The Banquet of Unconditional Love ( Luke 14:7-14 )

A banquet is more than food on the table. It is a moment of togetherness, of joy, of hearts opening in celebration. Yet Jesus reminds us that life becomes a true banquet only when our giving is free—without condition, without expectation of return. So often, however, our giving is tied with return. Parents quietly hope that in their old age their children will take care of them. Children look for constant support and affirmation from their parents. Friends expect their kindness to be remembered. Even in small acts of service, we long for appreciation. In subtle ways, we are tied to recognition, security, and honour. Our generosity becomes measured, and our love begins to carry conditions.

 

But Jesus calls us beyond this—into the freedom of selfless love. This freedom is rooted in humility. And humility is not weakness, nor a self-pitying “poor me.” True humility is strength—the courage to give without seeking recognition, to love without fear of losing security, to serve without chasing honour. As C. S. Lewis wisely said: “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less.”

 

Creation itself mirrors this truth. The river does not drink its own water. The tree does not eat its own fruit. The flower does not bloom for itself. Their life and beauty are always for others. In this quiet, constant giving, creation reveals the richness of God’s banquet.

 

And God’s banquet is always inclusive—no one is left out. At the table, we are called to listen not only to spoken words but also to the unspoken silences: the shy voice that hesitates, the burden that goes unnamed, the pain hidden in a smile. To make space for both self and others—that is the spirit of the banquet of the Kingdom.

 

When we dare to live in this way—untied from recognition, security, and honour—our lives become a feast of grace. Joy deepens, love multiplies, and the ordinary tables of our daily living shine with the beauty of God’s Kingdom.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

 

A Journey of Freedom through the Narrow Door (Luke 13:22-30)

Jesus was on His way to Jerusalem — a journey deep into the heart of God’s love. Along the way, someone asked Him: “Lord, will only a few be saved?” It’s the kind of question we often ask in different ways: Am I good enough? Have I done enough? What more should I do to be saved?

Jesus does not answer with measures of goodness. Instead, He points to a door — a narrow door. Not narrow to keep us out, but narrow because we cannot pass through carrying all the baggage we cling to: the resentments we nurse, the wounds we refuse to release, the unforgiveness that weighs us down. These cannot fit through. To walk through that door, we must let go, not only of our hurts but even of our illusions about ourselves. Salvation is not only about the end of life, but about the now. It is about the choices we make in the ordinariness of today — whether we choose to love, to forgive, to trust, to stand with the small and hidden.

Then come those piercing words: “I do not know you.” At first, they sound like rejection. But what if they are really words of grief? The aching voice of a friend: “I wanted to know you… but you never let me in.” Our world often celebrates what is big, visible, clever, and successful. Jesus tells us the first will be last and the last first — because true joy is found in standing with those at the margins. In the silence of such moments, in the hidden companionship of those who are least, God is already there waiting.

Margaret Silf tells a story of a traveller who reaches a narrow mountain pass. She is burdened with bags filled with souvenirs collected along the way, each one reminding her of hurts, losses, and past regrets. The pass is so narrow she cannot squeeze through. At first, she despairs. Then slowly, one by one, she lays the bags down , each release both painful and liberating. At last, empty-handed, she steps through the narrow place into a wide, breath-taking valley filled with light. What she thought was loss becomes freedom.

The journey of Jesus to Jerusalem invites us into that same freedom: to travel light, to trust the narrow way, to allow ourselves to be known , fully and tenderly by the One who is always longing to walk beside us.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM 

 

When Fire Becomes Freedom (Luke 12:49-53)

Jesus begins with fire. Anyone reading today’s gospel passage might wonder, what kind of God talks about bringing fire? Isn’t God meant to bring peace, comfort, and calm? But when I think of the fire Jesus is talking about, I am reminded of a story. For years, a little village lived under a permanent fog. It was not ordinary mist. It was thick, heavy, and strangely comforting. People learned to move slowly and feel their way around. They built their homes close together so no one had to walk far. They told themselves, “This is the safest way to live.” One night, a traveller arrived carrying a torch. The fire was small, but in the fog, it looked like a miracle. He held it high, and for the first time in living memory, people could see beyond a few feet. They could see their neighbours’ faces, the cracks in the walls, and the piles of rubbish in the corners. Some gasped in awe. “This is freedom! We can finally see where we are going.”

But others pulled back. “Put it out! We don’t want to see all that mess. The fog keeps us peaceful.” The traveller did not argue. He simply said, “I didn’t come to make you comfortable. I came so you can choose. Now you know what is here and what could be beyond the fog.” That night, the village split. Some followed the traveller into the open, toward the mountains they had only heard about in stories. Others stayed behind, holding tightly to the soft safety of the fog. The fire did not destroy the village. It revealed it.

This is the kind of fire Jesus is talking about. It is not to burn the world down but to show the difference between truth and illusion, between life and what is already dying. It reveals the truth about ourselves, the truth about others, and the truth about the world. It brings to light what we would rather hide: the rubble of Gaza’s homes, the children thin from hunger, the silent systems that allow this while other live in abundance, the refugee camps in Sudan where families wait in uncertainty, and the countless victims of human trafficking whose cries go unheard. The division Jesus speaks of is this very thing: the difference between those who can accept the truth, even when it is frightening and uncomfortable, and those who turn away to stay in the safety of complacency.

The fog can feel safe—in denial, in distraction, in compromise—but it is only an illusion. Once the fire of Christ has burned through it, there is no going back. We stand at a crossroads. We can step into the open and follow the light, even when it means change, or we can return to the comfort of the fog and pretend it is enough. If we choose the fire, we do not walk alone. For the same light that reveals our brokenness also shows the path to hope, to healing, and to a world remade in love.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

Faithfulness in the Hidden places (Luke 12:32–48)

“Fear not, little flock…” Jesus begins with intimacy, not instruction. He calls us His little flock, small, vulnerable, but precious. Before He speaks of duty, of masters and servants, of rewards and beatings, He speaks like a shepherd to sheep: tenderly, lovingly, reassuringly. He has chosen to entrust us with the Kingdom. And trust always carries responsibility. He tells us, “Make money bags that do not grow old.” That is, live a life whose worth doesn’t fade with time, a life rooted in love, integrity, and eternal value. Then He adds: “Be dressed for action. Keep your lamps burning.”

There’s a space in each of us the world doesn’t see. Psychologists speak about the Johari Window. In that one quadrant holds what no one knows, not friends, not family, not even those who walk with us daily. Only we know. And God. It is there, in that secret space, that today’s Gospel knocks. Because Jesus isn’t just asking: Are you doing good things? He’s asking: Are you being faithful in the unseen? Are you awake, even in the room no one else enters?

Here is a story, In the Middle Ages, a group of stonemasons worked for decades on a towering cathedral. One man spent his life carving intricate angels into the highest pillars—details no one on the ground would ever see. When someone asked why he gave such care to what no human eye would notice, the craftsman replied, “Because God sees. And I want Him to find beauty even in the hidden places. “That’s the heart of this Gospel. This is the hard truth: we can appear faithful and still be asleep.

We can know the Master’s will and still delay it. And when we do, Jesus says, the consequences are real, to know the Master’s will and not live it brings a deeper wound. Not because God punishes, but because we were loved enough to be entrusted, and chose to ignore that gift. But the punishment is not the same for all. The one who knows and refuses will be held more accountable than the one who didn’t know. Knowledge is responsibility. Today, the Gospel invites us to reflect on:

What do we do with what we know—about God, about justice, about our own hearts? And even more: What kind of people are we becoming when no one is watching? When applause is gone? When the room is silent? When it’s just us—and the Master? Let us live like those stonemasons. Carving faithfulness even into the hidden corners of our lives.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM