The Battle for Abundance (John 10:1-10)

“I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly,” says Jesus. These words invite us to pause and consider what “abundance” truly means. It’s easy to imagine abundance as having more possessions, more success, more control. But when we look at the life and teachings of Jesus, a different picture emerges. Abundance is a way of living and being. In the Gospels, Jesus does not grant wealth or power. Instead, he embodies and teaches love, compassion, mercy, forgiveness, healing, and peace. He restores relationships, calls for nonviolence, and lives with integrity and wholeheartedness. This is the essence of abundant life a fullness that cannot be measured or bought. It is like a cup running over, not with excess, but with life itself. This overflowing life is not meant to be contained. It spills into the world—life flowing into life, love into love, joy into joy, hope into hope, courage into courage. It is a way of being that enriches both our lives and the lives of others. It does not add to the pain of the world but instead heals and uplifts. This is the life we see in Jesus, and deep down, it is the life we long for ourselves and for others.

 

Yet this abundance is not without threats. Jesus warns of thieves and bandits who come “only to steal, kill, and destroy.” These are not necessarily people who take material things; rather, they are forces that drain our life and diminish our sense of wholeness. They show up in many forms-busyness, exhaustion, fear of the future, regrets of the past, grief, self-doubt, or the constant pressure to achieve and prove our worth. When we begin to measure our lives by productivity or outcomes, these thieves quietly take hold. Recognizing these thieves and bandits is not about judgment, but about awareness. They reveal what is happening within us and invite us to reclaim our life.

 

At the centre of this teaching is the image of the gate. Jesus says, “I am the gate.”  It keeps what is precious safe while opening to nourishment and life. In the same way, we are called to be gatekeepers of our own hearts-the “sheepfold” where abundance resides. Guarding the heart requires attentiveness. It means staying awake to what is entering and leaving our lives. Not everything that seeks entry should be welcomed, and not everything should be shut out. Discernment becomes essential. Some people, opportunities, and choices nourish and enlarge our lives; others deplete and consume us. Life continually presents us with thresholds-moments of decision, transition, and possibility. At these gates, we are invited to choose wisely. Through this image, we are invited to reflect: Where is life overflowing within me today? Where does it feel diminished or blocked? What are the thieves and bandits teaching me about myself? What gate do I need to open? What gate do I need to close?

 

 - Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

When hearts begin to notice (Luke 24:13-35)

The road to Emmaus is the story of every human heart trying to make sense of life when it has not turned out as expected. Two disciples walk away from Jerusalem, away from hope as they had understood it. Their conversation is heavy with memory, loss, and confusion. The past fills their vision so completely that they cannot see what is right in front of them. What keeps us from recognizing the presence of Christ in our own lives? Paying attention is about what we do with our hearts. The present moment is the only place where life truly happens, where meaning is made, where relationships are restored, where hearts are healed, where God is encountered. And yet, it is often the hardest place to remain.

 

The past can bind us through nostalgia, regret, guilt, or disappointment. We replay moments, revisit wounds, or long for what once was. At other times, we are drawn into the future, into fear, fantasy, or the quiet ache of expectation. “But we had hoped…” becomes the language of a life projected somewhere else. We fill that sentence in countless ways, investing ourselves in a future that is not yet ours, while missing the life that is. This is the tension of the Emmaus Road. The disciples are caught between what was and what they hoped would be. And in that in between space, they miss the One who is already with them. Christ walks beside them, but their hearts are elsewhere.

 

He accompanies. He allows their disappointment to be spoken. God does not force Himself into closed hearts; He creates space within them. A quiet, patient spaciousness where truth can unfold, where wounds can be named, where something new can begin. What once felt like an ending is reframed as part of something larger. “Pay attention,” the moment seems to whisper. Because when we begin to truly attend to the now, to the presence within and around us, astonishment awakens. There is something astonishing in every moment: a gesture of kindness, a word that meets us at the right time, the beauty of creation, the resilience of the human spirit, the quiet persistence of love. The disciples, walking with Christ, did not at first notice their hearts burning within them.

 

Only later, at table, in the breaking of the bread, do their eyes open. In that simple, ordinary act, everything becomes clear. And they are astonished. But astonishment does not end in itself. Astonishment asks something of us. It may ask us to speak, to give voice to what we have seen, to name hope in places where it feels absent. It may ask us to act, to step toward another, to accompany, to create space where someone else can be heard, healed, and restored. It may ask us to remain, to be fully present, to truly listen, to truly love.

