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 "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.  Palm Sunday Reflection
Oblate James Holzhauer-Chuckas, ObSB, Executive Director Today we stand at the threshold of mystery. With palms in our hands and “Hosanna!” on our lips, we enter into one of the most paradoxical moments of our faith. We celebrate a king, but not one who comes with power, force, or dominance. Instead, Jesus Christ enters humbly, riding on a donkey, welcomed by the poor and the hopeful. Palm Sunday holds together two movements of the heart: joy and sorrow, praise and betrayal, hope and suffering. The crowd that cries out “Hosanna!” will soon echo with cries of “Crucify him!” And if we are honest, we recognize something of ourselves in that crowd. There are moments when we follow Christ with conviction, and moments when we turn away, choosing comfort, fear, or self-interest over love and truth. Yet, this is precisely where the grace of this day meets us. Palm Sunday is not just a remembrance, it is an invitation. An invitation to walk with Christ not only in the celebration, but also in the suffering. An invitation to examine our own discipleship:
As we listen to the Passion narrative, we are reminded that Jesus does not turn away from the cross. He embraces it, not because suffering is good, but because love is stronger than suffering. Love is willing to go all the way. And that is the heart of Holy Week. We are not meant to stand at a distance as observers. We are meant to enter in, to walk with Jesus through betrayal, denial, suffering, and ultimately, hope. Because the story does not end on the cross. But we cannot rush to Easter. Palm Sunday teaches us that authentic faith does not skip over pain, it transforms it. It invites us to trust that even in the moments of darkness, God is at work, bringing life out of death. So, as we hold our palms, let them be more than symbols. Let them be a commitment:
May this Holy Week be a time of deeper conversion, a time to walk more closely with Christ, to surrender more fully in love, and to believe more deeply in the promise that God is always making all things new. Hosanna in the highest! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
Fifth Sunday of Lent
Dr. Molly Cinnamon, Ed.D., Auxiliary Board Member for Belonging I believe I am going through a crisis of faith. I’ve heard this phrase over and over, and I’ve never really considered its meaning. When I asked AI to define it for me, it said, “A crisis of faith is an intense, painful period of doubt regarding one’s core religious or spiritual beliefs, often characterized by confusion, anger or feeling disconnected from God.” When I read those words, it scared me. Is this what I am feeling? It seems so serious and as if there is nothing I can do, like a fearful diagnosis of some kind. But then, I read on and saw these words: “It feels like a spiritual emergency, prompting a necessary choice to redefine, deepen or abandon faith.” My next thought was sweet relief. Oh, good - I have a choice and I can fix this. AI even gave me a list of options that I can choose from to help me, such as:
So, what did I do? I went to church with my mom. For a long time, my mom and I have been attending the early service on Sundays at the same episcopal church I grew up in and also where I got married. I haven’t gone in many weeks, mostly due to busyness and some laziness on my part. I love my mom dearly and treasure the time with her. We have very different understandings of the current state of our world and sitting in church with her sometimes feels disingenuous to me and additionally, hurts my heart as this is definitely a challenging time for our mother-daughter relationship. As I sat there next to her, I watched her. She is almost 82, walks with a cane and church is her home. She is on every committee, knits prayer shawls with her friends, organizes all of the funeral food for the bereavement committee, attends every class the church offers and still works part time. However, she can’t understand why my heart is broken by the state of our country and our world right now. The whole church can pray out loud for every intention but have coffee later in the adult forum and chat about things I will never comprehend. It feels like grief to me. During the service, I said out loud in my own head, “God, I need a sign that you are here and that you’ve got me.” I’m not exaggerating when I say that the stained-glass window directly to my right where I was looking when I said those words came ablaze with sunlight, so bright it almost hurt my eyes, before fading back to normal. It took my breath away. I felt tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. Astonished, and certain I had imagined it, I asked again. “Lord, is that you?” Once again, a strong, brilliant light came pouring through the window. I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture to remind me of this significant moment and when I pulled it up later to show my husband, it occurred to me that my mom’s beautiful profile was also in the picture, featuring her staring at the priest as he delivered his homily with this gentle smile on her face. Above the altar in our church, there is a solid beam with the words, “I am the resurrection and the life” painted in gold letters that I have looked at thousands of times but never really seen, if that makes sense. I said my wedding vows under that beam and became confirmed, my daughter also became confirmed in the same spot. When I went to read the Gospel for this particular Sunday in Lent for which I am writing this reflection, I was astonished to see that it was the story of The Raising of Lazarus. It is in that Gospel reading that Jesus says those same words: “I am the Resurrection and the Life: whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” Jesus asks this of Martha, as a test of her faith. This statement and question together are what helped strengthen disciples of Jesus and served as foreshadowing of Jesus’s death on the cross. To me, it served as another sign, in addition to the beautiful rays of light I witnessed in response to my own test of faith that morning. Reading those words, “I am the Resurrection and the Life” and potentially for the first time, actually comprehending their meaning, moved me. And then to see the words again today as part of the Gospel for the Fifth Sunday in Lent tells me I’m not in a crisis of faith at all. I’m being challenged, tested and I need to choose love, now more than ever…with my faith journey, my gratitude practice, and certainly with my mom. Amen.
