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 The Good Shepherd - Fourth Sunday of Easter Reflection
Oblate James Holzhauer-Chuckas, ObSB, Executive Director The Fourth Sunday of Easter, often called “Good Shepherd Sunday,” draws us into one of the most tender and searching images in the Gospel: “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:11). This is not a sentimental image meant only to comfort. It is a claim about relationship, trust, and the shape of God’s presence in the world. In ancient life, sheep were not considered dignified beings. They were vulnerable, easily scattered, and dependent on a shepherd for direction, protection, and survival. To speak of God as shepherd is to speak of a God who does not remain distant from human fragility but enters into it, stays with it, and takes responsibility for it. Jesus contrasts the good shepherd with the hired hand. The difference is not skill but belonging. The hired hand works for wages and leaves when danger comes. The shepherd remains because the sheep are his own. This distinction quietly exposes one of the Gospel’s deepest questions: what motivates care? What holds love steady when it becomes costly? The Good Shepherd does not abandon when the wolf appears. He does not interpret danger as reason to retreat. Instead, he enters into the danger himself. In the Gospel’s own terms, “I lay down my life for the sheep.” The shepherd’s authority is revealed not in control over others, but in self-giving for them. This image speaks directly into experiences of abandonment, fear, and fragmentation. There are moments in life when people feel like scattered sheep, disoriented by loss, overwhelmed by competing voices, unsure which direction leads to life. The Gospel does not deny this reality. It names it honestly. But it also insists that dispersion is not the final word. “I know my own and my own know me.” To be known in this sense is more than being observed or understood from a distance. It is relational knowledge: recognition, belonging, and trust. The Good Shepherd does not merely identify sheep in a crowd; he calls them by name. That naming suggests attentiveness that is personal rather than abstract, faithful rather than conditional. In Spanish, we have two words that mean "to know," which are saber (to know with your head) and conocer (to know with your heart, to know someone for more than just their name even). We can think of it in this way. At the same time, the passage resists narrowing God’s care into a closed circle. Jesus also speaks of “other sheep that do not belong to this fold,” and a gathering that will ultimately be one flock under one shepherd. The pastoral image expands outward. Divine care is not restricted to the familiar or already included. It moves toward those still outside, still searching, still unheard. This creates a tension that the Church continually lives within the experience of being gathered and the responsibility to gather; the gift of belonging and the call to extend belonging. The shepherd’s voice becomes something the community learns not only to receive but to echo. There is also a quiet challenge embedded in this Gospel: discernment. “The sheep hear his voice.” In a world filled with competing voices, many of them persuasive, urgent, or fear-driven, the ability to recognize the Shepherd’s voice becomes essential. The text does not suggest that the voice of Christ is the loudest, but that it is recognizable to those who have learned it through trust. I have often seen this when I am working with the Juniors at St. Ignatius College Prep during their retreat when they are doing blindfold walks and distractions try to throw the one who is blindfolded off from hearing the voice of the one who is guiding them. This recognition is formed over time. It grows through familiarity with Scripture, through prayer, through acts of mercy, and through moments when faith is tested and still holds. The voice of the Shepherd is often discerned not in spectacle, but in the steady call toward life, truth, and self-giving love. For pastoral life, this Sunday offers both consolation and responsibility. Consolation, because it names a God who does not abandon the vulnerable or the scattered. Responsibility, because those who hear the Shepherd’s voice are drawn into his own pattern of care: presence instead of indifference, fidelity instead of withdrawal, love that is willing to endure cost. To reflect on the Good Shepherd is ultimately to ask where that voice is being recognized today in personal life, in communities, and in the wider world and where it is being drowned out by fear, distraction, or despair. And it is to trust that even in those places, the Shepherd does not cease to call.  Dear UCYM Community,