So, the question is not only what the disciples experienced on that road, but what is unfolding on yours. What is astonishing you today? What has quietly taken your breath away? Where has love surprised you? Where has pain opened something deeper within you? Where have you glimpsed goodness, in yourself or in another, that you did not expect? Do not pass over these moments. They are not small. They are the places where Christ is being made known.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

He didn’t say ‘Where were You?’ He said ‘Peace.’ (John 20:19-31)

This is the very first time the Lord Jesus encounters his disciples after they all ran away from him.  Most of us would not let that moment pass. We might even say, “Where were you when I needed you most?” But he doesn’t mention it at all. Not a word. Instead, he says, “Peace be with you.” He illustrates universal forgiveness before he talks about forgiveness. So, I can see why we made this so-called mercy Sunday, because what we see here in the risen Christ is God in Jesus not holding on to any need to punish, to blame, to accuse the way we all do. You know when someone hurts you, it is almost impossible not to let them know. It is our little bit of punishment back. Jesus doesn’t do that. It is pure grace. It is an ocean of mercy. And that alone reshapes everything we think we know about God. Because what we see in the risen Christ is not someone holding on to the need to punish or accuse the way we so often do. When someone hurts us, it is almost instinctive to let them know, to return even in small ways the pain we received. But Christ breaks that pattern completely. He meets failure with peace.

 

Then comes the encounter with Thomas the Apostle, and here the mystery deepens. At first, it might seem like this moment is about proof, about showing that the resurrection is real. And yes, for many, the idea that someone could rise from the dead is difficult to accept. But that is not the deepest point of the story. The real mystery is this: you can be wounded and resurrected at the same time. That is why Christ says, “Put your finger here.” Every resurrection appearance still bears those wounds. It was not by avoiding them, not by denying them, but through them that resurrection came. It means that our wounds are not a contradiction to new life, they are part of it. It means resurrection is not about escaping our brokenness, but about something new emerging within it. You can be wounded and alive. You can be hurting and being renewed. You can be carrying pain and still rising. That is the mystery we share.

 

One week since the empty tomb. One week since the proclamation, “Alleluia. Christ is risen.” One week since all the joy, the hope, the astonishment. The disciples are still in the same house, behind the same locked doors, held by the same fears. If the resurrection is such a big deal, why does everything look so familiar? Why does it seem as though so little has changed? That question is not just about them. It is about us.

 

Because one week after Easter, we may look at our own lives and wonder the same thing. We wake up to the same routines, the same concerns, the same world. Like the disciples, we may find ourselves in the same room, still carrying old fears, doubts, or uncertainties. Resurrection is not a single event that flips a switch overnight, it is a process, a journey, a slow unfolding within us. The empty tomb is a fact. But resurrection is a story. The locked doors of your life do not keep Christ out; they are precisely where he enters. So, the invitation is simple. To recognize where you are as the starting point. To receive the peace that meets you there. And then, slowly, imperfectly, courageously, to begin opening the doors.

 

 - Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

 

The Paschal Mystery in Our Midst (John 20:1-9)

Today’s gospel begins in confusion, darkness, and ordinary routine. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb early in the morning, just another place, another familiar space shaped by loss. This is the Galilee of her life: the everydayness of grief, memory, and love. And yet, it is precisely there, in that ordinary moment, that something extraordinary has already happened. The stone has been rolled away. This is where Easter always begins in the familiar places of our own lives. Our routines, our relationships, our struggles, our quiet hopes and disappointments, these are the very spaces where resurrection unfolds. Easter happens in the middle of life as it is. So, the first question we bring to this Gospel is the same one we bring to every Easter morning: Is it still true?

 

Is resurrection real in the life we are living right now? Because our lives have changed. We are not the same people we were a year ago. We carry different burdens, different joys, different uncertainties. And like Mary, we sometimes arrive at the tomb expecting to find endings, only to be confronted with mystery. Regardless of how our lives have changed, whether for better, for worse, or a mixture of both, the stone is still being rolled away. The tombs that confine us, the darkness that seems final, do not have the last word. Resurrection may take time. It may unfold slowly, over months or even years. But God does not leave us in the tomb. That is the promise whispered in the empty space: “He is not here.” Life is not ended; it is transformed.