The Gospel for the Fourth Sunday of Lent (John 9:1–41) invites us into a powerful journey—from blindness to sight, from certainty to deeper truth, from exclusion to belonging.
At the center of the story is a man born blind, someone who has never seen light, color, or faces. The disciples begin with a question that reflects a common human instinct: “Who sinned?” They are looking for a cause, someone to blame. But Jesus Christ shifts the entire perspective. This man’s condition is not about punishment—it is an opportunity for God’s works to be revealed. Already, we are being asked to reconsider how we see suffering, weakness, and even one another. Jesus heals the man in a way that is both physical and symbolic: mud, touch, washing. The man must participate—he goes, he washes, and he returns able to see. His healing is not just something done to him, but something he steps into. And as his physical sight is restored, something deeper begins to unfold: his spiritual vision. Meanwhile, those who can see, namely the Pharisees, struggle. They question, interrogate, and ultimately reject what has happened because it does not fit within their expectations. Ironically, the ones who claim clarity become the ones most blind. The healed man, on the other hand, grows in insight step by step:
This gradual awakening is deeply comforting. Faith is not always instantaneous clarity, it is often a journey, marked by questions, courage, and encounter. One of the most striking moments is when the healed man is cast out. Having received sight, he loses his place in the community. Yet it is precisely there, in that place of rejection, that Jesus finds him again. The encounter becomes personal, intimate, transformative. This Gospel challenges us gently but firmly: Where am I blind? Not physically, but spiritually—where are the places I resist seeing clearly? Where do I cling to assumptions, judgments, or comfort instead of truth? And just as importantly: how do I see others? Do I see with compassion, or with categories? Do I recognize the dignity and story in each person, or do I reduce them to labels? The promise of this Gospel is not just that sight is possible—it is that Christ seeks us out in our blindness. He meets us where we are, invites us to wash, to trust, and to see anew. This week, the invitation is simple but profound: to let ourselves be seen, healed, and gradually brought into the light.
On International Women’s Day, we pause to give thanks for the countless women who have shaped the Church, our communities, and the lives of young people. From mothers and grandmothers to teachers, ministers, and mentors, women have carried the Gospel forward with courage, wisdom, and compassion.
Throughout Scripture, we encounter women whose faith changed the course of history—Mary’s courageous “yes,” Mary Magdalene’s faithful witness to the Resurrection, and the many unnamed women who followed Jesus and supported his ministry. Their stories remind us that God continually raises up women as leaders, disciples, and bearers of hope. At United Catholic Youth Ministries, we see this witness alive in the young women who lead, serve, speak with prophetic courage, and accompany others in faith. Their voices, gifts, and leadership are not only needed—they are essential to the life of the Church and to the flourishing of our world. International Women’s Day also calls us to action. As people of faith, we are invited to ensure that young women are supported, empowered, and encouraged to respond boldly to God’s call in their lives. This means advocating for dignity, creating spaces of belonging, and recognizing the sacred gifts women bring to ministry and leadership. May we continue to lift up the voices of women, stand in solidarity with them, and encourage the next generation of young women to know that they are beloved by God and called to help shape the future of the Church. Today and every day, we give thanks for the women who inspire us to live the Gospel more fully.
Third Sunday of Lent
Tina Carter, MDiv, MLIS, Board of Directors As humans, we can survive between three and seven days without water. Between 24 and 48 hours without water, one can experience dry mouth, fatigue, headaches, and reduced urination. The longer one goes without water; confusion sets in eventually leading to a breakdown in one’s organs and death. Approximately Sixty per cent of our bodies are made up of water. Maintaining proper hydration is necessary for overall health and well-being. Are we also maintaining spiritual hydration? The gospel reading provides us with an example of how proper hydration can strengthen our spiritual health and well-being. For the woman at the well, she had to wait at the hottest point during the day to draw life-giving water. She was ostracized, shunned, and given the side-eye by people in her village. And yet, she was thirsty too. This woman was experiencing the dry mouth of being othered in her community, fatigued by the whispers about her personal life, suffered headaches over one failed relationship after another, not being able to release the cellular waste that is affecting her body. Confusion that she was not worthy was setting in and her heart, one of the strongest organs in our bodies, was beginning to break down. It was at this point that Christ offered her spiritual hydration that became necessary for her overall health and well-being. That living water, which helps all of us never to thirst anymore, is free to give and free to drink. Like a doctor, Jesus diagnosed what her symptoms were and gave her a prescription to never be thirsty again and receive everlasting life. The medicine to drink deeply and fully from the well of life-giving water strengthened her to go and share with others what Jesus did for her. Are you drinking from wells that cause you to thirst? Are you searching for spiritual water in the wilderness of life? Are you experiencing the dry mouth of shame, the fatigue of feeling powerless, suffering from headaches of uncertainty, leading to waste buildup in your soul that is becoming harder to expel? Remember that the promises gained in baptism inspire us to make the most of the life-giving water offered, supporting our spiritual health and well-being. This allows us to participate in the promises of God and Christ though the Holy Spirit. By partaking in this life-giving water, we will never have to worry about spiritual thirst ever again.
President Claire Labbe, appointed new board members (bios to coming soon!) as well as approved a change in board leadership. We want to extend our sincerest and strongest gratitude to Mireya Dominguez, who will be stepping down as our Vice President. Mireya has served with UCYM since 2021 starting as our Quinceañera Ministry Coordinator then moved into being Operations Director and was voted as Vice President of the Board of Directors in 2023. We are so grateful to have benefitted from her ministry and leadership. We are also grateful she is staying on as a board member.
Claire has appointed board member and spiritual advisor Sister Belinda Monahan, OSB as our Interim Vice President! Sister Belinda has been connected with UCYM in various ways since 2018 giving talks, helping with retreats, and was elected to the board in 2023. She is a Benedictine Sister of Chicago. We want to thank Sister Belinda for her dedication and for stepping into this leadership role. It is no accident that we acknowledge these two incredible women amidst celebration of Women’s History Month. Without women like Mireya and Sister Belinda, UCYM would not be celebrating 10 years of ministry!  Women's History Month 2026 Statement Oblate James Holzhauer-Chuckas, ObSB, Executive Director As we celebrate Women’s History Month, United Catholic Youth Ministries pauses in gratitude—and in conviction. We give thanks for the countless women who have shaped our faith: mothers and abuelas who whispered prayers over their children, catechists who opened Scripture with courage, campus ministers who walked with young people through doubt and discernment, and saints who proclaimed with their lives that the Gospel is not passive—it is powerful. From Mary, Mother of Jesus, whose courageous “yes” changed the course of history, to St. Scholastica, who reformed religious life with bold vision, to St. Josephine Bakhita, who transformed suffering into liberation, women have always been theologians of lived experience and prophets of justice. In our own time, women continue to lead movements of mercy, scholarship, accompaniment, and reform within the Church and beyond. Yet celebration must also become commitment. Women in the Church—especially women of color, immigrant women, young women, and women discerning religious or lay ecclesial vocations—continue to navigate systems that do not always recognize the fullness of their gifts. If we truly believe in the outpouring of the Spirit at Pentecost, then we must believe that the Spirit continues to speak powerfully through the voices of women today. At United Catholic Youth Ministries, we are called not only to affirm the dignity of young women—but to invest in their leadership. That means:
Young women deserve to see themselves reflected in the future of our Church—not as an afterthought, but as co-builders of the Kingdom. Women’s History Month is not simply about remembering. It is about recommitting. Recommitting to accompaniment. Recommitting to equity. Recommitting to the belief that when women thrive, the Church flourishes. To every young woman discerning her voice, her vocation, her call to lead: the Church needs your courage. The Church needs your intellect. The Church needs your fire for justice. Do not shrink your gifts. The Spirit who came to Mary continues to move in you. And to our broader community: let us not simply applaud women this month. Let us hire them. Fund them. Mentor them. Defend them. Listen to them. Walk beside them. Affirm their vocation. The history of women in the Church is not finished being written. Together—with faith, advocacy, and action—we will help write the next chapter. In solidarity,  |
