Reflecting on Jn. 10: 1-10

I have come that you might have life and have it in abundance.  Who can resist the One who promises that to each of us? I can’t. I never have been able to resist Jesus, and that grace has brought me nothing but blessing every day of my life.

Imagine Jesus, using the language of sheep-tending, trying to draw the Pharisees into the new life that is their inheritance. He reminds them of the sheep-gate, and how the sheep won’t enter until the gate-keeper opens it. The Pharisees just stare at him. Okay, he says, let’s try this: the sheep will only follow the good shepherd. They know the voice of the shepherd who truly cares for their welfare, and they won’t follow the thieves and robbers. The Pharisees look dumbly ahead. They’re just not getting it.

LOOK, says an exasperated Jesus. I AM THE GATE. I AM YOUR LIFE, YOUR HOPE, YOUR SECURITY, YOUR PEACE. He can’t say it more clearly than that. But how can he be the long-awaited Messiah when he has no army, no generals to command, breaks the laws of the Sabbath, he let that adulteress go free, and he eats and drinks with sinners?

Oh, says Jesus, if today you would just hear my voice. I’m calling you―that’s YOU he’s talking to, by the way. Dig deep. Listen with all your heart. Tune out all soul-deadening clamor of the culture. If you seek me, says Jesus, you will find me. If you seek me with all of your heart I will let myself be found by you.

Abundant life? Oh, yeah. Call us by name, Good Shepherd. You’re coming in loud and clear.

In what ways are you tuning in to the voice of Jesus?

Kathy McGovern ©2026 

Reflecting on Luke 24: 13-35

My husband Cleopas and I decided to leave Jerusalem. We were heartbroken. We had hoped that Jesus, our beloved friend, would redeem Israel. But instead, the Romans crucified him. The Romans are beasts.

Our group spent the next hours huddled together, terrified of the soldiers. This morning, three of the disciples went to the tomb with spices to anoint his body. They came running back with the wildest tale! They were screaming that his body is gone, that he has been raised! And even Peter ran to the tomb and found the burial cloths just lying there in the empty tomb.

People are crying and laughing and screaming and singing, “He has been raised!” But we aren’t naïve. We won’t be taken in by wishful thinking. The Jerusalem group can keep their joy. We saw him crucified. He had no power over the Romans. He wasn’t the one we’d hoped for after all.

But here’s the thing. On the road back to Emmaus, a stranger appeared on the road. He asked us why we were weeping. How could he not know? We started from the beginning, from the day three years ago when we heard about Jesus, and came to find him, and fell so in love with him. We told him about the friends we had made, friends we thought we’d have forever. It felt good to tell the story. In fact, our hearts were burning within us, just remembering him.

That Stranger was a good listener. Ha! How did we not recognize him? It was Jesus! As usual, we thought we were running away from him, but he was running towards us the whole time.

How does remembering the Story bring Jesus nearer?

Kathy McGovern ©2026 

Reflecting on John 20: 19-31

This Divine Mercy Sunday gives us, once again, the touchingly familiar story of Thomas coming to faith through the invitation of the Risen Lord to touch his wounds. Put yourself in that room—probably the same room where they had gathered for the Last Supper, and the same room where Mary joined the apostles to wait for, and experience, the descent of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost.

Imagine that you are heartbroken Thomas, wanting so badly to believe the report of the others that the Risen One had appeared to them, but deeply afraid to find that the reports of his resurrection were just group hysteria.

And then, there he is, standing in your midst. “Peace be with you,” he says. Try to imagine that moment. Try to imagine your heart, bursting from your chest with joy. And then, because he knows YOUR wounds, he tenderly places your fingers in his hands, and your hand in his side.

He knows all the times you’ve been disappointed in life. He knows the times you’ve been betrayed, and the times you’ve been the betrayer. He knows the sicknesses you’ve suffered, and the times you’ve wept at the graves of your loved ones.

He holds you as you touch his wounds. He grabs you to keep from falling from astonishment, and joy.

Can you imagine the joy in that room? The One for whom they had grieved so hard, the One they had longed to see just one more time, was standing in their midst. And then, this: Thomas, you believe because you see me. But blessed are those who have not seen, yet believe.

That’s you. That’s me. Jesus, we trust in You.

What wounds will you let Jesus touch with his divine mercy?

Kathy McGovern ©2026 

Reflecting on John 20: 1-9

It’s Easter.  Can you feel it?  Here in Denver, we don’t feel as if we earned it, because it’s been deliciously warm all winter. Our friends back east, though, really worked for it this year. But, whether we deserve it or not, birds have suddenly found their way back to our back yard and are greeting us with Easter song.  Every spring it’s a delightful surprise when the perennials pop up on the south side of our driveway. You again!  We forgot all about you.  How sweet of you to keep popping up in our neglected yard, reminding us that Easter happens, ready or not.

How was your Lent?  Was your fast helpful in pulling you back from the things that are hurting you?  Are you more who you want to be, more determined to “not go back to that place of slavery” that keeps you dependent, or powerless?  That’s always my goal, and once again I didn’t achieve it.

But God brings Easter anyway, whether we had a successful Lent or not.  Our relentlessly loving God keeps sending flowers and rains, lilacs and lilies, baby chicks and baby humans.  An endless Lent is just not in God’s nature.  Easter is God’s nature, with its resurrections and Alleluias, its promise of new life, its memory of an empty tomb, and our Christ, whose triumph over the grave has opened the graves of all believers.

So once again I’ll shake off the ashes of failure, lift my face up to the sun, and hold my hands open wide.  It’s Easter, and the powers of hell cannot prevail against it.  Let the feast of the forgiven begin.

How will you celebrate this Fifty Day Feast?

Kathy McGovern c. 2026

Reflecting on Matthew 26: 14-27

Where to begin with this rich gospel? Matthew, ever the teacher, gives us so many iconic moments in Jesus’ passion that it’s hard to just zero in on one or two.

Now that three years have come and gone since we last read St. Matthew’s Passion, it’s interesting to find the passages that stand out to us today, that didn’t necessarily land in our consciousness three years ago.

I find myself drawn to one moment in particular. It comes early, at the Passover meal. How strange it must have been to hear the Teacher recite the traditional blessing over the bread, but then to seem to extemporize: Take and eat, this is my Body. What? That’s not in the Passover script! And what does he mean? And then he did the same thing with the Cup, giving the traditional thanks, and then saying, Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which will be shed…for the forgiveness of sins.

There must have been an awkward silence after those strange, completely mysterious, words. His Body? His Blood? Like so many things in the gospels, those words were not understood until after the resurrection. But we know that the earliest Christians who escaped to Syria in Antioch after the resurrection prayed those exact words as they celebrated the Eucharist “early in the morning on the first day of the week.” So, it appears to have been almost immediately after the publication of the gospels—or even earlier— that those infant Christians grasped the great truth of the Real Presence.

Poor Judas. He took his life before he could realize what “new and eternal covenant” really meant.

Give thanks on this Palm Sunday for all the days you have received the Eucharist.

Kathy McGovern ©2026

One of my favorite moments of the long liturgical year is coming up soon. I’m thinking of the drama of the Easter Vigil. As we listen to the many readings, we can sense that something’s up. That dark altar looks laden with some kind of sweet perfume. All around the dark sanctuary we can see shadows of things wonderful and wise. What are these silent sentinels saying to us? We just commemorated The Triumph of the Cross the day before, with its terrifying Good Friday Passion. When we left the church, the altar was empty and stark. But now…

As soon as the last Old Testament reading is read, and the accompanying responsorial psalm is sung, something shifts. Like a heavy rain moments before the first sound of thunder, the smell of resurrection stirs in us. Could it be?

And then the lights begin to lift the darkness of Good Friday. We see now what was just shadows before. The sanctuary is filled with glorious lilies. The bells begin to ring. The first notes of the Gloria, not heard for forty days, strike up. Easter banners, hidden in darkness, are unfurled. The Elect come forward, beaming, in their beautiful Easter clothes. Spring flowers of every hue appear all over the church.

And then the fortunate reader charged with reading the first New Testament reading, the reading that precedes the Easter gospel, proclaims “Are you not aware… that if we have become united with Him in the likeness of His death, certainly we shall also be in the likeness of His resurrection?”

Lazarus, come out. All of our beloved dead, come out. Our broken hearts, come out. It’s Easter. You don’t’ want to miss it.

Do you sense that you are being united in Christ’s resurrection?

Kathy McGovern ©2026

Reflecting on John 9: 1-41

It’s only in recent times that we have documented cases of adults who have lived their entire lives without sight, and then, through surgery, are able to register “optical phenomena.” Unlike the man born blind in today’s gospel, though, they don’t register what they’re seeing right away. They know there is some kind of invasion of their retinas, but it takes patience and therapy for their brains to learn the codes of color, shape and form. It takes time to learn how to see.

One of the commentaries on this gospel suggests the reader should watch the beautiful 1999 movie, At First Sight, based on the true story of a sighted architect who fell in love with a man who lost his sight as a toddler, then, through her encouragement, had surgery in New York and, to the thrill of everyone who knew him, regained his sight.

The movie is filled with touching insights into the challenges he faced in learning to read his girlfriend’s facial expressions once he could see her. We get the majority of our data about our loved ones from a lifetime of looking at them in sickness and in health, in sadness and in utter joy. At first he couldn’t get enough information from her face to know what she was feeling, so he had to close his eyes so he could see her better.

We have to really feel sorry for all those blind people in today’s gospel. You know, the ones who had sight from birth, and still couldn’t see Jesus.

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye” (Antoine de Saint-Exupery).

What are you seeing about yourself this Lent that is improving your vision?

Kathy McGovern ©2026

Reflecting on John 4: 5-42

Nearly every story in John’s gospel has an underlying meaning. His imagery and symbols lure us into the story, and then astound us with the true meaning, which we somehow glean without anyone explaining it to us (but please, let me explain it anyway).

Take those five husbands of the Samaritan woman, for example. Hmm… Was it possible for a woman to have married five different men? She certainly could have been widowed many times, given the dangerous times her husbands must have experienced, either as soldiers or the victims of soldiers.

Could she herself have initiated and carried out even one divorce on her own? It’s doubtful that this woman of suspicious marital history just recklessly went from one man to another.

But remember, this is John’s gospel. So what’s the brilliant, hidden meaning? Might the “five husbands” actually be the five pagan tribes, each with its own pantheon of gods, that the conquering Assyrians sent into Samaria after their conquest of that land in 722 BCE? Over time, they sent tribes from other conquests of Babylon, Cuthah, Avva, Hamath, and Sepharvaim into what was, at one time, Jewish Samaria.

Hence, the five “husbands,” the pagan overlords who brought apostasy to Samaria. And that last husband, who’s not her husband at all? Chances are that’s the strange mix of those five religions that she has pulled together for herself.

Or maybe the “five husbands” represent the Samaritan insistence on only following the first five books of the bible, the Pentateuch. Jesus loves quoting the prophets, the Law, and the Psalms. He wants to offer the “living water” of full revelation to this bright, thirsty Samaritan woman.

In what ways do you have layers of meaning in your life?

Kathy McGovern ©2026 

Reflecting on Matthew 17:1-9

My great friend and eloquent scripture scholar, Steve Mueller, has a compelling take on the Transfiguration, published in the winter edition of his daily scripture journal, Words of Grace.

Echoing Fr. Richard Rohr, he says that the three disciples Peter, James, and John (often the three eyewitnesses to cornerstone events in Jesus’ life) got a “peek at the really real” when Jesus was transfigured before them. In one flashing moment, they “saw” the ‘normally hidden divinity embodied in Jesus blazing forth for this one tiny moment in all its dazzling beauty.’

I’ve had lots of moments like that. Something a beloved family member or friend says or does suddenly reveals to me the dazzling beauty of their inner spirit.

Remember Thomas Merton’s famous reflection upon leaving his Trappist monastery for a medical appointment in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1958. While standing in the middle of a busy shopping district, he was overwhelmed with the realization that he was connected to all the strangers around him, even though he lived a monastic life. “There’s no way of telling people,“ he famously mused, “that they are all walking around shining like the sun.” I absolutely believe that, and am thrilled at the many experiences I’ve had, and continue to have, of the radiance of the brilliance and goodness of people around me, all “shining like the sun.”

But why did this moment cause such fear in the disciples? I wonder if they, utterly immersed in the Hebrew scriptures, trembled because they remembered that Moses’ face was radiant when he encountered God. Were they actually encountering God? And what did that mean for their own lives? Now that’s something that causes me to tremble.

In what ways have you encountered God through people “shining like the sun”?

Kathy McGovern ©2026 

Reflecting on Matthew 4:1-11

Hey, Big Shot. Yeah, you, the one cowering in the corner. You seemed like such a scary demon when you slinked out from under your desert rock and audaciously challenged the Alpha and the Omega, our Lord Jesus, before whom every knee shall bend.

You tried appealing to his hunger, fresh from his forty-day fast. How good those stones might have looked to him when you tempted him to turn them into loaves of bread. But no! He rebuked you, reminding you that the Word of God is the food our souls crave. How strong you were, O Christ. We beg you to give us that strength when hunger gnaws at us these forty days.

We’ve got to give it to you, Liar. You know how to throw the scriptures around. But we’re confused. When you invited Christ to throw himself from the pinnacle of the Temple, you dredged up the convenient passage from Psalm 91 about angels being in charge of him, and bearing him up with their hands (vss 11-12). All true, by the way.

But oh, past master of all evil, why suppress the verse that follows? You know, the one that says that he will “tread on you as on a cobra, and trample on you as on a serpent” (vs. 13)? Not your favorite verse, I suppose?

And get this. You tried to get the Author of All Life to believe that you, you penniless impostor, held the power to give him all the kingdoms of the world. You own NOTHING but your own eternal damnation. Jesus owns the heavens and the earth. Oh, and our souls, thanks be to God, forever and ever. AMEN.

My dear friends, we begin our fourteenth Lent together! You will each be in my prayers all season.

Kathy McGovern ©2026