Divine Mercy Sunday: May life spring forth in us in His name

In this commentary on the Gospel of Divine Mercy Sunday, Brother Luciano Audisio, OAR, places us in the paschal experience of the disciples (Jn 20), marked by fear, absence, and the encounter with the Risen One. In this context, faith appears as a living experience that is born in the community, nourished by encounter, and open to mission. Thus, Easter is revealed as an irruption of new life that transforms the heart and sends it into the world.

The Risen One Enters Our Closed Doors

We are on Divine Mercy Sunday, the ancient Sunday in albis, when the newly baptized returned to the community clothed in white. It was not merely an external garment: it was the visible sign of a new life, of an existence transformed by Easter. That garment spoke of a distinct identity, of a new way of being in the world. And, deep down, today we too come “clothed,” showing—perhaps without realizing it—who we are, how we live, what we carry in our hearts.

The Gospel we hear today is like a photograph of that heart. The disciples are locked in by fear. And if we are honest, we too often live this way: closed off, defensive, marked by wounds, by uncertainties, by disappointments. And yet, into that closed space, the Risen One bursts forth. He does not wait for everything to be in order, He does not demand prior conditions: He enters just as we are.

And the first thing He says is: “peace be with you” (εἰρήνη ὑμῖν). This peace is not simply the absence of conflict; it is fullness, it is harmony, it is the very life of God that is communicated. It is the first word of the Risen One and it is also the first experience of all true prayer: when we become silent, when we allow the Word to enter us, the first thing that happens is not human effort, but the gift of a peace that precedes us.

From Fear to Mission: The Breath of New Life

But that peace is not an intimate refuge. Immediately Jesus adds: “as the Father has sent me, so I send you” (καθὼς ἀπέσταλκέν με ὁ πατήρ). Peace is always accompanied by a mission. It is not to be kept, but to be transmitted. It is to enter into the same dynamic of love that unites the Son with the Father and to allow that relationship to extend into our lives. The resurrection is not a memory of the past: it is a force that continues to act, that seeks to be embodied in us.

And then Jesus performs a surprising gesture: “He breathed on them” (ἐνεφύσησεν). It is a gesture of immense tenderness, profoundly human and, at the same time, divine. It evokes the moment of creation, when God breathes on man and gives him life. It also evokes the crossing of the Red Sea, when the wind opens a path to freedom. Here, Jesus recreates His disciples: He not only comforts them, but makes them new. He gives them His own breath, His own life.

However, there is a detail we cannot overlook: one of the disciples was not there. Thomas is absent. And this also touches us closely, because there are always absences in our lives. Sometimes we are absent because we are tired, because something has disappointed us, because we can no longer bear an atmosphere laden with failure or pain.

But that absence of Thomas is providential. Because in him, we are present. We too were absent on Easter morning. None of us were there. And yet, we believe. How is this possible? Because we have heard the testimony of a community. Faith is born this way: from a word that reaches us, which at first may be difficult for us to accept, but which little by little opens us to an encounter.

To Believe So That Life May Spring Forth

Thomas wants to see, he wants to touch. And Jesus does not reject that desire. On the contrary, He welcomes it and takes it further: He invites him to touch His wounds. Because the encounter with the Risen One is not a contact with something ideal or abstract; it is the encounter with Him who has been wounded, with Him who has loved to the extreme. The wounds remain, but they are no longer a sign of defeat: they are a source of life.

Here something very profound is revealed. John tells us that all this has been written “so that, believing, you may have life in His name” (ἵνα πιστεύοντες ζωὴν ἔχητε ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι αὐτοῦ). In the Bible, the “name” is not a label: it is identity, presence. In the Old Testament, the name of God was unpronounceable, inaccessible. And yet, all the people of Israel sought to express who God is without being able to enclose Him in a definition.

Now, at Easter, that mystery is revealed. The resurrection is the manifestation of God’s name, of His deepest identity. God makes Himself known as the One who gives life, as the One who passes through death and transforms it. But it remains a mystery that we cannot possess or control. We can only enter into a relationship with Him.

Therefore, the Gospels are not simply accounts of the past. They are words written to be prayed, to introduce us into that living relationship. They are not a biography of Jesus, but a door. They teach us to pray, to recognize the Risen One, to allow ourselves to be transformed by His presence.

And so the question for us today is very concrete: from where are we listening to this Gospel? From the fear of the locked-in disciples? From the absence of Thomas? From the desire to touch, to understand?

Whatever our place, the Lord comes. He enters our closed doors, pronounces His peace, breathes His life upon us, and sends us forth. And He invites us to something very simple and very profound: to believe, not as one who possesses a cold certainty, but as one who allows himself to be reached by a presence.

To believe is, ultimately, to let life spring forth in us “in His name” (ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι αὐτοῦ), that is, in His very presence, which always surpasses us, but which never ceases to seek us.