 

And this brings us to the second question-the one we carry with us as we leave the empty tomb: quote from Mary Oliver, “what have you planned to do with your one wild precious life” Because the message of Easter is not simply that Jesus is risen. If it were only about him, distant and alone, it would not stir our hearts so deeply. The message is larger, fuller, more inclusive. It is about all of us. It is a corporate, universal promise. The resurrection is not an isolated event; it is a shared reality. It includes you; it includes me, it includes all of humanity. The empty tomb announces a victory that is total and universal, a victory of life over death, of hope over despair, of light over darkness. It tells us that no situation is beyond redemption, no life beyond renewal. “In the end, everything will be alright-and if it is not alright, it is not the end yet. “So, we stand between these two questions: Is it still true? and What will we do with it? And in that space, Easter becomes not just a story we remember, but a life we live. Today is the feast of hope. It gives direction, purpose, and meaning. It reminds us that we are not alone-that we belong to a community, to a humanity held together in God’s life. We are all in this together, walking out of our various tombs, learning to trust the light.

 

-        - Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

The way of Love (Matthew 26:14-27:66)

What if the story we are entering is not only about suffering, betrayal, and death, but about courage, truth, and a radically different kind of power? What if Palm Sunday was the original “No Kings” protest? Jesus enters Jerusalem with humility, surrounded by ordinary people crying out “Hosanna!” A cry that is not just praise, but longing, to be Saved. Cloaks are laid down, palm branches are lifted, and in that moment the crowd becomes a movement.  And right there, we begin to see what power and authority look like in Jesus. They look like love that refuses to dominate, truth that refuses to bend, and courage that refuses to withdraw. This is the same power that carries Jesus through the upper room, through betrayal, through denial, through the cross. And it is here that the story becomes deeply personal.

 

Because we often read this gospel as a story of heroes and villains, Jesus the victim, Judas the betrayer. But what if it is first and foremost a revelation of how Jesus chooses to live and love? Jesus does not react to betrayal with anger or self-protection. He does not shame Judas, expose him, or cast him out. He does not close himself off. Instead, he remains open, steady, and true. He continues to love, even knowing the cost. And perhaps that is because Jesus understands something that we are still learning: that to love deeply is to become vulnerable, and to be vulnerable is to become betrayable. That word’betrayable’unsettles us. We are taught to avoid it. To protect ourselves. To be careful. To trust wisely, or not at all. Somewhere along the way we learned: Look out for yourself. Don’t get hurt. Don’t be naïve. But Jesus lives differently.

 

He surrounds himself with the imperfect. With those who are fully human, fishermen, sinners, the overlooked, the struggling. He builds a life that is full of love. And that love makes him betrayable and this is where Judas’ story begins to touch our own. It is easy to define Judas by his worst moment, to reduce him to his failure. But something in us resists that, because we know what it is to fall short of who we want to be. We know what it is to live beneath our truth, to make choices we cannot fully stand by. If Judas is only a betrayer, then we can keep our distance. But if he is complex, if he carries confusion, fear, disappointment, and struggle, then we begin to see ourselves in him. And maybe that is the deeper truth: that betrayal does not begin with grand actions, but with small, quiet moments of self-betrayal.

 

We betray ourselves when we act out of fear instead of truth. When we let discouragement or exhaustion shape our choices. When we forget what matters most. When we settle, shrink, or give up.  When we lose sight of who we are. Before Judas ever betrays Jesus, something within him has already been compromised. And yet, even here—Jesus does not withdraw his love. He does not regret choosing Judas. He does not regret washing his feet. He does not regret loving him fully.

 

And so, this gospel leaves us not with easy answers, but with a question that reaches into our own lives: How betrayable are we willing to be, for the sake of love, truth, and what truly matters? Because in the end, the way of Jesus is not about avoiding betrayal. It is about living so fully, so truthfully, and so lovingly that even betrayal cannot take away who we are.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM 

 

The Gift Hidden in Disappointment (John 11:1-45)

What questions did you ask when the Lazarus of your life died? What questions are you asking today? I notice that the deeper I go into life, the less I live by answers and the more I live inside questions. The answers I once trusted don’t hold the same weight anymore. They feel smaller now, as if life has outgrown them. And many of those questions are born out of disappointment. There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes when life does not unfold the way we believed it should. An expectation about how love works, how God should act, how things should turn out. Like Mary and Martha, we find ourselves saying, “If only…” If only things had been different. If only God had come sooner. We don’t always say it out loud, but we feel it.

