From Palms to the Cross: The Cost and Courage of Discipleship

 Palm Sunday, Year C

What do Jesus entering Jerusalem and St. Oscar Romero speaking truth to power have in common? Both were praised by crowds—then rejected when their message became uncomfortable. This Palm Sunday reflection invites us to consider the real cost of discipleship and the courage it takes to follow Christ all the way to the cross—and beyond.

Listen to homily here:  

When I was a teen, I watched the movie Romero, which tells the story of the Salvadoran bishop Oscar Romero—now canonized as a saint. In the late 1970s, Romero was appointed bishop. At first, he was widely respected by all—people in government, church leaders, and both the rich and poor. But over time, Romero began to see more clearly the injustice and oppression around him, often inflicted on the people by a violent regime. He could no longer stay silent. He began to speak out boldly against the violence and the suffering of the poor.

As a result, he was soon targeted by the government. On March 24, 1980, while celebrating Mass, Oscar Romero was shot and killed. He became a modern-day martyr—an example of someone who followed the path of Jesus, the same path we begin today on Palm Sunday and continue through Holy Week and into Easter.

Like the story of Jesus, the story of Oscar Romero begins with praise but moves quickly into persecution. Romero was not always rejected—he was once praised by almost everyone. But after the assassination of his close friend, Fr. Rutilio Grande, Romero’s eyes were opened. He began to see the injustice for what it was. And he had a choice. He chose the difficult path: to speak out, even when he knew it would cost him.

This is also the story of Jesus. At the beginning of Mass today, we heard how the crowds welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem with joyful acclaim. They waved palm branches. They likely believed He was a political or military leader, like Judas Maccabeus—whom we read about in the Books of Maccabees. About 150 years before Jesus, Judas Maccabeus led a revolt against the Greek ruler Antiochus IV. He raised an army, drove out the oppressors, and entered Jerusalem in triumph. The people waved palm branches to celebrate his victory.

Many likely thought Jesus was another such figure—a Messiah who would overthrow the Romans and restore Israel’s independence. But Jesus was not that kind of Messiah. He came not to raise an army, but to serve the poor. He spoke truth to power. He took the violence of the world upon Himself, bore it to the cross, and broke its power.

At first, the crowd praised Him. They called Him king and waved palms. But when they saw what kind of king He truly was—when they realized He called them to live justly, to love their enemies, to forgive—then they turned on Him. They called for His death and demanded the release of a criminal instead. Even His closest friends abandoned Him.

The story of Oscar Romero is like the story of Jesus. It moves from praise to persecution. And as disciples, our lives often follow the same pattern. There is great joy in following Christ—we experience it in the celebrations of our parish, in baptisms and weddings, in community dinners and cultural festivals. There is real joy in being part of this family of faith.

But there is also a cost. Following Jesus is not always easy. Sometimes it’s as simple as choosing prayer when we don’t feel like it, or coming to Mass when we’re tired. Sometimes it’s resisting peer pressure, refusing to gossip, being honest when it would be easier not to. Sometimes it means going against trends, choosing to give rather than to consume, to help the poor, to support the Church, to live generously.

At times, the cost is even greater—like it was for Oscar Romero. Toward the end of his life, he knew the government was trying to silence him. Yet he kept speaking out. One month before his death, Romero said: “If they kill me, I shall rise again in the Salvadoran people.” And indeed, his sacrifice helped bring about peace and justice in his country, though it took time.

The way of Christ does not end in death. Holy Week does not stop at Good Friday. The cross leads to resurrection. Jesus’ death brought life to the world. The cost of His life brought salvation to all of us.

So yes, following Jesus costs something. But it also brings goodness, hope, and new life—to us and to those around us.

Today we hold palms. Many people held palms when Jesus entered Jerusalem. But we have a choice: will we be like those who praised Him and later walked away? Or will we follow Him all the way to the cross—and beyond?

Let us pray that we, like Saint Oscar Romero, may walk the life-giving path of Jesus, even when it is difficult.

