SPRINGBOARDS and WALKING STICKS

  The Lord called me because he wanted / desired / liked me (Mark 3: 13). If you know that someone likes you, what would you want to do? You will want to spend time with that person (Luke 3: 14). Thus, like the apostles, we have responded to His call. Once we are with him, abide with him (John 15), he will prune us that we bear much fruit.  We often look at a calling as a list of tasks to accomplish, but the deeper truth is much simpler: we are called simply because we are wanted. When you know someone truly enjoys your company, the natural response is to want to spend time with them. That simple closeness is where everything begins. By choosing to stay and abide in that presence, a natural transformation takes place. Just like a gardener trims a branch, gentle pruning happens so that goodness and real purpose can grow in our lives. Think of it like the relationship in Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince , where the fox explains that to "tame" someone is simply to cr...

  Work is a profound grace; it is good, life-affirming, and transformative. Yet, within it lies a quiet danger when we become consumed by endless activity. Exhaustion inevitably follows, breeding murmuring, complaint, and grievance. In turn, grievance curdles into resentment, and resentment isolates us, turning others into adversaries. This hostility can easily harden into a form of destruction—whether physical or through the chilling weight of critical words. Tiredness / burnout > anger > hatred > murder. Consequently, what was once a grace transforms into a heavy curse. As Karl Marx noted regarding alienation, a worker can become profoundly detached from the fruit of their labour. When toil loses its meaning, how do we reclaim a genuine sense of satisfaction and fulfilment? The answer lies in a fundamental realignment: we are not primarily called merely to work; we are called to serve. True service is simply work infused with love and passion. Often, we busy ourselves wi...

  At our genesis, our affection was pure, and our fascination was untainted. We are continually summoned to retrace our steps to this primary devotion—the wellspring from which true courage, justice, and selfless service flow. What really captures our attention today? Take King Herod from the story of John the Baptist. At first, Herod respected John, listened to him, and was moved by his goodness. But over time, his heart shifted toward other things, like messy relationships and a craving for power. In the end, his actions weren't guided by his early conscience, but by whatever obsessed him at that moment. Herod’s heart was hijacked by lesser devotions: illicit entanglements and the intoxicating pursuit of political power. Ultimately, it was not his initial conscience that dictated his actions, but his reigning obsession of the hour. This demands a quiet, unflinching audit of our inner lives. What are the unspoken ideologies, ambitions, projects, and compromises we currently harbou...

  Understanding human nature has long preoccupied philosophers and spiritual leaders, serving as a path to self-awareness and enlightenment. Through his epistles, St Paul identifies three distinct categories of human existence: Carnal People (People of the Flesh) Driven entirely by base instincts and physical appetites, carnal individuals prioritise immediate gratification above all else. Whether seeking power, wealth, or the fulfilment of sensory desires, they pursue these ends with little regard for the consequences or the well-being of others. “Their belly is their god, and they are proud of what should be their shame. They only think of earthly things” (Philippians 3:19). “You are still of the flesh. As long as there is jealousy and strife, you are at the level of the flesh” (1 Corinthians 3:3). “They did shameful things and dishonoured their bodies” (Romans 1:24). “What the flesh seeks is against God” (Romans 8:5). “Those who live according to the flesh cannot please God” (Rom...

  Why retreat? This is a question like, why prayer? Mark 6:31 answers this gentle invitation: “Come away to a lonely place by yourselves, that you may have some rest.” A retreat is more than a physical break; it is a sacred pause for the mind and soul. Jesus is the host, inviting us simply to be available to Him. The apostles returned from their labours and shared all they had done and taught (Mark 6:30). In the same way, a retreat is a time to lay our stories before Jesus and listen to His gentle guidance. When we step away to a week of retreat, we essentially carry two books with us: the Bible—the story of God—and the book of our own lives. Consider the Emmaus Journey (Luke 24: 13-35). The apostles were walking away from Jerusalem with their own stories; Jesus intercepts their journey with His story. Their hearts burned within. They return back to Jerusalem.  Reading only our own story in isolation can be perilous. Left entirely to ourselves, we might drift into pride or sin...

 There's a particular kind of grief that devastates you more than the real tragic happening, it's the grief of realising that you were told, warning was given, quietly, early, and you were simply not listening to it. Greek tragedy built an entire mythology around this exact wound. Cassandra was given the gift of true prophecy and, in the same breath, cursed so that no one would ever believe her. She stood in the halls of Troy and said, plainly, that the wooden horse would be the city's death. She wasn't ignored because she spoke too softly. She was ignored because by the time a warning becomes urgent enough to be heard, it has usually already been dismissed a hundred times as nothing. The curse of Cassandra isn't really supernatural. It's the curse of every early warning ever given: the first time is too soon to be believed, and by the time it's believed, it's too late to matter. You can find this same structure in the Challenger disaster. In the winter...

 When Sundar Pichai, the Indian-American CEO of Google, first arrived in California for studies, he looked out at the hills and saw them burnt brown, a landscape that seemed tired, drained, and waiting for rain. His host looked at the same hills and called them golden. Same hills, same light; two different perspectives, and thus two different worlds. In his commencement / graduation address to the graduating class of 2026, Pichai returned to that moment and drew from it the first of three things worth carrying: learn to see the gold. Optimism Is a Way Of Seeing Optimism is not the belief that everything will go well. It is closer to what Proust meant when he wrote that the real voyage of discovery lies in having new eyes. The facts of your life will often be brown and unpromising. Whether they are also golden depends on the quality of your attention. There is an old story from the Franciscan tradition about Brother Juniper, who was so incapable of seeing malice in anyone that he wa...

 Jesus was born, and he lived in a fractured world, like we find our world often times. How do we keep our hearts open in a world that often feels fractured, competitive, and overwhelming? Ancient Buddhist philosophy offers a practical framework known as the four Brahmaviharas , could be translated as the heavenly homes, divine dwelling place; a place from we must operate from. These four psychological states: Metta (Loving-Kindness), Karuna (Compassion), Mudita (Sympathetic Joy), and Upekkha (Equanimity)—are not passive emotions. They are active, limitless qualities of the heart that shield us from anger, pity, envy, and anxiety. Across historical traditions, global literature, and the Bible, we can see these universal virtues vividly brought to life. 1. Metta : Universal Loving-Acceptance Metta is the baseline of the Brahmaviharas—a boundless, unconditioned goodwill toward all living beings. It operates without transaction; you do not offer Metta because someone earned...

 The video, a scene featuring comedian Louis C.K. and his television daughters, offers a surprisingly profound and poignant lesson in parenting, specifically addressing the concept of "fairness" and how to guide children away from envy and towards empathy. It dismantles the common parental instinct to artificially construct a perfectly equitable world for their children, advocating instead for a crucial lesson in reality. The Illusion of "Fairness" From a young age, children possess a hyper-sensitive, almost innate radar for what they perceive as "fair." When a sibling gets a slightly larger piece of cake, a new toy, or, in this case, the sole "mango pop," the immediate cry is one of injustice: "That's not fair!" Watch this video  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OAgdo6-GJcs&t=4s As parents, the instinct is often to immediately rectify this perceived imbalance. We want our children to be happy, and we want to avoid conflict. We m...

 The story of Bartimaeus (Mark 10: 46–52), tells us that every human being is a bundle of vulnerabilities and capabilities, though the proportion may be different from person to person. We must not be silent about either of them. On the one hand, talk loudly about and face our vulnerabilities and over come them as far as possible; and on the other hand, put into use our capabilities or your capabilities will die in you. Bartimaeus is the story of a man who refused to be defined solely by his limitations, yet was equally unwilling to waste the gift he received. In him, we see the full arc of authentic human living: honest confrontation with vulnerabilities, and the bold activation of capabilities. Bartimaeus sat by the roadside at Jericho; blind, begging, and marginalized. In the social imagination of first-century Palestine, blindness was not merely a physical condition; it carried the weight of shame, exclusion, and perceived divine disfavour. He was, by every outward measure, a b...

  If you remain in my love you will follow my commandment, and you will bear fruit. Do you bear fruit? How do we know? Watch whether others come to you. If you see others coming to you to gather from you, or to take a bite from you; it is an indication that you are bearing fruit. I watch birds. Birds gather on trees that provide food, provide shelter. We do not evaluate our fruitfulness by looking inward at our intentions, but by watching outward at whether we are being The Greeks came to Jesus. The Centurion, whose daughter was ill, came to Jesus. People searched after him day and night, brought their sick and needy to Him. Jesus kept bearing fruits of mercy, generosity, and inclusivity. People come to you to gather difficult fruits. Jesus bore much, meaning, difficult fruits. In John 8: 1-11, we have the story of the woman caught in sin. And our binary sense of morality says, the scribes and Pharisees were insensitive to women, they brought her to Jesus to trap Jesus, etc. I wou...

 Fear is among the oldest, most elegantly designed instruments in the human psychological toolkit. Long before language, philosophy, or civilization, fear kept our ancestors alive. It sharpened the senses, flooded the bloodstream with adrenaline, and compelled swift, decisive action in the face of predators, rivals, and natural disasters. Without it, the species would not have survived. In this sense, fear is not a flaw to be eliminated, it is a feature, a compass that points toward genuine danger and motivates the caution, preparation, and effort that underpin real growth. The student who fears failure studies harder. The entrepreneur who fears irrelevance innovates more boldly. The athlete who fears losing trains with greater discipline. The parent who fears neglecting their child gives more of themselves. In each case, fear functions as a stimulus; a productive tension between the present and a worse possible future that compels meaningful action. Psychologists sometimes call th...

 Fear is the enemy of life. It is perhaps the oldest, most intimate companion of the human condition; present before we have words for it. The spiritual writer Henry Nouwen, in one of the most unflinching diagnoses of the modern soul, wrote that fear has invaded every part of our being. There always seems to be something to fear: something within us or around us, something close or far away, something visible or invisible, in others or even in God. Fear is, as Nouwen puts it, "an omnipresent force that we cannot shake off," one that "controls, whether we are aware of it or not, most of our choices and decisions." This is not merely a spiritual observation. Neuroscience confirms it. When the amygdala, the brain's alarm system, registers a threat, the prefrontal cortex, the seat of reason and higher judgment, is effectively bypassed. We stop thinking and start reacting. What is terrifying about this is not the momentary panic it produces, but the long-term effects...

 Ask anyone — or ask yourself — "Do you love God?" and the answer will come swiftly, almost instinctively: "Yes." Countless songs celebrate this love. Devotion to God has become, in many circles, not only wanting but fashionable; a beautiful sentiment worn close to the heart. But ask a different question — "Do you keep the commandments of God?" — and something shifts. An uneasiness settles in. A silence. Yet Jesus is unambiguous: if you truly love God, you will keep His commandments. Perhaps the deeper danger lies not in outright disobedience, but in the illusion of obedience. Many of us — especially those in religious life; can grow comfortable believing we are faithful simply because we follow institutional rules, parish directives, or episcopal guidelines. But this is a quiet escape. To equate the commandments of God with the prescriptions of human authority is to mistake the map for the destination. It echoes the elder son in the Parable of the Prodiga...

 Life is difficult in two ways. One is the difficulty of the mountain climber who falls, or of the entrepreneur who loses everything in a bad quarter. The other is quieter; the suffering of the person who wakes each morning, goes to work everyday, without knowing why. This is the suffering of alienation: the condition in which a human being becomes a stranger to his or her own life. To understand alienation, we must first understand its opposite. Consider the mountaineer. She rises before dawn, her body aching from the previous day's ascent, the cold working its way through every layer of clothing. By any objective measure, she is enduring hardship. And yet there is something luminous in her. She moves with intention. Every grueling step is folded into a larger story she is telling herself, a story that ends at a summit, with a view earned, with a body that answered when called upon, with the quiet pride of having attempted something the mountain did not want to give her. The diffi...