April is recognized as Child Abuse Prevention Month, a time when we are called to renew our commitment to safeguarding the dignity, safety, and well-being of every child. Within the Catholic Church, this responsibility is rooted in our belief that each person is created in the image and likeness of God and entrusted to our care. Protecting children is not optional, it is a moral obligation and a vital expression of our faith in action. Being a “safe adult” means more than simply avoiding harm; it means actively creating environments where young people feel secure, respected, and valued. Safe adults listen attentively, set appropriate boundaries, model Christ-like compassion, and take seriously any concerns brought to them. They remain vigilant, educated, and willing to act when something is not right, always prioritizing the well-being of the child. United Catholic Youth Ministries is deeply committed to child protection and the creation of safe, nurturing spaces for all young people. Through comprehensive training, clear policies, and ongoing accountability, we strive to ensure that every child entrusted to our care is protected. This commitment reflects not only best practices, but our shared mission as a Church to love, guide, and defend the most vulnerable among us. As we observe Child Abuse Prevention Month, may we all recommit ourselves to being safe, trustworthy adults and to fostering communities where every child can grow in faith, hope, and love without fear. With care, Sister Belinda Monahan, OSB, Interim Vice President Claire Labbe, J.D., President Oblate James Holzhauer-Chuckas, ObSB, Executive Director  “Stay with us.”: The Road to Emmaus
Oblate James Holzhauer-Chuckas, ObSB, Executive Director This is a story that has shaped who I am and the ministry I am called to. There is something deeply human about this Gospel story. Two disciples are walking away; from Jerusalem, from hope, from everything they thought would be. Their steps are heavy, their conversation filled with confusion, grief, and disappointment. They had believed, they had hoped, and now, it seems, it was all lost. And so, they walk away. How often do we find ourselves on that same road? There are moments in life when we quietly turn away when expectations collapse, prayers seem unanswered, and God feels distant. We keep moving, but our hearts are burdened. Like those disciples, we rehearse the story of what went wrong and say: “We were hoping…” And yet, the heart of this Gospel is not their departure, but Christ’s pursuit. Jesus comes near. He walks with them, not in glory, not in a dramatic revelation, but in quiet companionship. He listens, he allows them to speak their grief, and then, gently, he begins to reframe their story, not as one of defeat, but of fulfillment. What is striking is that they do not recognize him right away. Isn’t that often true in our own lives? The risen Christ walks with us in ways we do not immediately see; in a conversation, in a moment of unexpected peace, in the presence of another person who listens deeply. God is not absent. God is often hidden in plain sight. The turning point comes at the table. “Stay with us,” they say and he does and, in the breaking of the bread, their eyes are opened. This moment is not just about recognition; it is about transformation. Their sorrow gives way to burning hearts. Their retreat becomes mission. They who were walking away now run back to Jerusalem, back to community, back to hope to proclaim the joy of the resurrection. The Resurrection does not erase the pain of Good Friday, it transforms it. It reveals that even in the midst of confusion and loss, God is still at work, drawing near, speaking truth, and inviting us into deeper relationship. This Gospel invites us to ask: Where am I walking away in my life? Where might Christ already be walking beside me, even if I do not yet recognize him? And what would it mean to invite him to “stay with me”? Each of us is on a journey, sometimes marked by clarity, sometimes by doubt, but one thing is clear; we are never alone. The risen Christ walks with us, opens the Scriptures to us, and meets us in the breaking of the bread. And when we truly encounter him, we cannot remain the same. Our hearts burn, our eyes are opened, and our hope is restored. And we are sent back into the world, not as people of despair, but as witnesses to hope. We are Easter people. This is our story.  "Peace be with you"
Oblate James Holzhauer-Chuckas, ObSB, Executive Director On the evening of that first Easter day, the disciples are locked in a room; fearful, uncertain, and still carrying the weight of the cross. Into that space of anxiety and isolation, Jesus comes and stands among them. There is no knocking, no rebuke for their fear, no demand for explanations. His first words are simple: “Peace be with you.” This is where Divine Mercy begins, not as an abstract idea, but as a living encounter. Jesus meets his disciples exactly where they are, behind locked doors, and offers them peace instead of judgment. He shows them his wounds, not to reopen their guilt, but to reveal that even the marks of suffering have been transformed into signs of love. Mercy does not erase the past; it redeems it. Then Jesus breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” This moment echoes the very beginning of creation, when God breathed life into humanity. Now, in this new creation, that breath carries forgiveness: “Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them.” Mercy is not meant to be hoarded; it is a gift that becomes a mission. The disciples, once paralyzed by fear, are now sent to be instruments of reconciliation. We often focus on Thomas’ doubt, but perhaps more honestly, we should recognize his longing. He refuses to settle for secondhand faith. He wants to see, to touch, to encounter the risen Christ for himself. There is something deeply human, and even hopeful, about that desire. Thomas is not rejecting faith; he is seeking a deeper, more personal one. When Jesus returns, he does not shame Thomas. Again, there is no harsh correction. Instead, Jesus invites him: “Put your finger here… do not be unbelieving, but believe.” Mercy meets Thomas in his doubt, just as it met the other disciples in their fear. And Thomas responds with one of the most profound confessions in all of Scripture: “My Lord and my God!” Divine Mercy Sunday reminds us that faith is not about having everything figured out or never experiencing doubt. It is about allowing ourselves to be encountered by Christ, again and again, in whatever state we are in. Whether we come with fear, guilt, confusion, or questions, Jesus does not turn us away. He enters our locked spaces and speaks peace. The Gospel ends with a blessing: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” That is us. We do not see Jesus physically standing before us, yet we are invited into the same encounter. We meet him in the Word, in the sacraments, in the quiet movements of grace in our lives. And like the disciples, we are sent, not as perfect people, but as witnesses of mercy. So the question this Sunday is not whether we are worthy of mercy. The Gospel has already answered that. The question is whether we are willing to receive it and then to let it flow through us to others. Because the same Jesus who stood among the disciples stands among us now, still saying: “Peace be with you.”  Dear UCYM Community, Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Resurrection of Jesus is not simply a moment in history; it is God’s ongoing declaration that nothing, no suffering, no sin, no failure, no death, has the final word. What seemed sealed, God has opened. What seemed lost, God has restored. What seemed finished, God has transformed into something new. Easter reminds us that resurrection rarely looks the way we expect. It does not erase the wounds, Christ still bears them. Instead, it transforms them. The wounds become signs of love. The cross becomes the doorway to life. The empty tomb becomes a promise: that even in the places we fear are beyond hope, God is already at work. For us, this means that resurrection is not only something we celebrate, it is something we are invited into. Where in your life does a stone need to be rolled away? Where have you settled into believing that something is “over” or “beyond repair”? Where is God quietly inviting you to trust in new life? Easter faith does not deny the reality of Good Friday, it proclaims that Good Friday is not the end of the story. And so, we do not simply say “Alleluia” because everything is perfect. We say “Alleluia” because Christ is alive and because His life is already breaking into ours. May we be a people of resurrection: bringing hope where there is despair, healing where there is woundedness, and light where there is darkness. Because the tomb is empty; not just for Jesus, but for all of us. Alleluia! He is risen! In Easter joy,   "Waiting" - A Holy Saturday Reflection
Oblate James Holzhauer-Chuckas, ObSB, Executive Director In the stillness of Holy Saturday, the Church waits. It is a day without liturgy, without proclamation, without the visible signs we have come to rely on. The altar is bare. The tabernacle stands empty. The silence is not merely external, it presses inward, inviting us to sit with the mystery of absence, of loss, of what feels unfinished. This is the day of in-between. Between promise and fulfillment. Between death and life. Between the last breath of the cross and the first cry of resurrection. Holy Saturday asks something difficult of us: to remain. To resist the urge to rush ahead to Easter morning. To dwell, instead, in the uncertainty that the first disciples knew so well; the confusion, the grief, the quiet ache of hope that seems to have been buried. And yet, beneath the silence, something is happening. The ancient tradition speaks of Christ descending into the depths, not in defeat, but in quiet triumph. Even in death, God is at work. Even in the darkness, redemption is unfolding where no one can yet see it. This is the hope of Holy Saturday: that God’s most powerful work often happens in hiddenness. In the tomb. In the waiting. In the spaces where we feel nothing is changing. How often do we find ourselves here? In seasons where prayers seem unanswered. Where grief lingers longer than we expected. Where clarity has not yet come. Holy Saturday gives us permission to name these places, and to trust that they are not empty. They are, in fact, sacred ground. Then, as night falls, a fire is kindled. The Easter Vigil begins in darkness, pierced by a single flame. The Paschal candle is lit, and slowly, light is shared from one person to another until the darkness is gently overcome. No sudden blaze. No overwhelming brightness. Just a quiet, persistent spreading of light. This is how resurrection comes. Not always as a dramatic reversal, but as a steady, undeniable dawn. A light that grows. A hope that returns. A life that cannot be contained. “Christ our Light.” And we respond, even now, sometimes with trembling voices: “Thanks be to God.” Tonight, we remember that the tomb is not the end. That silence is not absence. That waiting is not wasted time. For God is faithful in the dark as well as in the day. And when the alleluia finally breaks forth after all the waiting, all the silence, it will not be shallow joy. It will be joy that has passed through the tomb and found it empty. May we have the courage to wait. May we have the grace to trust. And may we be ready to receive the light when it comes.  On this solemn day of Good Friday, we stand at the foot of the cross, invited not to rush past the pain, but to dwell within it. The world teaches us to avoid suffering, to fix it quickly, to move on. Yet today, we are asked to remain—to watch, to listen, to be present to a love that does not turn away.
In the silence of this day, we encounter a God who enters fully into human anguish. Betrayal, abandonment, injustice, and death itself are not distant ideas, but lived realities embraced in Christ. The cross reveals not weakness, but a love so steadfast that it refuses to abandon us, even in our darkest moments. Good Friday reminds us that God is not absent in suffering. Rather, God is found within it—bearing it, redeeming it, and transforming it. The wounds of Christ speak to every wound we carry, assuring us that nothing is beyond the reach of divine compassion. And so we wait. Not with despair, but with a quiet, trembling hope. For even here, in the shadow of the cross, the promise of new life is already unfolding. The story is not over. Love has gone to its deepest depths—and it will rise. May we have the courage to stay present to this mystery, to trust in love that endures all things, and to carry that love into a world still longing for healing.  Holy Thursday: Two Paths Before Mercy
Kathya Raldiris, Board of Directors “For You have made us for Yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” – Saint Augustine of Hippo On this day—or rather, this night—we commemorate three great gifts bestowed at the Last Supper: the Eucharist, the Commandment of Love, and the Priesthood. In this reflection, I want to bring forth something small, yet immense: the mercy of our Lord, even in the final moments before His Passion. A mercy that is offered freely, yet never imposed. It is easy to see the Triduum as one long, eventful day. Today, as Catholics, we can become so immersed in our tasks, trying to make this Triduum impactful for others, that we forget to pause and listen: What is happening within our hearts? What is God trying to speak into our souls? Today, I want to place before us two men—both deeply loved by Jesus Christ—whose stories reveal two possible paths in our own journey. Both encountered the same mercy of Christ, yet responded to it through the fragility of their humanity and the freedom of their will. We first have Judas Iscariot, known as the traitor. He was one of the Twelve Apostles, meaning he lived in close proximity to Jesus. During the Last Supper, he too sat at the table with the Messiah. Jesus chose him, even knowing his weaknesses; He trusted him, and above all, He loved him. Like it sometimes happens to us, Judas allowed his heart to grow cold and distant. He walked with Jesus, but he was no longer in communion with Him. And so, he chose to betray Him. When Judas saw the consequences of his actions, he was filled with remorse (cf. Mt 27:3–5), yet his sorrow did not open itself to grace. Instead of turning back, he closed himself off to the very mercy that was still being offered to him. Have we allowed our daily lives to distract us from the presence of Jesus? Have we fallen into believing that our wrongdoing outweighs God’s love and mercy for us? Have we mistaken guilt for repentance, forgetting that true repentance always leads us back to the Heart of Christ? On the other end, we have Saint Peter. Peter was bold in his words, yet sometimes weak in his actions. His spirit was willing, but his flesh was weak (cf. Mt 26:41). His presence was strong, yet his humanity followed closely behind. During the Passion, Peter found himself questioned—not only about Jesus, but about his own identity as His disciple. Three times, he denied Him, saying, “I do not know the man” (cf. Mt 26:69–75). Peter, too, betrayed Jesus. Yet unlike Judas, Peter encountered the gaze of Christ and allowed it to transform him. “The Lord turned and looked at Peter… and he went out and wept bitterly” (Lk 22:61–62). In that look, Peter experienced not condemnation, but mercy—a mercy that calls forth conversion. His tears were not of despair, but of repentance; and repentance became the path through which grace restored him. In the Garden of Gethsemane, when Judas approached Jesus with a kiss, Jesus said to him: “Friend, do what you have come for” (Mt 26:50). Even in betrayal, Jesus calls him friend. He sees beyond the action and into the heart. He sees the brokenness of man,yet never withdraws His love. His mercy remains constant—but it awaits our response. So the question remains: when faced with difficulty, with suffering, with the Cross—will we run away from the mercy offered to us, or will we move toward it as we are—weak, wounded, yet open? Will we close ourselves off like Judas, or return like Peter? May this Holy Triduum be a call to return to the Heart of Christ. And may we, in the face of betrayal and suffering, be courageous enough to accompany Him to the Cross, so as to share also in the joy of the Resurrection. In Christ, peace. |
