liturgy filled with contradiction: we begin by joyfully waving palm branches and shouting “Hosanna!”, commemorating Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem. But almost immediately, the tone shifts. The Gospel moves from praise to pain, from celebration to betrayal. The same crowd that welcomed Jesus soon turns against Him. As Catholics, we reenact this dramatic contrast in our liturgy: the palms, the procession, and then the Passion narrative read aloud, often by multiple voices. Palm Sunday introduces us not only to Holy Week, but to the tension between human joy and human cruelty — between hope and fear.

That tension deepens on Holy Thursday, when we recall the Last Supper. This is the night Jesus gave us the Eucharist — His Body and Blood — and washed the feet of His disciples as a sign of loving service. We celebrate the institution of both the Eucharist and the priesthood.

Yet even this night of intimacy ends in betrayal. As the Mass concludes, the Blessed Sacrament is taken in silent procession to the altar of repose, and the church is stripped. Christ is alone in Gethsemane, and we are left in the shadows with Him.

Then comes Good Friday — the only day in the Church’s year when no Mass is celebrated. It is a stark, solemn liturgy that feels more like a funeral than a service. The church is bare. The tabernacle is empty.

We kneel before the cross, not just as a symbol, but as the actual means of our salvation.

Jesus was not merely misunderstood or mistreated. He was tortured and executed.

Murdered. The Son of God died in disgrace.

And here lies the paradox: the glory of the Cross. On Good Friday, pain and love meet. Our redemption was won not through power or victory as the world understands it, but through surrender, sacrifice, and suffering.

This is why Easter joy cannot be real unless we have passed through Good Friday sorrow.

To proclaim, “He is Risen!” without acknowledging “He truly died” is to water down the Gospel. Only those who have stood at the foot of the Cross can feel the full shock and sweetness of the empty tomb.

When Easter Sunday dawns, it is not with spectacle, but with light — quiet, radiant, triumphant light. The One who was crucified is alive. The stone is rolled away. Death has lost its grip. And in every Eucharist we celebrate from this day forward, we meet the Risen Christ again. The Eucharist is Easter, made present to us — the living Jesus who gives Himself as our food and our strength.

This joy is not superficial.

It is not the cheerfulness of good weather or festive meals.

It is the deep, steady gladness of knowing that sin has been overcome, that death is no longer the final word, and that Christ walks with us now.

And next Sunday, we return once more to the heart of this mystery with the celebration of Divine Mercy Sunday. On this day, instituted by Pope St.

John Paul II, we are reminded that the Resurrection is not just about new life — it is about forgiven life. Jesus shows His wounds to His disciples not to shame them, but to invite them into mercy. We will gather again next week at the Hour of Mercy, 3:00 p.m., to sing the Chaplet, adore the Blessed Sacrament, and venerate the relic of St. Faustina, the apostle of mercy.

So let us live this Easter with hearts that have walked the whole way with Christ — through Hosanna and humiliation, through silence and sorrow — until we arrive at joy that is true, lasting, and deeply holy.