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