Called by Name, Not by Sin

5 Sunday Lent, year C

John 8:1–11

Jesus shows us that mercy isn’t earned—it’s a gift that restores dignity and life. In contrast to the religious leaders who use a woman’s sin to trap Jesus, He sees her humanity, forgives her, and offers a new beginning. As we continue through Lent, we’re invited to receive God’s mercy and extend it to others by calling them not by their sins, but by their name.

Listen to homily here:

There is a legend told about a young soldier who served in Napoleon's army. He didn’t want to be there—he had been conscripted into service against his will. Eventually, he decided to desert and ran away, trying to return home. But he didn’t get far before he was arrested by other soldiers. At that time, desertion was considered a serious offense, punishable by death. So the young man was imprisoned and sentenced to die.

His mother, upon learning what had happened, was determined to save her son's life. She managed to find Napoleon one day while he was out in public and begged him to show mercy. Napoleon replied, “But your son does not deserve mercy.” The mother answered, “I know. If he deserved it, it wouldn’t be mercy.”

She was exactly right.

Mercy, which stands at the heart of today’s Gospel, is not something we earn. It's not something we deserve. Mercy is a gift—freely given. And just like the mother's plea for her son's life, God's mercy is not based on merit. It's rooted in love, and it restores life.

In today’s Gospel, we hear the story of a woman caught in adultery, brought before Jesus by the religious leaders. But this is not a scene of justice—it's a trap. They want to corner Jesus, to put him in a no-win situation. The Law of Moses commanded that both the man and woman caught in adultery should be stoned. But under Roman law, Jewish leaders were not permitted to carry out executions. So they ask Jesus, essentially: “Are you going to follow Moses or the Romans?” Either way, they think, he’ll be discredited.

But even worse than the legal trickery is the way the woman is treated. She isn’t spoken to. She isn’t even acknowledged as a person. She’s simply labeled: adulteress, sinner. She's being used—instrumentalized—as a pawn to trap Jesus. Her dignity is ignored.

And yet, in this moment of injustice and humiliation, Jesus responds with extraordinary wisdom and compassion. First, he turns the trap inside out: “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to cast a stone.” He's not rejecting the law—he’s revealing the hypocrisy of those trying to use it as a weapon.

One by one, her accusers slip away, starting with the elders, who perhaps recognized the truth more quickly. Then Jesus, for the first time in the whole scene, turns to the woman. He addresses her directly. He restores her dignity. He doesn't condemn her. Instead, he offers mercy—and a future: “Go, and sin no more.”

Jesus doesn’t deny her wrongdoing, but he refuses to let her be defined by it. He refuses to let her be reduced to her worst moment. In offering her mercy, he restores her life—literally and spiritually. He is the only one in the entire scene who sees her as a person, not a problem.

There’s a saying often associated with this Gospel:
“God knows your sins but calls you by your name. The devil knows your name but calls you by your sins.”

That’s the contrast we see so vividly here. The religious leaders act as the accuser—naming only the sin. Jesus, in contrast, knows her sins, but calls her into a new future. He knows who she is, not just what she has done.

This Gospel is a powerful reminder and challenge for us—to imitate Jesus in our own lives. It’s easy to fall into the trap of naming people by their failings, especially in the age of gossip, social media, and quick judgments. And sometimes we give our gossip a little "Catholic seasoning"—we share unflattering stories about others under the noble-sounding pretext: “I’m only telling you so you can pray for them.”

Let’s be honest: that’s not mercy. That’s what the Pharisees were doing—focusing on someone’s sin and ignoring their name, their humanity.

To be merciful like Jesus, we must first recognize our own need for mercy. When we’re honest about our own faults—our need for forgiveness—it becomes easier to extend that same compassion to others. We’ve all fallen. We’ve all been forgiven. Mercy is not earned—it’s received, and then shared.

As we journey deeper into Lent and approach Holy Week, we’re invited to reflect on this great mercy of God. In the days ahead, we’ll have opportunities to celebrate the Sacrament of Reconciliation—a beautiful chance to accept that mercy for ourselves.

So let us remember today: Jesus knows our sins, yes—but he calls each of us by our name, because he loves us. Let us do the same for others.

All Is Forgiven: A Lenten Invitation

 4 Sunday of Lent | Luke 15

God isn’t a distant judge keeping score—He’s a Father who runs to meet us, arms wide open.
Whether we’re the runaway son or the resentful sibling, His love is bigger than our mess.
This Lent, come home to mercy—you’ll find it’s already been waiting for you.

Listen to homily here:

Homily:

There was once a catechism teacher teaching a group of younger students about the story of the Prodigal Son. He really wanted to highlight the resentment of the older brother and how that resentment wasn't a good thing. So he emphasized that part of the parable, focusing on the elder son’s reaction.

Toward the end of the class, just to check that his students had understood, the catechist asked, “Now, when the younger son came back—the one who had sinned and been away—who do you think was the most upset or disappointed to see him return?”

There was silence for a moment. Then finally, one of the students raised a hand and said, “The fatted calf.”

Not wrong.

The story of the Prodigal Son is perhaps one of the most beautiful, well-known, and powerful parables Jesus ever told—and that’s saying something! It tells the story of a son who went astray, who believed he had burned every bridge with his father, who assumed he could only return as a slave. But hope against hope, he came back. And his father didn’t just welcome him—he ran to him, embraced him, and celebrated his return with a feast. The son came back expecting servitude. Instead, he was restored to sonship.

This parable resonates deeply with us because each of us, in our own way and at different times, longs for that kind of reconciliation. We yearn for a homecoming, for forgiveness, for the healing of broken relationships—especially our relationship with God.

One of my favorite stories, and forgive me if you’ve heard it before, beautifully illustrates this longing. It comes from a short story by Ernest Hemingway called The Capital of the World.

In it, Hemingway tells of a father and his teenage son, Paco. They lived in a city—Madrid, I think—and Paco, a common nickname for Francisco, got into trouble: violence, addiction, bad decisions. Eventually, he ended up living on the streets. The father searched everywhere for him, but he couldn’t find him.

So the father took a bold step. He paid a large sum to place a full-page ad in the city’s main newspaper. The ad read:
“Paco, meet me on Tuesday at Hotel Montana. All is forgiven. Love, your father.”

He waited anxiously on Tuesday, unsure if his son would come. But when he arrived at the hotel, he found something astonishing: a long line of young men—hundreds of them—all named Paco, all hoping that the ad was meant for them.

That’s the depth of our human desire for reconciliation—for someone to tell us we are forgiven, welcomed, loved.

We often call this parable the “Parable of the Prodigal Son,” but many have rightly called it “The Parable of the Prodigal Father.” Because it’s ultimately about the extravagant love and mercy of the father—a representation of God himself.

And what we believe about who God is matters deeply. Some of us imagine God as a strict judge, or a distant authority, or someone we constantly disappoint. But Jesus paints a radically different picture. He shows us a Father who watches the road, who waits with aching hope, who runs—runs!—to embrace us. A Father who doesn’t let us finish our well-rehearsed apology speech because his love has already restored us.

That is who God is.

And this story isn’t just about one son. As the joke at the beginning reminded us, there are two sons: the younger, who returns in repentance, and the older, who resents the mercy shown. But many spiritual writers point out there is also a third son in this story—the one telling it.

Jesus himself.

Jesus, the Son sent by the Father into the world to seek us out. He is the Son who leaves the Father’s side not to rebel, but to redeem. We can imagine him entering the pigsty of our lives to bring us home. Jesus gives his life to reconcile us to the loving Father. That is what we reflect on during Lent—not to feel morbid or guilt-ridden, but to understand just how deeply we are loved.

This season of Lent gives us many opportunities to experience that reconciliation. One powerful way is through the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Yes, it can be awkward. Yes, it can feel hard to go. But Pope Francis, from the start of his papacy, has reminded us:
“God never tires of forgiving us; it is we who tire of asking for forgiveness.”

In confession, not only are our sins forgiven—we are healed. We are welcomed. We are restored.

So as we sit with this incredible parable today, let us remember who God truly is: the Father who runs to us, who never stops watching the road, who always welcomes us home. There is nothing you can do to make God stop loving you. There is no distance too far. There is no sin too great. The Father’s arms are always open.

During this Lenten season, may we find the courage to return, to be embraced, to be restored.