 

What strikes me is that Jesus does not argue with that disappointment. He does not correct it or explain it away. He stands in it. He allows it. He receives it. Because there is something honest in it.  But then the story takes a turn that feels almost uncomfortable. Jesus says, “Take away the stone. “And I realize how much I resist that. Because the stone is there for a reason. It seals what is dead. It protects me from what I don’t want to face, the finality, the smell, the reality that something is over. To remove it is to come too close, to risk seeing what I would rather leave hidden. And here is what stays with me: Lazarus does not move the stone himself. He cannot. He is inside, bound, unable. Someone else has to do it.

 

There are moments in life when parts of us feel exactly like that sealed off, without strength, without clarity, without even the will to come out. And in those moments, We need someone willing to stand at the edge of our closed places and help roll the stone away. And often, that help does not come in the way we expect. Sometimes it comes through people we would not have chosen. People who are imperfect, complicated, even broken in their own ways. It makes me wonder how often God works like through ordinary, unexpected people. Through voices, gestures, moments of presence that we might easily overlook because they do not fit our idea of what help should look like. Then comes the call: “Come out. “But even that is not the end. Lazarus comes out, but he is still bound. Alive, yet not free. And again, he cannot unbind himself. Others must do it. “Unbind him, and let him go. “There is something deeply human in that. We do not come fully alive on our own. We need each other not just to survive, but to be freed. To be seen, named, gently released from what still holds us.

 

And perhaps that is part of the invitation hidden in this story. Not just to wait for God to act, but to notice where we are being asked to participate. To be the ones who help move a stone. To be the ones who stay long enough to unbind. Even when we don’t feel ready. Even when we are unsure. Even when we ourselves are still carrying our own questions and disappointments. Because life does not wait for us to be perfect before it invites us to take part in it.

 

-       - Lilly pushpam PBVM

Surely We Are Not Blind, Are We? (John 9:1-41)

 

 

Today we reflect on Jesus as a prophet who comes for judgment. This idea speaks directly to many of the questions we face in today’s world. As we look around us, at issues of security, borders, refugees, healthcare, hunger, poverty, violence, and war, we wonder how faith speaks to these realities. What does the prophetic Jesus say about our lives, our responsibility to one another, and our world? His voice calls us to rethink what it means to be a neighbour, especially to those who differ from us, frighten us, or seem to threaten us. We do not often think of Jesus as a prophet, yet in the Gospel story of the man born blind he is recognized as one. Jesus then says, “I came into this world for judgment.” This judgment, however, is not primarily about condemning people or deciding who is right or wrong. Prophets open people’s eyes. They reveal what is and point toward what could be. Their judgment stands between these two visions, calling us back to our truest selves. The judgment Jesus brings is about how we see. The healing of the blind man points to a deeper truth: spiritual sight. The real question is whether we see with open eyes or closed eyes.

 

When we live with closed eyes, we withhold mercy, allow fear and anger to control us, and refuse to forgive ourselves or others. We overlook the pain and needs of others because we are too busy, too comfortable, or too afraid to respond. When we value ourselves more than our neighbour, judge by outward appearances, or allow violence and division to guide our actions, we are seeing with closed eyes. But there are also moments when our eyes are open. We recognize injustice and feel another person’s suffering as our own. We act with compassion, seek peace, forgive, and work to restore broken relationships. Our eyes open when violence in the world troubles our hearts and when we choose understanding instead of division. In those moments we see more deeply, as God sees, looking into the heart of the person or situation.

 

Jesus did not say he came to make judgments, but that he came for judgment. His very life becomes the judgment. His compassion judges our indifference. His justice judges injustice. His mercy judges condemnation. His forgiveness judges guilt. His welcome judges exclusion. His hope judges despair. His nonviolence judges violence. His truth judges lies. His light judges darkness. His life of prayer challenges our self-sufficiency, and his simplicity questions our restless and cluttered lives. Even his suffering and resurrection stand as a judgment on the powers of the world and on death itself.

 

The call of Jesus is for us to live differently, with eyes open to both the beauty and the brokenness of the world. When we truly see, we are invited to help close the gap between what is and what could be. At the heart of Jesus’ judgment is love. With open eyes he sees more goodness, beauty, and holiness in us than we often see in ourselves or in one another. His judgment invites us into a new way of seeing—a new life and new possibilities for our world. So, the question remains for each of us: Where does Jesus’ judgment meet our lives? Where does our seeing differ from his? What is he asking us to change? Surely, we are not blind, are we?”

