The Colt, The Call, & the Cross

Word & Wisdom Wednesday | Palm Sunday Reflection | Matthiew 21:1–11

St. Joseph’s Spirituality Centre, Manhattan Beach, California | March 25, 2026

Dear Friends, 

On Palm Sunday, we use two gospel readings during the main celebration—one at the procession, and the other during the Mass. 

For your information, the one proclaimed during the Mass is usually the Passion narrative of our Lord according to any one of the three synoptic Gospels: Matthew, Mark, and Luke, chosen according to the liturgical year, A, B, or C. And again, we read the passion narrative once again on Good Friday, which is always taken from the Gospel of St. John.  

While each of these passion narratives is profound, full of details, and there is plenty to fathom and contemplate, my favorite Gospel text on Palm Sunday, true to the significance of the day, is the text we read at the beginning of the procession, remembering Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem.

So tonight, I invite you to focus your attention on that text, which we will now listen to. 

(The text is read contemplatively….  Mat. 21:1–11)

The Colt

I said the triumphant entry. But imagine the paradox. Jesus enters Jerusalem not on a mighty horse, not with fanfare that screams “look at me”, not with knights, not like a magical unicorn from the clouds…

He comes on a colt and a donkey, a small, ordinary, seemingly insignificant animal… Not only insignificant, but it is also devalued to the extent that when somebody does something seemingly stupid, we say, “Look, what a donkey he is.”)

Pause there. Because that’s where your story begins, too.

We have heard of Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer and how other reindeer laughed and called him names…We have heard of Mary saying, “How could it be… I am a mere handmaid of God”. We have heard of Mary and Joseph having not found a place in the inn, “They laid him in a manger…” We have heard of Jesus telling his disciples, “The foxes have holes, and the birds in the air have their nests. But the Son of Man has no place to lay his head”. And now, this same Lord chooses a colt to carry him in his triumphant entry into the city. 

What an irony. What a juxtaposition…What a paradox… It is what I love the most in today’s gospel, and there are so many of them in the synoptic gospels… Understanding them is essential, because it reveals who God really is, what he expects of us, what we really are, and what we are supposed to be and do…

So, let’s try to imagine ourselves in the place of that colt… You have no choice. You are tied up, overlooked, and probably thought of as unimportant. And yet, when Our Lord needs you, he sends his disciples to you… saying, “I need him/her.”

The Call

Need? Yes, He needs you. With all your strengths, gifts, skills, talents, hopes, and plans… with all your weaknesses, sorrows, ups and downs, limitations, and sinfulness, your past and your present, he needs you to become a vehicle for Him... 

Sometimes, it feels like life ties us up too much. Like we’re carrying too much pressure from school, work, family, friendships, relationships, and commitments. Maybe pain from the past, anxiety about the future, questions about who we really are. Some of us feel unseen, unheard, like the colt in a world that only notices winners and influencers.

And in a world like today’s, it doesn’t make it any easier either, where there is a care crisis, be it hunger, wars, injustice, people struggling to survive, deportations, and environmental crises. It’s a world filled with negative narratives… of misunderstandings, condemnations, judgments, untruth, and pride…

And perhaps it is where we feel lost… There seems to be more whys than answers… more wounding than binding… more tears than miracles… and more crucifixions than resurrections in our lives, in our families, neighborhoods, and in the world… 

And as Christians, that’s where our authentic call is: To be a positive narrative, to come up with positive narratives (as Pope Francis would say)… of compassion, healing, love, forgiveness… 

And it’s where we might feel vulnerable, lost, and ask the question, How can I make a difference?

Jesuit story of being available and willing…(Fr. Pedro Arrupe – Apostolic availability…)

The Cross

Here’s the good news: you don’t have to be extraordinary. You don’t have to have it all figured out. All that we need is to be available, just like that insignificant colt in the gospel. 

That’s the Ignatian way. God works not through the flashy, the powerful, or the perfect, or with wealth, power, and honor—but through the ordinary, the willing, the open-hearted, or the poverty, humility, and insult.  

So, if you are insulted, rejected, or ill-treated because you are spiritually poor, because you forgive, because you are humble, be content because “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise… what is weak in the world to shame the strong” (I Cor. 1.27).

And the world? The care crisis around us? It doesn’t need perfection. It needs availability. It needs people willing to show up, to care, to speak, to act, to love. In other words, it needs you.

The colt didn’t become something else before being chosen. It didn’t pretend. It didn’t have to prove its worth. It was just available… It just allowed itself to be untied; it just gave Jesus a chance; and that did all the magic.

And that’s your first invitation this Holy Week: be untied, and give Jesus a chance. Untie yourself from fear, shame, comparison, the need to be perfect, and that which you are afraid of giving up. Let Jesus/God sit on your life.

And when you let yourself be untied, and when God sits on you, remember—the road the colt carries Jesus on leads straight to the Cross. Palm branches today, loud Hosanna today, yes. But Crucifixion, terrifying “Crucify Him” shouts in a few days. That’s the reality. And it’s the same for us: following Christ means joy, yes—but also suffering, rejection, betrayal, denial, and constantly struggling to overcome our moments of temptations, trials, addictions, and desolation—the moments of doubt, confusion, despair, sorrow.

But here’s the difference: when you carry Christ, your struggles are not in vain…they are not meaningless: where there is a question, there also lies the answer … Tears come before miracles… The gold is tested by fire…There is no resurrection without crucifixion… Good Friday comes before Easter… 

Conclusion

So, hear this personally today: The Lord has need of you. He needs you… And in realizing that need and in giving Him a chance, believe me, and believe this mantra, “something beautiful is going to happen to me today…”

Not when you’re perfect. Not when your life is “together.” But now. With your questions, your struggles, your desire to make a difference. Let Him untie you. Let Him ride on your life. And carry Him into your world—into your campus, your relationships, especially the ones you find it hard to show mercy or forgive, your family, your community. Of course, with the promise that He transforms the road to the Cross into a road of resurrection, hope, and new life.

Reflection Prompts 

1.   The Colt: What is tying me down right now? What keeps me from freedom—fear, habits, shame, resentment, or expectation.

2.   The Call: Where is Christ calling me to be available and carry Him in daily life? Hear Him saying, “I need you.” Could it be a relationship, a work situation, a conversation, a family moment, or a place of pain around you?

3.   The Cross: How can I respond to the care crisis in the world, at least during this week? Pick one concrete action (a call, a visit, a simple act of kindness, or caring for creation) and offer it as your way of carrying Christ.

Crowd or Conscience | Daily Reflection

Crowd or Conscience

Today’s readings place before us two women standing in the middle of a crowd. In Susanna’s story in the Book of Daniel, two elders—men entrusted with authority and justice—allow lust and power to corrupt their conscience. They manipulate the legal system and public opinion to condemn an innocent woman. Yet Susanna refuses to compromise her integrity. “It is better for me to fall into your power without guilt than to sin before the Lord.” Her courage is quiet but profound. She entrusts herself to God, and in time, God raises an unexpected voice—young Daniel—to reveal the truth.

The Gospel of John presents a similar scene. An unnamed woman caught in adultery is dragged before Jesus. Again, the crowd is ready to condemn. But this time, Jesus shifts the focus. Instead of examining the woman’s sin alone, he invites everyone to examine their own hearts: “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” One by one, the accusers leave. The crowd dissolves when confronted with the truth.

Both instances become mirrors through which we see the human heart: not only its capacity to stand with the crowd, overshadow truth by power, and for injustice, but also its capacity for mercy. In many places today—where those with authority distort the truth to protect themselves, and misinformation spreads faster than justice—how familiar these two events sound in our world. Too often, we stand comfortably among the crowd, quick to judge, slow to reflect. We throw stones with our words, our assumptions, our silence in the face of injustice. In a world filled with public accusations, political polarization, wars, and deep divisions—where people are judged instantly in the courts of social media and public opinion, and the temptation to condemn is strong and convenient— Jesus bends down and writes on the ground, almost giving humanity a moment to pause, breathe, and look inward. 

Lent invites us precisely into this space of examination. It reminds us not only of “giving things up” but also of “loving the way Jesus does” because justice without mercy becomes cruelty, and truth without humility becomes arrogance.

Hence, let’s ask ourselves,

1.     When have I stood among the crowd, quick to judge others without examining my own conscience?

2.     In moments of injustice or false accusation in the world around me, do I remain silent, or do I dare to be a voice like Daniel?

3.     During this Lenten journey, what “stones” of judgment, resentment, or pride is Christ inviting me to drop so that mercy may take their place?

 

"Jesus Wept": The Compassionate Heart of God

Alumni Lenten Retreat Talk | Loyola Marymount Unvierity, Los Angeles

My dear sisters and brothers,

Among the shortest verses in the Bible, one stands out with immense power: “Jesus wept.” In today’s Gospel, the raising of Lazarus (John 11:35), we encounter this deeply moving moment.

It is striking, even shocking, when we pause to think about it.

Jesus knows what is about to happen. He knows Lazarus will rise. He knows the tomb will not have the last word. Yet, He still weeps.

Why would God weep?

This is the first point for our reflection: the shock of a weeping God. Often, we imagine God as distant, untouchable, almost immune to human suffering. But here we see something very different. Jesus does not bypass human pain. He does not stand above it. Instead, He enters into it. He allows Himself to be affected by the grief of Mary and Martha, by the tears of the community, by the reality of death that wounds human hearts.

This moment reveals something very important about God. God is not indifferent. The heart of God is moved. The theology we often discuss in abstract terms becomes very tender here. The Sacred Heart of Jesus is not stoic or cold; it is a heart wounded by love. Love makes the heart vulnerable. Love allows itself to feel.

In a sense, our own hearts become a kind of tabernacle where God chooses to dwell. Just as God chose humble places—the crib of Bethlehem, the broken city of Jerusalem, an ordinary tomb to lay down—God also chooses our hearts. Sometimes those hearts are joyful, but often they are also wounded, confused, or tired. Yet God enters them.

Jesus weeps because He sees Mary’s grief. He sees the pain of the sisters. He sees the sorrow of the crowd. But beyond that moment, He also sees the suffering of humanity itself—the poor, the marginalized, the forgotten. Jesus’ tears are the tears of a God who refuses to remain untouched by the human condition.

This is very close to what Pope Francis constantly reminds us about mercy. Mercy is not just a theological concept or a beautiful word in a homily. Mercy is God’s response to human misery. God sees our weakness, our sin, our brokenness, and He responds not with condemnation but with compassion. Pope Francis often says, “God never grows tired of forgiving; we are the ones who grow tired of asking.”

In the story of Lazarus, we also notice something else about Jesus. He does not rush. When He hears that Lazarus is sick, He does not immediately run to Bethany. When He arrives, He listens. He asks questions. He speaks to Martha. He encounters Mary. And finally, He stands before the tomb.

That moment is very powerful: Jesus standing before the tomb. Each of us also has our own “tombs.” These are the places in our lives where hope seems buried. Sometimes it is a relationship that feels broken beyond repair. Sometimes it is a deep disappointment, a failure, a wound we carry silently. Sometimes it is a loss we have never fully processed. Sometimes it is a part of ourselves we believe cannot change.

The question for us today is very simple but very personal: Where do I need Jesus to stand before my tombs? Like Mary and Mary, where in my life do I feel the story is already finished?

In the spirituality of St. Ignatius of Loyola, we often speak about consolation and desolation. Consolation is when we feel close to God, when hope and love are alive within us, and when there is assuredness, clarity, and joy in us. Desolation is when we are in doubt, confusion, sadness, we feel distant, discouraged, or spiritually dry.

Sometimes Jesus seems late. Martha even says it clearly: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. ”Many of us have probably prayed something similar: “Lord, where were you? Why didn’t you come sooner?” Yet in God’s mysterious timing, even death itself becomes the place where God reveals His glory.

Please keep in mind: before Lazarus walks out of the tomb, Jesus wept. The miracle does not erase the tears. The tears come before the miracle.

And perhaps that is the message we need today. God does not erase our pain by pretending it does not exist. Instead, He enters it. He stands beside us. He cries with us.

So, as the event of Lazarus reminds us that even in moments of desolation—when everything seems dark and final—God is still present and working. All we need to do is be patient, do not rush, and give God a chance. Trust in God and trust in the inspirations and resources gathered in moments of consolation like this retreat. Keep in mind, desolation is temporary, and it will pass away. But consolation is lasting, and it will surely return.

And so, when we look at our world today—with all its misunderstandings, condemnations, judgments, wars, injustice, untruth, and pride—we can almost imagine the same scene repeating itself.

Jesus, who once wept, is standing before the tomb of our wounded lives, families, humanity, and He still weeps.

He weeps in our hearts.
He weeps in our families.
He weeps in the Church.
He weeps in our wounded world

He weeps in our leaders in their judgments, condemnations, untruth, and pride.

He weeps for victims of injustice, violence, and war.
He weeps for the poor and forgotten.
He weeps for hearts hardened by pride and fear.

But the story does not end with tears.

Standing before the tomb, Jesus finally cries out with a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!” The God who weeps is also the God who calls us back to life. (And we are going to focus on that in our next talk).

But remember, before Lazarus walked out, Jesus first called him by name. That is how God works. He does not deal with crowds; He calls persons. He calls each of us personally, lovingly, patiently.

And perhaps today, in the silence of this retreat, the Lord is standing before one of the tombs in your life. Not with condemnation, but with compassion. Not with impatience, but with tears. Not with judgment, but with hope.

And He is ready to speak life again.

So, as we end this reflection, let us take a moment of silence and ask ourselves:

1. Where does Jesus weep in my Life?

2. If Jesus were to call my name today—inviting me to step out of fear, hurt, or desolation—what is the stone I must allow Him to roll away?

    

Make America God's Again | Daily Reflection

To read the texts click on the texts: Jer 7:23-28;Lk11:14-23

Today, the Word of God confronts us with a very simple but unsettling invitation:

While the first reading, in the book of Jeremiah, God says, “Listen to my voice… then I will be your God, and you shall be my people.” (Jeremiah 7:23).

The psalm echoes the same plea: “If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.”

And then in the Gospel, Jesus sharpens this point even further, saying, “Whoever is not with me (in other words, whoever does not listen to my voice and does not do my Father’s will) is against me.”

While these words invite us to make a choice, to decide whose side we are on, they could sound specifically urgent and perhaps threatening in a moment like this.

We live in a time of deep division—nations against nations, communities against communities, ideologies against ideologies— polarizations, discriminations, wars, weapons, distrust, and where fear has become a kind of silent policy.

But the Gospel asks a deeper question: Whose kingdom are we building?

Saint Ignatius invites us to think about this in the contemplation on the Two Standards in the Spiritual Exercises as: The kingdom of the devil marked by Riches, Pride, and Honor, or the Kingdom of Christ characterized by exactly the opposites: Poverty (both spiritual/physical), Humility, and Contempt.

Even though it is highly tempting to apply these standards immediately to our current politics or society, it nevertheless applies to our hearts as well.

We cannot claim to build the kingdom of Christ, who is the Prince of Peace, while quietly accepting a culture that glorifies violence, domination, wars, and the power of division and the sword.

And Jesus is very clear elsewhere in the Gospel: “Those who take the sword will perish by the sword.”

Violence may promise security, but in the end, it only multiplies suffering. And wherever there is suffering in the world, there is no real peace. And where there is no peace, no one is truly free.

Think about the places in the world today where bombs fall as we speak. In those places, there may be victory or defeat, but there is also suffering, pain, losses, bloodshed, and rarely peace.

And this is where the Lenten invitation becomes very concrete. It invites us not just to “giving things up”. But very much also to love differently, to love like the way Jesus did and would do even today.

In other words, it is an invitation to give Jesus/God a chance. It is about deciding again whose side we want to be on, because Jesus says today: “Anyone who is not with me is against me.”

This “to be with Christ” means to stand with Him who heals, not with the powers that wound. It means believing

that radical humility is stronger than pride,

that love is stronger than fear,

that forgiveness is stronger than vengeance,

that mercy is stronger than violence,

and that conversation is more powerful than weapons of mass destruction.

Only when we take God’s side in this way can we truly become God’s people. Applying it to our own context, it is only then that we could (let me be the first one to say this) Make America God’s Again, if you need a different take on the M A G A.

So today, let’s ask ourselves these simple questions, both individually and collectively:

Whose side do I stand on currently?

Am I willing to give God a chance?

In so doing, am I willing to make my life, my family, my community, my country, and America, God’s again?

Quench Him & Be Quenched | Sunday Homily

To read the texts click on the texts: Ex17:3-7; Rm 5:1-2, 5-8; Jn 4:5-42

Dear Sisters and Brothers,

On this Third Sunday of Lent, we find ourselves at a well.

In the Bible, as much as we know from our own local traditions, wells are places of encounter — and very often, they end in marriage.

Think of the Old Testament:In the Book of Genesis 24, Abraham sends his servant to find a wife for his son Issac, and the servant prays for a sign at a well. Rebekha arrives and offers water to him and his camels. This act of hospitality confirms that she is chosen.
In Genesis 29, Jacob arrives in Haran and meets Rachel at a well covered by a stone, and he helps uncover the stone—and they fall in love.
In Book of Exodus 2, Moses meets the daughters of Jethro at a well in Midian—and later he marries one of them, Zipporah.

So, in Scripture, when you see a well, you almost expect a wedding.

So, when Jesus sits by the well in Samaria and asks a woman for a drink, every Jewish listener, including his disciples, who were rightly amazed at seeing him talking to a woman at the well, would recognize this pattern.

But this marriage is different. It is a love story. But not the kind we expect.

Jesus is not looking for a bride in the romantic sense. He is revealing Himself as the Bridegroom of her human soul.

Jesus sees the woman completely and knows her past fully well. And yet — He does not shame her. He names her brokenness — but He does not reject her. He not only reveals her thirst but also offers her the living water.

This is the difference. At other wells, a man meets a woman, and love begins through attraction and promise. Here, love begins through truth and mercy.

See the paradox: while it is Jesus who asks for water, it is the woman who is quenched of her thirst.

So, dear sisters and brothers,

Lent is like coming to the well.

We come with our thirst – from our various walks of life… from mountains of transfigurations, glory, and lights, to our deserts of temptations, doubts, confusions, and struggle, as we have seen last weeks; from our Jordans of clarity, assuredness, identity, to our calvaries of suffering, hunger, misunderstanding, rejection as we are eventually going to see in the coming week.

But with Christ as our well, the Well of Truth, we realize something essential, and that is where the divine romance happens.

That’s where the Samaritan woman leaves her water jar behind — a symbol of her old thirsts— and runs to the village with a new thirst.

She becomes the first missionary in John’s Gospel. This is what falling in love with Christ truly is.

The Samaritan woman’s life does not instantly become simple. But her heart changes because she has encountered Someone who sees her fully and loves her anyway.

This is the heart of Lent.

We are not simply “giving things up.” We are learning to love differently.

We are learning to love Jesus, who not only says “Give me some water to drink” at the well, but also who cries, “I thirst” on the Cross.

Today, we are living in a complex moment in American history and in the world. There is polarization, uncertainty, social tensions, economic anxiety, wars, and deep cultural shifts. Many people are tired. Many are thirsty. And Jesus is thirsty. Christ remains seated at the well, and he is thirsty. He remains hanging on the Cross, and her is thirsty.

It is tempting to react with fear. With anger. With withdrawal.

But the Gospel today invites us into something deeper:

Not just moral reform—but love.

Not to condemn—but to converse.
Not to strike—but to heal.
Not to accuse—but to invite.

Today, imagine yourself at that well.

Jesus looks at you—at your history, your struggles, your unspoken fears, about the future of this country, the Church, this world.

And He says: “Give me a drink.”Will you quench his thirst today,