Divine Mercy Sunday: When love walks through the locked doors. (John 20:19–31)

We often think mercy is something we receive after we’ve confessed, repented, or cleaned up the mess. But Divine Mercy Sunday reminds us: mercy comes before we’re ready, before we believe, before we even open the door. The disciples were locked in a room, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. They were hiding in fear, carrying guilt for running away, shame for denying Him, and perhaps even disbelief in the news of His resurrection. They didn’t go looking for Jesus. He came to them.

That’s the newness of Divine Mercy: it breaks in when we least expect it. Jesus didn’t wait for their apology. He walked right into the heart of their fear and breathed peace. His wounds were not hidden. He showed them vulnerability. Mercy is not about forgetting the pain but transforming it - wounds becoming a doorway to new life.

And then there’s Thomas. We often label him the doubter, but maybe he was the most honest. He wanted an experience as real as the pain he carried. Jesus gave him exactly that - not punishment, but presence. A personal encounter designed to his need. This is the mercy of the Risen Christ: He doesn't force belief, rather He invites trust. Mercy isn't about overlooking our weaknesses - it’s about God walking into them and saying, “Peace be with you.”

This Gospel calls us to ask:

• Where are the locked rooms in my life and places where I’ve shut the door in fear, shame, or hurt?
• Can I believe that Jesus is stepping in, offering peace?
• Can I become a bearer of that same mercy to others not with answers, but with presence?

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

Among Us, a Saint - Pope Francis

The news of Pope Francis’ passing brings deep sadness. He wasn’t just a Pope - he was a spiritual father, a gentle reformer and a man who made the Gospel visible through his life. He broke conventions to remind us what truly matters - right relationships with God, self, others and creation. Laudato Si’, Fratelli Tutti, Amoris Laetitia, Dilexit Nos and so many more are not just Church documents, they are love letters to the world.

He brought the Church back to the heart of the Gospel - mercy, justice and tenderness. He invited us to see, to feel and to act. During the height of the pandemic, when fear gripped the world, he stood alone in St. Peter’s Square - rain falling, heart open - carrying the pain of humanity to the Cross. That image - so silent, so strong - will remain with us forever. His leadership was about presence, prayer, and deep compassion.

While my heart feels the sting of loss, I also feel something else stirring: connectedness. He is now beyond space and time. His spirit is free - woven into the fabric of our lives, present in our longing and alive in our efforts to love more fully. I do not need to travel to the Vatican. I only need a pause, a breath, and a whisper: You are here. You always walked with us. And you still do.

Pope Francis - our Humble Saint. Thank you for being a living Gospel. Thank you for showing us what holiness looks like in the everyday. Your footsteps remain in ours.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

Easter: When Love is met with mystery. (Luke 24: 1-12)

Mary Magdalene came before sunrise. Not to witness a miracle—but to grieve, to honour, to hold on. She carried spices, a symbol of what we all bring to our losses—our best efforts to tend to what feels broken, to make peace with what we cannot change. But the world had already shifted. The stone was gone. The tomb was open. Her careful plan to manage sorrow no longer fit the moment she stepped into. At first, it felt like another loss. Even in death, she could not hold Him.

Isn’t that often our story too? We come prepared for disappointment, ready to live with absence, to protect ourselves from pain. We carry rituals of love, of loyalty, of grief—not realizing the tombs we expect to tend have already been opened by grace. Easter meets us there. Not with explanations, but with a quiet invitation: Can you let go of what you came expecting—to receive what you never imagined? Can you allow love to show you that the stone has been moved, not just in history, but in your own soul?

What strikes me profoundly is that, in that moment of astonishment, God did not choose the powerful or the learned, the men or the leaders of the Church, but chose Mary, the one who had known deep suffering and forgiveness, was the first to see and to proclaim: "He is risen." God’s choice of Mary reminds us that in our brokenness, we are not excluded from grace. In fact, it is through our vulnerability and openness to love that God’s glory shines the brightest

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

Palm Sunday: When love loosens the knots. (Luke 22:14 - 23:56)

I wasn’t in the crowd. I didn’t sing or shout “Hosanna.” I was on the sidelines—tied to a post, like I’d always been. The rope wasn’t just around my neck. It coiled deep inside me—knotted with wounds, tangled in regrets, tightened by pride, looped around habits I couldn't break. When you’ve been stuck long enough, you start to believe you belong there. But God sends people—when we’ve lost the strength to move, too wounded to hope, too ashamed to ask. They came, simply to loosen the rope and say: “The Master needs you.” Me? The tied one? Hidden, hurting, half-hearted? Yes. Exactly me.

Then He came—just a presence like still water on a weary soul. He placed His presence upon me, as if to say: “You are enough. Even here. Even now.” He leaned into my silence. He made room for me in His journey. He companioned me. And in that closeness, I felt something sacred: my brokenness wasn’t a barrier—it was where He chose to begin. As I took one trembling step after another, I realized—He wasn’t just entering the city. He was entering my life.

And slowly, we come to see something deeper: sometimes we are the ones He sends. To find those still tied—not only by personal pain, but by injustice, violence, and indifference. To walk to the margins, where dignity is stripped and voices go unheard, and say with love: “The Master needs you.” To untie. To accompany. To carry Christ into broken spaces by simply being present. Because the road to the city of peace is shaped by those who carry hope to the forgotten, and healing to the bound.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

When Love Kneels Beside Us. (Luke 15: 11-32)

The temple—a place to seek God—became a courtroom that day. A woman was dragged to its center, her dignity stripped away. Accusers stood around her, stones in hand, ready to pass judgment. Blame took center stage, and God seemed pushed to the margins. But Jesus? He bent down.

He knelt to the ground, His fingers tracing the dust—the very dust from which we were made. In that silence, He met her not in her shame, but in her humanity. God was closest to the one who felt furthest away.

The temple was meant to be a place of encounter, yet the crowd failed to recognize God Himself in their midst. But the woman, in her brokenness, found the true temple—not in the walls around her, but in Jesus before her. He was the sacred space where mercy lived.

One by one, the accusers left. Their voices faded. Only Jesus remained. When everything else disappears—fear, judgment, failure —He remains. He didn’t erase her past, but He refused to let it define her. He didn’t speak of punishment, but of possibility: “Go and sin no more.” Not a burden, but an invitation—to live, to love, to begin again.

This is the God who bends low, who meets us in our dust, and lifts us with love. No matter where we’ve been, no matter what we’ve done—He kneels beside us, not to condemn, but to remind us: We are not our failures. We are His. And when we find ourselves standing alone, may we remember - Jesus remains.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM