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