JEREMIAH ENZO GAYOS

Baptism Homily

Apr. 25, 2026 @ St. Mary's Cathedral 

My dear family, brothers and sisters,

Today, we are not just gathered for a beautiful family celebration. We are standing on holy ground. Because what is about to happen in the waters of Baptism is nothing less than a miracle of grace.

When we look at Jeremian and very children present here today, we see innocence, possibility, a future waiting to unfold. But today, God sees something even deeper. He sees His beloved. He sees a son or daughter marked for eternity.

Because in Baptism, something invisible but very real takes place. God claims this child.

You know, in our world today, identity is something people spend years trying to figure out. “Who am I? Where do I belong?” But today, before Jeremian can even ask those questions, God answers it.

“You are mine.”

That is the first and most important truth of Baptism.

This is not just a naming ceremony. This is not just a tradition we inherited. This is a divine encounter.

Through water and the Holy Spirit, Jeremiah is washed, not just physically, but spiritually. The Church teaches us that even the wound of original sin is healed here. And what takes its place? Grace. God’s very life.

Imagine that. God is not waiting for a child to grow up to love Him. God is already pouring His love into every child being baptized at that moment.

And so today, heaven rejoices.

But my dear friends, Baptism is not just a moment, it is a beginning.

It’s like lighting a candle. We will that that symbol today. A flame will be given, representing the light of Christ. But a flame is meant to be protected, nurtured, and allowed to grow.

And this is where we all come in for the Mom and Dad… Lolos and Lolas… Ninongs and Ninangs… family and community.

You are not just witnesses today. You are guardians of this child’s faith.

Jeremiah will not remember this day. But we will. And more importantly, our lives will become the memory of God for Jeremiah.

The way we pray.
The way we forgive.
The way we love.
The way we trust God in difficult moments.

That is how Jeremiah will first encounter Jesus.

You see, faith is not taught first by words, it is caught by the heart.

And so the real question is not just, “Will Jeremiah, and our children grow in faith?”
The deeper question is, “Will we live a faith worth catching?”

Because one day, our children will ask, maybe not in words but in life: “Is God real?”

And the first answer they will see… is you.

So today, as we celebrate, let this also be a gentle invitation for all of us.

Maybe some of us were baptized long ago, but somewhere along the way, we drifted. Life happened. Faith became routine… or maybe even forgotten.

Today is a chance to remember.

To remember that we, too, were once carried to the font.
We, too, were claimed.
We, too, were called beloved.

And that identity has never been taken away.

My dear family, today God will plant a seed in Jeremiah’s soul. A seed of divine life. It will grow but it needs sunlight. It needs water. It needs care.

Let us be that environment.

Let us be a family where prayer is not strange… where love is not withheld… where forgiveness is not delayed… where Jesus is not just spoken about but lived.

And to my dear grandchild…JEREMIAH…..

You may not understand this now. But one day, you will come to know that before you ever reached out to God….. He already held you close.

Before you ever spoke His name….. He already called you His own.

And today, in the quiet mystery of water and Spirit, He has written your name… in His heart.

And that, my dear friends, is a love that will never fade.

Amen.

The Emmaus Road

Homily for 3rd Sunday of Easter, Year A
St. Albert the Great Parish, 18 Apr. 5PM Mass and 19 Apr. 5PM Mass
St. Patrick’s Parish, 19 Apr. 9AM & 11AM Masses

My dear brothers and sisters,

There is a walk that many of us know by heart.

It is that quiet drive home from the hospital, when the words “there is nothing more we can do” are still echoing in your chest. It is that silence in the house when a chair is suddenly empty, and everything feels… different. Heavier. Slower.

That is the road to Emmaus.

In the Gospel, Cleopas and his companion are not just taking a walk. They are walking away. Away from Jerusalem. Away from hope. Away from the place where everything they believed seemed to fall apart.

And the Gospel says their eyes were downcast.

If we are honest, some of us came today with that same look. That same heaviness. Because we have our own “we had hoped” moments.

We had hoped the marriage would last.
We had hoped the treatment would work.
We had hoped the children would remain close to the faith.

“We had hoped…”

And when those hopes are shattered, the road becomes long. Dusty. Lonely.

But here is the beautiful surprise of our faith.

Jesus comes.

Not with noise. Not with spectacle. Not to correct them or shame them. He simply draws near. He walks beside them. He becomes a companion on the road.

And then He asks a question.

“What are you discussing as you walk along?”

My brothers and sisters, this is the heart of our life with the Lord. Before He speaks, He listens. Before He teaches, He receives. He allows them to pour out everything—the confusion, the disappointment, even the hidden anger.

This is what happens every time we come to the Eucharist. This is not just a ritual we perform. This is an encounter. The Lord meets us exactly where we are—in the mess, in the questions, in the pain we sometimes do not even know how to name.

And then, gently, patiently, He begins to open the Scriptures.

He begins to re-tell their story.

He takes their broken Friday and slowly reveals the hidden light of Sunday. He shows them that even suffering, even death, is not outside of God’s plan—but somehow, mysteriously, can become the very place where love is revealed most deeply.

And something begins to happen inside them.

“Were not our hearts burning within us…”

Ah, brothers and sisters—that burning heart—that is the sign of the Risen Lord at work in us.

But the story does not end there.

They arrive at the village. It is getting dark. And they say something very simple, very human:

“Stay with us.”

And Jesus accepts.

They sit at table. An ordinary moment. Nothing dramatic. No altar, no choir, no incense. Just a table. Bread. Hunger. Presence.

And then—

He takes the bread.
He blesses it.
He breaks it.
He gives it.

And their eyes are opened.

They recognize Him.

And He vanishes from their sight.

Why? Because from that moment on, He will no longer be recognized just by sight—but through a life transformed. Through hearts that burn. Through people who become what they receive.

They don’t even finish their meal. They run back. Back to Jerusalem. Back to the very place they were trying to escape.

Because once you encounter the Risen Christ, you cannot go back to the old way of living. You are sent.

And this is where the Gospel meets us today—in a very real, very concrete way.

Who are the people in our lives walking that Emmaus road right now?

Who is carrying the weight of a terminal diagnosis?
Who is sitting at a bedside, exhausted, afraid, not knowing what tomorrow holds?
Who feels abandoned, forgotten, or overwhelmed by the slow approach of death?

My dear friends, today – Jesus is teaching us that our faith is never just personal, it is always relational. It is always incarnational. But only becomes real when we become the presence of Jesus for others.

This is why the work of the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops through the Horizons of Hope is such a gift to the Church.

Because it reminds us: caring for the sick and the dying is not just a medical task, it is a sacred ministry.

A ministry of presence.

Sometimes we think, “I don’t know what to say.”
But the Gospel shows us—it is not about having the right words.

It is about walking with.

It is about listening.

It is about staying.

Like Jesus on the road… like Jesus at the table.

We are called not to look away from suffering, but to enter into it with love. Not to rush people through their pain, but to accompany them with dignity. Not to abandon them in their final journey, but to walk them home.

This is what it means to be a Church of hope.

And so today, the Lord sends us.

The Mass is ending—but the mission is just beginning.

“Ite, missa est.”
Go. You are sent.

Sent to the hospital rooms.
Sent to the nursing homes.
Sent to the quiet houses where grief sits at the table.

Sent to be that “stranger on the road” who listens.
Who stays.
Who breaks bread.
Who carries hope.

My dear brothers and sisters, if your heart has burned even a little today, do not ignore it. That is the Lord stirring something within you.

Let that fire lead you.

Because somewhere, someone is walking the road to Emmaus—and they are waiting, perhaps without even knowing it, for you to walk beside them.

The workshop is on the four Saturdays of May starting on May 2^nd, not here but in St. Gerard Parish. We begin with Mass as 5PM, dinner and fellowship at 6PM and the workshop from 7pm to 9pm. These details are in the bulletin and in the poster behind. You can take your phone with you after Mass and scan the QR code for registratioh.

The Lord is truly risen.

And He is alive… in you.

Amen.

A Prayer at the Foot of the Cross

 Lord Jesus,

I am kneeling/standing here looking at what my sin cost You.

In the nails, I see my pride.

In the thorns, I see my selfish thoughts.

In Your open side, I see my closed heart.

Lord, I am tired of the "ugly" things I have hidden.

The wages of my sin should have been my death -

my separation from the Father forever.

But here You are, taking my place.

You took the "desert" so I could have the "home."

As I bow before You, I am saying: "I am coming out of the prison."

I am leaving my shame and my excuses right here at Your wounded feet.

Wash me in Your blood.

Cover me in Your mercy.

Thank You for paying the price I could never afford.

Today, Lord, I choose to accept your Love and your gift of salvation.

Amen.