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

A Journey from Past to Possibility (John 4:5-42)

The story of the Samaritan woman in the Gospel of John invites us to look beyond judgment and see the deeper reality of a human life longing for love, dignity, and freedom. Her story mirrors our own lives more than we might admit. In many ways, we are people with a past, people carrying wounds, disappointments, and memories that shape who we are. Deep within every human heart is a thirst, the thirst to be known and loved. We long for someone who sees us completely yet does not turn away. When Jesus Christ asks the woman, “Give me a drink,” it is more than a request for water. It is an invitation. It is an invitation for her to let herself be known and to pour out her life honestly before someone who truly sees her. To be known is to be loved and to be loved is to be known. Yet many of us live dehydrated lives because we fear that being exposed will lead only to rejection. To be found out without being truly known leaves the soul dry and desolate. It leaves us searching again and again for something that might quench our thirst.

 

Like the Samaritan woman, we all return to certain wells in our lives. Some people drink from the well of relationships, hoping another person will fill the emptiness within them. Others drink from the well of perfectionism, striving endlessly to prove their worth. Some draw water from the wells of isolation and hiding. Others seek the wells of power, control, addiction, busyness, or constant distraction. Day after day we go to the same wells, arriving with the hope that our thirst will finally be satisfied. The Samaritan woman had likely been returning to the same well for years. She came quietly carrying her water jar, perhaps hoping to avoid the eyes and judgments of others. But on this particular day everything changed. At the well she encounters Jesus, and he offers her something entirely different, living water. The living water he offers is new life, freedom from the past, and a relationship that fills the deepest longing of the human heart.

 

In that moment the Samaritan woman discovers something extraordinary. The well she had been seeking was the living presence of Christ himself. Within her begins to spring a new interior well, a spring of water gushing up to eternal life. Something remarkable happens then. She leaves her water jar behind. The jar that once represented her daily struggle, her repeated disappointments, and even the weight of her past is no longer needed. She runs back to the town rejoicing and eager to share what she has experienced. The woman who came alone and burdened returns as a witness of hope. Her story invites us to ask ourselves an honest question. From which wells do we drink? How many times do we return to the same dry wells hoping they will finally satisfy us? How long will we continue carrying our water jars, those habits, fears, and patterns that keep us searching but never fulfilled?

 

This Gospel speaks in a special way to our hearts, and many of us love this passage because it reminds us that no life is beyond hope and no past is beyond the reach of God’s love. As we also celebrate International Women's Day, the Samaritan woman stands before us as a powerful reminder of the dignity, strength, and faith of women. In a society where women often had little voice or recognition, Jesus speaks with her, listens to her, and entrusts her with the message of new life. She becomes one of the first witnesses who carries the good news to others. Her story reminds us that God sees every woman, every man, every person through the lens of love and possibility. Each of us is invited to come to this well, to bring our past, our thirst, and our longing. Come to the well of Christ. Drink deeply from the living water he offers. And as we drink, we will discover that the well we were searching for is already within us, a spring of life flowing with hope, freedom, and love. Drink deeply from that well until you become what you have received.

 

 - Lilly Pushpam PBVM

When Glory meets Change (Matthew 17:1-9)

The story of the Transfiguration takes place between two of Jesus’ predictions of his suffering and death. It stands like a radiant pause between announcements of impending change. Change frames this entire story, and perhaps that is the first lesson for us. Change, whether on the mountaintop of joy or in the valley of the shadow of death, is not optional. It is the landscape of every human life. In times of change, many voices begin to speak. Some come from outside us, commentators, critics, pundits, and prophets of doom. Others rise from within, fear, self-doubt, regret, second guessing, blame, and denial. Some voices urge us to run and hide, while others tell us to fight and control. Some demand explanations, and others insist that everything is ending. The noise can be overwhelming and confusing. Yet in the Transfiguration there is only one voice that truly matters. From the bright cloud comes the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him.” In the midst of change, we are invited to listen, not to every anxious whisper, but to Christ. When we listen to him, we begin to see that no change has the final word over our lives.

 

Listening, however, is only the beginning. When the disciples fall to the ground overwhelmed with fear, Jesus comes to them, touches them, and says, “Get up.” The word he uses carries the echo of resurrection. This is not simply a command to stand on their feet. It is a promise that fear will not define them and that what feels like an ending is not the end. We all know changes that knock us down. Loss, illness, failure, shattered expectations, and global crises can leave us disoriented and unsure of who we are or where we are going. Sometimes the change itself is not clearly good or bad; it simply unsettles us. We lose our footing and wonder whether life as we knew it has ended. Into those very circumstances Christ comes to us as well. He touches us in our confusion and says, “Be raised.” Life may have changed, but it has not ended. New life is often hidden within the very place that feels like loss. God does not necessarily cause the changes that wound us, but God wastes nothing. Every circumstance can become material for resurrection.

 

Suffering, as painful as it is, has a mysterious capacity to draw us into oneness. We see it at gravesides and in times of communal tragedy. For a moment, divisions fall away and we remember that we belong to one another. The image of a crucified God reveals a profound truth that God does not stand apart from human suffering but enters into it in solidarity. Not only for us but with us. We do not carry pain alone, and in truth we cannot. There are two great paths by which the human soul comes to God, the path of great love and the path of great suffering. In the end they are the same path. To love deeply is to risk suffering, and to suffer honestly is to discover the depth of love. Still, the disciples cannot remain on the mountain. Jesus leads them back down into the ordinary world, into healing, teaching, confronting injustice, and ultimately walking toward the cross. When Jesus tells them not to speak of what they have seen, perhaps it is because glory cannot be borrowed from someone else’s story. It must be lived. Each of us must climb our own mountain. Each of us must experience our own transfiguration. And each of us must walk back down into the world carrying that light into daily life.

 

-        Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

In the Wilderness of Identity (Matthew 4:1-11)

Every year, as Lent begins, the Church leads us into the wilderness with Jesus through the story in the Gospel of Matthew 4:1–11. We often speak of three temptations, but beneath the three lies a fourth temptation - the one that runs through them all. The temptation to doubt who he is. “If you are the Son of God…” Those words echo not only in the wilderness but later at the cross: “If you are the Son of God, come down.” The question is between Jesus and himself. The primary temptation we all face is to doubt our divine identity. The evil one does not need to make us evil; he only needs to make us unsure of who we are.

 

The first temptation is about misusing power. It is the temptation to prove ourselves by being spectacular, impressive, important. We want to be noticed. We want to do something extraordinary so that others will see us and say, “You matter.” But Jesus refuses. He will not use power to prove his worth. The second temptation is about misusing religion. It is the temptation to play games with God. To make faith transactional instead of transformational. “If I do this, God must do that.” But Jesus refuses to manipulate the Father’s love. He will not turn trust into a spectacle. The third temptation is the temptation to secure identity through control and dominance. Power itself is not evil. There must be ways to use it for good. But until we are tested, and until we no longer need power to validate ourselves, we will almost always misuse it. If we are not grounded in who we are, we will end up worshiping power just to have it.

 

The fourth temptation is universal. Our greatest struggles are between us and ourselves. Before I betray you, I betray myself. Before I compromise outwardly, I disconnect inwardly. How often have we tried to turn stones into bread - not literally, but by trying to prove ourselves? How often have we thrown ourselves from emotional pinnacles, testing whether we are truly loved? How often have we bowed to lesser powers in exchange for approval, recognition, or security? we are tempted daily to prove we are enough. Temptations reveal where we are hungry. They uncover our wounds. They show us where we seek validation, where we grasp for control, where we doubt, we are loved. They are diagnostic. They can become doorways to healing. When we are in touch with our deepest identity and value, we remain true to ourselves. When we lose touch with that identity, we betray ourselves.

 

The wilderness is an initiation. It teaches us to clarify who we are and whose we are. It invites us to ask: What are my temptations teaching me about myself? It would be tempting to say, “Well, he’s Jesus.” As if he had an advantage we do not. But that too is a subtle betrayal. What if we approached our temptations as invitations to deeper self-knowledge and wholeness? What if every temptation became a moment to remember: I am beloved. So, this Lent, let us not waste a good temptation. Let us enter the wilderness honestly. Let us listen to what our struggles reveal.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM 

 

The Undivided Heart (Matthew 5:17-37)

There is something both deeply unsettling and deeply hopeful about today’s Gospel because Jesus refuses to let us stay on the surface of things. He will not allow us the comfort of appearances, the safety of rule keeping without relationship, or the illusion that we can live divided lives one on the inside, and another on the outside. We know what that divided life looks like. "You have heard that it was said"… but I say to you. With those words Jesus does not abolish the law, rather, he reveals its deepest meaning. He takes what was written on stone tablets and writes it into human hearts, drawing us back to the God who gave the law in the first place as a path to life. From the beginning what has been at stake is not rule keeping but relationship, not compliance, but communion, not appearances but wholeness. God’s law was never meant to be an end in itself. It was meant to guard what is fragile human life, human dignity, human connection. Because of that Jesus names what we would rather not name. He speaks of anger that murders relationships long before any weapon is lifted, of words that kill through insult, contempt, and dismissal of desires that reduce people to objects of truth that is bent or shaded. He shows us that we can look righteous and still be deeply divided.

 

And what we refuse to face within ourselves will inevitably spill outward onto spouses friends, coworker’s,strangers,even enemies,. In the deep heart of our lives we find love and anger, faithfulness and betrayal, compassion and indifference, forgiveness and condemnation. We find wounds we have not tended, desires we have not named, grief we have buried, and longings we barely admit even to ourselves. And yet God already knows all of it. Nothing is hidden from the One who created us. Jesus is not trying to shame, us he is trying to make us whole. He is calling us to live undivided lives where our yes is truly yes, and our no is truly no, now here our inner life and outer life speak the same language. This is why Jesus is so critical of the scribes and Pharisees. They mastered compliance but lost connection. They kept the rules but forgot the relationship. They knew the law but missed the heart of God. So when Jesus tells us not to harbour hateful anger or call people fool or worthless . he is not merely giving moral advice. He is revealing a spiritual reality. If we walk around all day thinking, What idiots  we are ,we are not living out of life we are living out of death. What lives in our hearts shapes the world we create around us. How we live in our hearts is our deepest truth.

Teresa of Avila offers a simple image. She says the soul is like a great castle and most of us live in the outer rooms,busy ,respectable, and distracted while God waits for us at the centre. God is not absent. We are simply afraid to go inside. Yet when our inner life is rooted in God, our outer life will bear the fruit of the kingdom. And that is where true freedom, true wholeness and true life are found.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

Already Salt, Already Light (Matthew 5:13 - 16)

When we are asked, “Who are you?” most of us answer with our name. Maybe we add where we come from, something about our family, our work, or how we spend our time. Rarely-if ever-do we say, “I am the salt of the earth. I am the light of the world.” In today’s Gospel from the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus looks out over the crowds and says plainly, “You are the Salt of the earth… You are the Light of the world... You are the City built on the hilltop...” He does not say this to a select few or to spiritual elites. He speaks to ordinary people who have come from everywhere. They come searching for healing, meaning, direction, and purpose. They come carrying wounds, hopes, questions, and longings. We are standing in that same crowd. We come for the same reasons. And to us, here and now Jesus says the same words: You are salt. You are light. This is our identity we must grow into someday. Jesus does not say we should become salt or strive to be light. He says we already are. We already possess what we need. The question is not whether we are salt and light, but whether we will live as such.

To be named salt and light carries real implications. Salt exists to flavour, to preserve, to transform what it touches. Light exists to reveal, to guide, to push back darkness. If we truly are salt and light, then our lives are meant to make God visible in the world. We are meant to help others taste goodness and see hope. We are meant to illuminate places of fear, injustice, loneliness, and despair. This week’s Gospel calls us to be God-givers, God-sharers. What Christ has poured into us is not meant to stay contained. The salt placed in our hands is meant to be sprinkled on the world. The light filling our hearts is meant to shine outward. And this calling is deeply practical.

It looks like meeting another person’s eyes and speaking a kind word—especially to those we have labelled or dismissed. Being generous with our compassion, our time, and our resources for the poor, the hungry, and the homeless. Initiating reconciliation when indifference, pain, or anger would be easier. Praying for those who differ from us, disagree with us, or have wounded us and sincerely asking God to bless them. Choosing faithfulness and presence over speed, efficiency, and productivity. Being vulnerable instead of defensive, self-giving instead of self-protection.

If we do not flavour the world with Christ, we become salt that has lost its saltiness. If we do not illuminate darkness, we become light hidden under a basket. The issue is not belief alone, but congruence—whether our inner life and outer life reflect one another. Faith that remains private and disconnected from how we live is incomplete. Perhaps we are called to spend less time speaking about God and more time doing the truth of God. The world needs flavour. It needs light. It needs you and me. When we live this way, we discover something surprising: our own souls are healed, our lives are rebuilt. And in that place, God stands before us and says, “Here I am.” So, the question before us is simple and searching: Where is the salt in your life being tasted? Where is your light breaking through the darkness?

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM 

 

 

The Ground of Blessing (Matthew 5:1-12)

We are already one. But we imagine that we are not. - Thomas Merton

 

Most of us grow up believing that to be blessed means something good has happened-a prayer answered, a door opened, a problem resolved. Blessedness becomes proof that God has noticed us, chosen us, perhaps even rewarded us for doing something right. When life goes well, we quietly claim the word blessed. But when life unravels-when prayers go unanswered, when grief arrives, when we fail or fall short-we begin to wonder if we have lost something, as though blessedness were fragile or conditional.

 

But what if blessedness was never something to be gained or lost? What if it is not a reward for the faithful or a consolation prize for the fortunate, but the ground of our being itself-given at the very beginning and never withdrawn? What if the question is not whether we are blessed, but whether we recognize that we are? Jesus, climbing the mountain, does not begin with commands or conditions. He does not outline how to qualify or who belongs. He simply names what is already true. Blessed are you. Not someday. Not if. Not when. Now. The Beatitudes are not instructions for becoming blessed; they are reflections of what life looks like when we remember who we already are.

 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit”-not because lack earns favour, but because letting go of self-sufficiency makes room to notice what has always been there. “Blessed are those who mourn,” because love and loss belong together, and even here we are not abandoned. “Blessed are the meek,” those no longer trying to prove their worth.” Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for what is right,” not driven by control, but shaped by trust.

 

When blessedness is forgotten, we shrink. We compare ourselves to others, grasp for approval, protect our fragile sense of worth. And in that forgetting, we sometimes wound one another out of fear. But when blessedness is remembered, something loosens. Our world widens. We become less defensive, more patient, more open. Mercy, purity of heart, and peace-making emerge as natural expressions of a life rooted in belovedness When I know myself to be blessed, I am more fully myself. I no longer need to prove anything or earn approval. I am freer to be present, to love imperfectly, to live honestly. The Beatitudes are not a ladder we climb, but a mirror held gently before us, reminding us of who we are at our deepest and truest. We are already blessed. The work is not to become something more, but to remember what we have always been.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

Follow me... Be available... (Matthew 4:12-24)

 

 

St. Teresa of Ávila writes, “Christ has no Body now but yours.”

That single sentence names what is really happening when Jesus walks along the sea and says, “Follow me.”

Jesus begins his ministry after John’s arrest. The story opens in loss, danger, and injustice. God enters what is already wounded and uses it. And if Christ now has no Body but ours, then it is through human lives that God chooses to enter such places.

 

To follow Jesus  is to allow what God, for reasons we may not fully understand, allows and to trust that love is still present and still working there. It is to suffer, ever so slightly, what God suffers eternally: the pain and the hope of loving a world that is not yet whole.

 

The fishermen are not chosen because they are better, perfect, or more faithful. They are chosen because they are available. They are willing to become the place where Christ continues to live and act. They represent everyone. God is calling not just a few chosen ones, but all people and all creation back to God’s own self.

 

Following Jesus is not about religious status. It is about consent: consent to carry what God carries, consent to love what God loves ,consent to let one’s life become a body through which Christ can touch the world.

 

This calling has little to do with believing the right things about God, beyond the one truth that contains all others: God is love itself. Those who respond are not those who are certain, correct, or complete. They are those willing to bear the cost of reconciliation within themselves. They become the leaven, the salt, the remnant, the mustard seed - small and hidden, yet entrusted with the slow transformation of the world.

 

Something about Jesus captivated these fishermen, and “they left everything and followed him.” We usually hear that as a demand. But it may be an invitation to a deeper question: What am I holding on to, and what is it giving me? We hold on to beliefs and opinions, grudges and resentments, fear, guilt, and shame, old wounds and disappointments, the way things used to be, comfort, control, and familiarity, biases and judgments.

 

We also hold on to what is holy: people we love, relationships that sustain us, joy and gratitude, faith and hope, values and integrity, meaning and purpose, all that is good, true, and beautiful. We will always hold something. The question is whether what we hold makes us more or less available to God’s love.so the call by the sea is not only “follow me.” It is: let your life become the place where God can love the world again.

-  Lilly Pushpam PBVM