Pilgrim progress- a disciple on a journey!

Sometimes we need precisely that moment where we catch a glimpse of our own reflection and realise that the face that looks back at us is sad, tired and confused and needs to be hydrated from the wellspring of life, the encounter with Living Water, Jesus Christ. After the encounter with Jesus at the well, the Samaritan woman becomes a well-woman. Then, the reflection which she sees is that of a beloved child of God, beloved of the Father. It took a while for her to get to that place where she could feel that. Yet, without realising it, she is like the empty water jug which she carries. It is ready to be filled. She is a container to be filled with the living water which gushes forth from the wellsprings of life. First she hesitates, she focuses on the law. Jesus focuses on grace. Jews weren't supposed to speak to Samaritans. More so, men weren't permitted to address women without their husbands present. And "You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman," she reminded...

Each Sunday of Lent catapults us into a different stage of Christian journey. From the desert of temptation in last week's liturgy, we move to the Mount of Transfiguration. The desert is a place of passage to get to our destination. No-one aspires to live in the desert. Peter, James and John try to stay on Mount Tabor: "Lord, it is good for us to stay here, let us build three tents." But similarly, the mountain is not the destination. We move onwards, fortified by the experience of being with Jesus. There is a small but very significant phrase: "The disciples looked up and saw  only Jesus ." Only Jesus. Are we able to see 'only Jesus'? ? Are we able to live only for Jesus? Is all that matters to us, only Jesus? How different would our lives be if our permanent focus was only Jesus, the measuring stick for all that we do, the moral, spiritual and emotional compass in our lives? But this would mean making changes in our lives. Filtering through all the clu...

  On the first Sunday of Lent, when ash still lingers like memory on the brow, the wilderness opens— not only of sand and stone, but of the heart. Forty days echo the footsteps of Jesus Christ walking into hunger, into heat that shimmers like doubt, into silence sharp as flint. And there— the whisperer, the questioner, Satan with a voice smooth as river-worn rock: “If you are— if you are— if you are…” Who are you? Whose are you? Identity pressed like a bruise. Prove it in bread. Prove it in spectacle. Prove it in power. But hunger is not lord. Applause is not crown. Dominion is not destiny. “I am,” answers not with thunder, but with trust— with words older than the desert wind, with a Name deeper than appetite. Angels do not arrive until the last lie thins into dust. Only when refusal blooms like a stubborn flower in wasteland. On this first Sunday of Lent we walk that wilderness too— where every mirror asks who we are without the bread, without the ledge, without the throne. And ...

As 2025 folds into memory, I am grateful— for memories, for experiences, for encounters. We said goodbye— to family, to friends, to Sisters, to those whose pilgrimage on this earth is complete. Their absence feels like a quiet room, waiting, still, softly echoing. We said hello— to a Jubilee of hope, of mercy, of remembering what it means to walk as seeker, follower, disciple. A year of hope, a gentle flame, lighting hearts, calling names. A Jubilee for all— the young, the old, families, the servants, the struggling, the curious, the doubting. All roads lead to Rome, to the unforgettable stillness of a million young souls in Eucharistic Adoration, in a field. Goodbye to Pope Francis, pilgrim to the end, who goes home to the Father, amidst Easter bells still ringing the Resurrexit song. Hello to Pope Leo, who takes the wheel, guiding St. Peter’s Barque with quiet strength and steadfast heart. A month with our silver jubilarians— listening, learning, walking slowly together, bringing us ...

In the old rite of the Mass, at the time of the consecration the priest would lean over on the altar, almost as if he was leaning on the heart of Christ. Even today, some priests still carry out this gesture. This is a beautiful thought because the most powerful heartbeat of Christ is heard when we come and receive Him in the Eucharist and sit with Him in silent Adoration before his Eucharistic presence. St. Augustine tells us that: “Because God has made us for Himself, our hearts are restless until they rest in Him.”  To enter God’s Heart, to rest on His heart, takes only a moment of quiet prayer. These moments will make a difference.  The first biography of a saint which I read was that of St. Faustina. Actually, it was her diary on Divine Mercy. I was about 17 years old and it really touched my soul and placed within me a deep desire for holiness and have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. From the Christ Child, St. Faustina learned a most important lesson for her ...

  There is absolutely nothing we can do on Holy Saturday, and that is the point. It is a day of desolation and nothingness, a day of darkness and utter emptiness. The day is and should be the most calm and quiet day of the entire Church year, a day broken by no liturgical function. Christ lies in the grave, the Church sits near and mourns. After the great battle He is resting in peace, but upon Him we see the scars of intense suffering. The mortal wounds on His Body remain visible.  There is nothing to do now except wait… and waiting is the hardest part in this digital and instant age. Holy Saturday is the silent pause between what we have done and what God will do – what only God can do. On this day God is silent, yet God is still at work. Scripture tells us Holy Saturday is the day Christ descended and ministered to those in Hades, or the place of the dead. This is not a trivial or side matter, which is why “He descended to the dead” finds mention in the Apostles’ Creed. Chr...