My most boring job was working at an insurance company as a college student. My main task? Filing. Now imagine if I had told my supervisor, “I just want you to know, I’m willing to die for these files.” She would have called a psychiatrist — or at least security.

There is something absurd in Jesus’ words in today’s Gospel: “I am the good shepherd… I lay down my life for the sheep.” (John 10:11) It sounds noble, until you think about it. No one dies for sheep. Not a hired hand. Not even a good shepherd. Sheep are important, sure, but not worth a human life.

When I first read Homer’s Odyssey as a teenager, one scene captured my imagination: Odysseus finally returning home after 20 years, yet no one recognized him. Disguised as a beggar, he speaks with his wife, his son, and even his enemies. He is fully present, yet hidden. Only at the right moment does he reveal himself, and everyone realizes he has been with them all along. I was struck by the mystery that he could be so close to his loved ones, and yet they simply could not identify him.

“Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.’” (John 20:27) 

In my early 20s, I volunteered at a parish youth group. I witnessed teens encountering Jesus with a fresh, romantic wonder that reminded me of my own teenage conversion. But something had changed in me. I was quietly jaded and cynical. When teens shared stories of encountering Christ, I’d want to sarcastically murmur, “Well, good for you.” I had grown suspicious of the zeal I once knew. 

Dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ,

On that first Easter morning, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb expecting death. Instead, she found it empty—confusing, unsettling, and yet full of possibility. “They did not yet understand the Scripture that he had to rise from the dead” (John 20:9). Hope did not arrive as clarity—it arrived as a question.

We enter Holy Week with palms in our hands and the Passion in our ears. The Cross is not the end of the story — it is love poured out completely.

Walk this week slowly.

As we approach Holy Week, we are invited to let go. We cling to control because we are afraid.

But surrender opens space for resurrection.

Let Christ carry what you cannot.

Rejoice. Lent is not meant to crush the spirit but to free the heart. Even in sacrifice, we discover that we are still God’s beloved children. Joy is remembering who we are.

God’s mercy is not hesitant. It seeks us first. Shame tells us to hide. Mercy invites us forward. This Lent, we are called not only to receive forgiveness but to extend it. Grace restores dignity.

On the mountain, the disciples glimpse Christ’s glory. But they must still walk back into ordinary life. Trust grows not when everything is clear, but when we continue walking with God even when it is not.

Fear loses power when surrendered.