What is Holding You Back? (Luke 12:13-21)

In today’s Gospel, Jesus invites us with a gentle but firm word: “Be on your guard. “Not just against money or possessions, but against anything that steals our peace and keeps our hearts small. He doesn’t say someone else will watch over us. We are to be our own guard. We are the best judges of what we are clinging to, of what fills our minds, our hands, and our hearts. We live in a world that is constantly holding onto land, to power, to name, to position. We see wars like in Gaza, families broken over inheritance, and tensions even within religious life, where titles or roles become more important than relationship or mission. The deep need to say “This is mine” can take over our way of thinking and living.

I’m often reminded of a quote I love: “We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children. “It reminds me of how little we truly “own,” and how easily we forget that everything we have is borrowed and entrusted to us for a time.

In today’s gospel, the rich man’s story is small: “I, me, and mine.” His wealth is plentiful, but his imagination is poor. He speaks only to himself. He never asks: “Who is this for? “What is enough?” Whose life is being changed by what I have?” The tragedy is that he never truly lived, not in relationship, not in gratitude, not in purpose. He had barns full of goods, but a soul starving for meaning. This parable is not about wealth, but about what we do with what we have, how we live, how we love, how we let go.

Even in religious life, we are not immune. Slowly, subtly, things are beginning to creep in: The position we hold becomes our identity. We define our worth by our title, influence, or role. We cling to the past -old ways of doing things, old assumptions about relevance and recognition. We fear letting go, because so much of who we believe we are tied to what we do. We grow complacent, choosing comfort over courage, routine over renewal. We settle into mediocrity, calling it “faithfulness. “Today let us ask ourselves.

How often do we do the same? From where do my choices flow? What am I holding that is holding me back? Is my identity anchored in Christ—or in the position I hold? Am I truly free inside? “Tonight, your life will be demanded of you...And what story will you leave behind?”

-  Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

The Ache that makes us Seek (Luke 11:1-13)

The word “seeker” has always stirred something in me, a quiet fire. A whisper from beyond the edges of my understanding. A pull that cannot be explained. It’s not about finding something lost. It’s about responding to something already present, pressing against the walls of my soul. There are moments in life when we witness something so quietly beautiful, it awakens a thirst we didn’t know we carried. The disciples saw Him praying. Just being lost in silent communion. Something in that stillness stirred something ancient in them. A longing. homesickness for something they couldn’t name.

And one of them finally said it: “Lord, teach us to pray. “This is where all true seeking begins, not with the head, but with the ache. A seeker is drawn by what is already present but deeper than we’ve ever touched. In today's gospel passage, we meet different seekers.

The first is the disciple-whose seeking begins by simply noticing. A longing born from witnessing intimacy that calls their spirit home.

The second is the midnight wanderer—not knocking for himself, but seeking bread for another. His cupboards are empty, but his heart is awake. This is the kind of seeker Jesus honours—the one who dares to step out at midnight, with nothing but trust and longing.

There is a sacred ache in this passage. In the disciple watching and aching. In the midnight friend, knocking and pleading. In the restless heart, searching and stretching. All of them caught in that beautiful tension between emptiness and desire between the door and the One who opens it. Beneath them all is the same holy ache:” Let me come closer. Let me belong. Let me be with You.” And Jesus does not silence that longing. He welcomes it. He blesses it. He becomes the door that opens.

Let us always believe in the words of Rumi “What you seek is seeking you”.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM 

 

Martha and Mary: Two Ways to Love (Luke 10:38-42)

Jesus entered a village. He came to a house. To people who knew Him by name. To a place where He could breathe, and be held in the ordinary comfort of friendship. Martha met Him at the door, welcomed Him. She wanted everything to be right. Because sometimes, when someone we love visits, we work extra hard to prove we care. Mary did something else. She sat at His feet. She gave Him her attention, her eyes, her stillness. No performance. Just presence. Her welcome was not in what she did, but in the way she gazed at Him, as if He was the only one in the room. Stillness became her gift. Both loved Him. Both wanted Him to feel at home. Martha, tired and alone in her efforts, came to Jesus with the full truth of her heart. And in her complaint is something precious — trust. She runs to Jesus like a child runs to a parent when things feel unfair. Jesus will all his gentleness called her name.  “Martha, Martha. “Like someone who knew her deeply. Like someone who wanted her to come back to herself. He was not asking her to stop. He was inviting her to pause. To remember that His presence is not something to earn but something to receive.

This isn’t a story about choosing one way over another. It’s a reminder that both sisters live within us. Inside our inner space, we carry both Martha and Mary. Sometimes, we are like Mary. We welcome Jesus with joy. We sit quietly. We listen. We feel His presence. At other times, we are like Martha. We are busy. We are distracted

And even today, when Jesus enters the village of our lives, He’s still looking for that: Not a perfectly prepared house, but a heart that knows how to pause. A soul that says, “I’m here, Lord. I see You. I choose to stay close.”

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

The Road Between Two Worlds (Luke 10:25-37)

Jesus tells a story that unfolds on a road — a road between Jerusalem and Jericho, between religion and everyday life, between what we believe and how we choose to live. it becomes a space between two ways of being — between knowing and doing, between comfort and compassion. The priest and the Levite are on that road. They know God’s laws, say prayers, serve in the temple. But when they see the man who is hurt and bleeding, they walk past him He is not clean. He is not part of their duties. He is not convenient. And so, they do not let his pain disturb their plans. They stay at a distance and keep going. What they may not see is that the wounded man, though not inside a temple, carries a temple within him. His pain holds sacredness. His brokenness still matters.

Then a Samaritan comes along he is someone others often look down on, someone who knows what rejection feels like. He stops. He draws close. He gives his time, his care, his kindness. He simply allows himself to be moved. This story isn’t only about helping; it’s about noticing, it’s about crossing over the lines we draw and the lines between “us” and “them,” between thought and action, between speaking of love and living it. That road still runs through our world today. We pass by many the poor, the lonely, the forgotten, and the Earth herself, tired and wounded those left by the side of our attention and concern.

And there are still many quiet crossings we are invited to make: from prayers to presence, from words to action, from division to dignity, from silence to honesty, from ideas to care, from safety to courage. Maybe the story is gently asking: Where am I walking? Where do I pause, and where do I pass by? At the end, Jesus simply says, “Go and do the same.” Maybe he is just inviting us to notice more, to cross over more often, and to trust that mercy is always worth the step.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

The Harvest of the Heart (Luke 10:1-12,17-20)

When Jesus says the harvest is plentiful but the labourers are few, we often think of religious vocations or missionary life. But maybe Jesus was pointing to something more universal, something deeply human. The world today is filled with pain and restlessness. There is war, injustice, disasters and silent suffering everywhere. What the world needs most is not just people in religious roles, but people with open hearts, people who are kind, compassionate, listener and authentic. Jesus did not choose experts or saints. He simply sent people out two by two. Ordinary people. What mattered was their heart. He told them to travel light. That does not only mean to carry less luggage, but also to let go of heavy thoughts, old hurts and rigid opinions. Go free. Go open. Go with love. Let the Spirit show you the way.

To be sent by Jesus today means to walk into everyday life with a heart that listens, eyes that see deeply and a presence that gives peace. The message is not in the words we speak but in the way we live. Not in doing big things, but in doing small things with care. Not in being perfect, but in being truly present.

And when Jesus says rejoice that your names are written in heaven, perhaps He is saying this — how do the people you meet remember you? Do they remember someone who made them feel seen, someone who stood with them, someone who brought a little light? That is the real meaning of a name written in heaven. written in hearts. And maybe being sent two by two is also a reminder that we are not meant to walk alone. We are made for connection. We are meant to support one another and to walk with gentleness. Go with someone. Go with love. Go with a human heart. That is where the kingdom of God begins.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM