Monday, March 16, 2026

The Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 15, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Daniel Hansknecht, OHC

The Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 15, 2026


In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Jesus said, ‘I came into this world for judgement so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.’”

When the Pharisees overhear this, they ask Jesus the question: “Surely we are not blind, are we?”; simultaneously posing the question and suggesting the answer. But if they assume the answer, why ask at all?

One possibility is because there are no good answers. The Pharisees are wary of Jesus, and this guarded perspective makes his statement come across as rather ominous. Either they are currently blind (a designation whose negative stigmas pervade today’s reading), or they do see and this reversal of fortunes will make them blind! More metaphorically, they might find Jesus insinuating revolutionary thoughts, with the rise of the lowly and casting down of the powerful.

Jesus’s response suggests to me that the very nature of their question was faulty. Notably, he doesn’t answer it outright. Instead of stating his own opinion, Jesus implies that their presumption of knowing the answer itself determined the answer. “Now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.” I can envision the opposite scenario where the Pharisees ask more humbly, “Are we blind?” and Jesus says, “It is good that you ask, ‘Are we blind?’ for it is through such questions that God’s works might be revealed.”

Returning to the actual text, it seems like Jesus and the Pharisees are having two separate, albeit overlapping, conversations. The Pharisees, by their words and actions, are focused on concerns of the world. They believe sin to be something external; a modifier which determines our fate and status, even from birth, in the same way that luck, happiness, and good fortune signify God’s good graces. As figures of religious authority, they care about the status quo. They care more about the letter of the law, the Law of Moses, than the spirit of the law, whose purpose is to embetter the lives of the Israelites who follow it. It is out of fear of usurpation, the fear that their role in society is being taken from them, that they focus so heavily on the granular details of the blind man’s recovery; anything they can grab onto to shake the power of Jesus’s ministry.

Conversely, Jesus speaks and acts out of concern for the world. His time with us is limited, and, as he said to his disciples earlier, “As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” What does it mean to be the light of the world? I think it is telling that the very next line of text describes the physical preparations which Jesus takes to facilitate the healing of the blind man; the Gospeler going so far as to explicitly mention that Jesus’s actions immediately follow those words. To be the light of the world is to cast out the darkness that blinds us.

As Christians and followers of The Way, we are expected to emulate Jesus. Jesus is the light of the world, and we are children of light. But how do we follow up on actions that are so miraculous? I don’t know about you, but if I spat on the ground, made mud, then rubbed it into some poor soul’s face, I don’t think they’d worship me afterwards. So, I think we’re going to have to be a bit more creative.

Let’s start by breaking down our terms; make them a bit more practicable. What does it mean to be blind? What does it mean to cast out darkness, to be light?

By various definitions, it wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I am blind. I need glasses. I get into trouble when you start mixing Red with other colors. In other ways too. I know for a fact that I have been blind; and foolish; and clumsily ignorant. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, blind to my own blindness. More broadly speaking, I’d say that the things that blind us are anything that narrows, or cuts off, our vision: adrenaline, fear, lack of oxygen…and, funnily enough, light itself! The very thing that grants us our vision can also strip us of it.

So, what’s the difference between light which illuminates and light which blinds? I would say, acclimation. Have any of you ever hankered for food in the middle of the night? You go down to the kitchen, open the fridge, and are suddenly blinded by the light it emits? Well, the fridge wasn’t trying to blind you! Under normal circumstances, the fridge-lights do their job and make visible the cold recesses of its interior. Or, as Paul says to the Ephesians, “everything exposed by the light becomes visible.” You set yourself up for blindness by wandering around in the dark.

With that in mind, let’s go back and look at my first quote of the day. “Jesus said, ‘I came into this world for judgement so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.’” At first blush, this seems to be a 2-step plan: step 1) heal the blind, then step 2) blind those with sight. Now, however, I’m inclined to think that these are both actually the joined outcomes of a singular action: being the light of the world. Jesus has set himself on this path — teaching, healing, flipping tables — and here he spells out the consequences of this path: both the blinding emotions of fear and anger amongst those threatened by him, and the empowering enlightenment of those he helps along the way.

So, again, what are we supposed to do? Paul advises that we, “Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them.” Great – that’s a first step. But for me, it doesn’t give the specific set of directions that I’m looking for. But don’t worry, good people! I, like Jesus, also have a 2-step plan which might end up being a 1-step plan.

Step 1) See with the eyes of your heart.

To give credit where credit is due, Step 1 once more comes from Paul. Although we didn’t hear it today, the following passage is taken from that same Letter to the Ephesians: “with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may perceive what is the hope to which [God] has called you…” This kind of sight is different from our day-to-day vision. It involves, by means of strong empathy and vulnerability, opening our hearts to all of the most impassioned emotions in the world around us: all of the rage, the terror, the desperation, the longing, the fascination, the zeal, the love. We open ourselves to the oncoming waves of these emotions, not to combat them, not to subdue them, or even to agree with them. We open our hearts so that we may see them; these invisible, intangible, sometimes ephemeral aspects of ourselves that our eyes cannot see. We see them with our hearts, and we grant them the dignity of acknowledging their existence as they are. This is the first step to loving anything or anyone: seeing them for who they actually are.

Step 2) Fight against fear.

The 1st verse of Psalm 27 has been on my mind while writing and preparing this homily. It says, “The Lord is my light and my salvation — whom then shall I fear?” As I mentioned earlier, fear is one of the ways we blind ourselves, focusing our attention on just the source of our fear at the cost of everything in our peripheral. As an emergency tool, fear is great; it keeps us alive. But when we hold onto fear, when we live in fear, that’s when we get into trouble. As somebody famous once said, “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.”

Repeatedly throughout the Bible, you’ll hear the angels say, “Do not be afraid.” They  have to say this because angels are terrifying! Their sudden appearance, their supernatural nature, and their radiancy shake those who encounter them. But the reason they say this is because, as messengers of God, they have important things to say; things they are worried you will not hear unless you calm down. And so, we fight against fear so that we can be receptive to the will of God.

The reason I believe this 2-step plan is actually a 1-step plan is because I intend it to be cyclical: never ending, as one leads into the other. An Ouroboros of God’s love shaping itself in our lives. In that same way, we could also expand it into a 4-step plan: Step 1) Fight against your own fear, Step 2) See others with empathy and love, Step 3) Teach others to combat their fears, Step 4) Empower the whole world to see with its collective heart.

In conclusion, let me practice what I preach. Please know, genuinely, that I see you. I love you. And I wish for you to go and do likewise. Amen.

Sunday, March 8, 2026

The Third Sunday in Lent, March 8, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Bruno Santana, OHC

“Domine, da mi hi aquam” ( Lord, give me water)

Today is the third Sunday of Lent and is International Women’s Day. In our gospel today a woman plays a very important rule and, I want to bring some important women in the church history and in the monastic life to help us in our reflections.

When I was in college in Spain, between my colleagues we always had biblical and theological discussions and questions and preparing this homily came to my mind the question about the Samaritan women, about her name. We know from tradition that her name was St. Photina. The first one that recognize Jesus as the Messiah.

Most of you left your home and come here to our monastery to a centering prayer retreat, personal retreat, came to mass and others to become a monk like my brothers and myself. We all came here because there is a desire for God in us. I want to invite you to be aware of, to recognize the desire for God that is present in you, in your heart, inside us, in the depths of our being.

I believe that you heard about Saint Teresa D’avila about prayer. (1515–1582), a Spanish Carmelite nun, mystic. In her autobiography, The Book of Her Life (30:19), she says: 

“Oh, how many times do I recall the living water that the Lord told the Samaritan woman about! And so, I am very fond of that gospel passage. Thus, it is, indeed, that from the time I was a little child, without understanding this good as I do now, I often begged the Lord to give me the water. I always carried with me a painting of this episode of the Lord at the well, with the words, inscribed: Domine, da mihi aquam” (Lord, give me that water).

In today's gospel, we see how Christ approaches a Samaritan woman and establishes a dialogue with her, saying, "Give me a drink."

The Samaritan woman was surprised because it was not normal for a man to approach and speak with a stranger woman alone, and especially since she was a Samaritan, who did not speak with the Jews. But Jesus has something different, Jesus has something special, that makes her trust in Him, engaging in a conversation.

And back to Saint Teresa D’avila again when she talks prayer she says (The Book of Her Life (Vida, Chapter 8). ("Mental prayer in my opinion is nothing else than an intimate sharing between friends; it means taking time frequently to be alone with Him who we know loves us.")

I see this moment, this dialogue between Jesus and the Samaritan Woman as Prayer and I believe that to begin this path of love and friendship, we need to know how much Jesus loves us.

Jesus says to the Samaritan woman: "If you knew the gift of God..." He is telling her, "If you knew the gratuity of God, his infinite and unconditional love for you, everything he wants to give to you and who it is who asks you for a drink, you would ask him, and He would give you living water."

Jesus always invites us for dialogue, to discover who he is. To show us the importance of becoming aware of our need for living water.

On our journey through Lent today, we are invited to take another step in our conversion. Lent is a time for Metanoia (from the Greek μετάνοια) is a profound, transformative change of heart, mind, and direction. To think differently, to go "beyond" one's current, limited way of thinking.

Jesus invites us to discover what is the radical thirst of our life and what is the water that can truly quench our thirst to become aware that he is the only one that can satisfy our thirst in this life. He reminds us today that it is not outside where we will find that happiness we long for.

The living water is not in things external to us, but within ourselves and must be sought within.

I want to read from The Confessions of Saint Augustin this quote.

Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you! You were within me, but I was outside, and it was there that I searched for you. You were with me, but I was not with you. I have tasted you, now I hunger and thirst for more. You touched me, and I burned for your peace.

This is a call to us to make an inner journey, to a personal relationship with Jesus, to receive this living Water in prayer and in love.

Jesus replied: ‘Whoever drinks this water will get thirsty again; but anyone who drinks the water that I shall give will never be thirsty again: the water that I shall give will turn into a spring inside him, welling up to eternal life’.

Jesus promises us that if we receive his water, we will not only quench our thirst but will become springs of that water and will be able to give drink to many thirsty people around us.

Like the Samaritan woman, we are invited to leave our fleeting loves that take away our strength and do not quench our thirst, and to focus on love in Christ so that from him we can love everyone.

I invite you to enter silence, enter the depths of your being (into the depth) and let Jesus speak to your heart. Let him discover the deep thirst of your soul. Let Him open your life to others and to love. Let Him plant in the deepest part of your being that spring of faith and peace never runs out but extends to eternal life happy with the Lord.

And let's say to Jesus:  Jesus, help me discover that, prayer is a meeting of the thirsty. I, being thirsty, ask You for living water, but You also tell me, "Give me a drink." You are thirsty for me.

I believe that you heard about Saint Thérèse of Lisieux in her book of a Soul: She says: "Behold then all that Jesus asks of us: “…He has no need of our works but only of our love. for this same God, who declares He has no need to tell us if he is hungry, did not hesitate to beg for a little water from the Samaritan woman. He was thirsty. But when He said: “Give me to drink,” it was the love of His poor creatures that the Creator of the universe was asking for. He was thirsty for love.”

In this text, she reflects on a very beautiful idea: God does not need our works, but He desires our love. God is the Creator of everything, so our actions do not add anything to Him. Yet in the Gospel, Jesus allows Himself to appear poor and thirsty. For example, when He asks the Samaritan woman for water in John 4:7, He says, “Give me to drink.”

Saint Thérèse understands that Jesus was not only thirsty for water. She says that He was thirsting for love—the love of human souls. The Creator of the universe was asking His creatures for their love.

The message is very simple: God is not first looking for great achievements or extraordinary works. What He desires most is love. Even the smallest act, if it is done with love, can respond to the thirst of Christ.

This is the heart of Saint Thérèse’s spiritual teaching: that simple acts of love, done every day, are very precious to God.

Saint Thérèse reminds us that great holiness is not about doing great things, but about doing small things with great love.

I want to conclude this reflection with this question: How can we give our love to Christ today, even in the smallest things?

Sunday, March 1, 2026

The Second Sunday in Lent, March 1, 2026

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, New York

Br. Robert James Magliula

The Second Sunday in Lent, March 1, 2026





It’s always less threatening to encounter parts of ourselves in others. In our gospel today we encounter Nicodemus, who enables us to do just that. His action in coming to meet Jesus in the night, his trust, however guarded and limited by fear, prompts us to examine our own. Trust is a complex and mysterious thing. Some of it has to do with things that go back to our childhood. Some has to do with our sense of ourselves: our strengths, our weaknesses, our willingness to risk, our sense of how loveable we are. We have a common thread that binds us to Nicodemus in this episode of his life. It's a bridge moment for him, a transition, as he steps out of his comfort zone. We have all been through transitions. In fact, we as an Order are going through one right now with the upcoming election of a new Superior and the recent departure of a member of our community here. Having just returned from my visitation to our brothers in South Africa, I came to appreciate even more the drastic double transition they’re negotiating in setting up the new monastery there.

We all know what transitions feel like. They are a dark and liminal space and they are not comfortable. They are the times and places in our lives when we feel isolated and alone, when the stability and predictability of life are disrupted, when our confidence shrivels and we have more questions than answers. They are the times when we feel afraid, powerless, unprepared, and overwhelmed by what lies ahead. They are the times we feel there is nothing to hold on to, nothing makes sense, and we can’t see the way forward.

In such times it’s helpful for us to affirm that God is with us in whatever situation we find ourselves ---that God is rooted in the realities of our lives, even amid change and loss. As we receive the Eucharist today, we are physically affirming the fact that God is with us, within us, so we may continue to live in trust---especially during transition and change.

            God often calls us to new places in subtle ways. Take Nicodemus. He was a busy and powerful man, a lawyer and teacher, a member of the Sanhedrin, the ruling council. He was liked and respected, but at his center there was an empty space. One night he arranged to meet Jesus secretly. It didn’t take long for Jesus to see that emptiness. There was more than curiosity in Nicodemus’ voice. In his seeking there was longing. We can recognize it because the same longing is in us. We all long for God, for the love, grace, and presence of God, whether we are conscious of it or not. It’s how we humans are created. Jesus tells Nicodemus that he needs to journey into himself. He needs to enter those parts of himself long forgotten, to discover the desire, to acknowledge the longing. All his responsibility, all his busyness, all his influence doesn’t keep him from feeling dead. All the power and control he has cannot drive this feeling from him. He needs to come alive; he needs, Jesus says, to be “born from above”. Then Jesus switches images and speaks of a wind that blows in a person’s life. You can’t control it. All you can do is wait for it. Nicodemus is attracted, confused, and repelled by what he hears. He is affirmed yet frightened. Like most of us, he is wary of things that can’t be controlled. Yet even in this conflicted moment, as he sits in the shadows, he knows that his life will never be the same again. Even if he doesn’t respond, even if he tries to drown this moment out by the duties and responsibilities of the coming days, nothing will ever be the same again. He walked away from the encounter that evening, but he never succeeded in walking away from Jesus.

            Months later, when Jesus’ body hung on the cross, Nicodemus came looking for him again. This time it was in broad daylight for all to see. He forgot his position, his reputation. He forgot everything except what Jesus had become for him. He and his friend, Joseph of Arimathea, took the body down, carried it away, and placed it in a tomb. In lowering that body, I imagine that Nicodemus descended into himself more deeply and discovered what Jesus had spoken about. In that moment of change, Nicodemus was “born from above”. In that moment, Nicodemus knew something that you and I know, especially in those painful moments of discovery born of change, loss, and transition. He knew that Jesus, whose body he was carrying, was already rising in his heart.

            We too have our patterns of busyness and responsibilities. But even the most consuming schedule cannot stifle the longing for something more. Jesus satisfies that longing if we seek him out, even in the darkness of our fears and confusion. Like Nicodemus, we too are directed to look deep within ourselves for that part of us which has never yet managed to be born or has gotten so weighted down that it has forgotten what it is. If we stay present to our discomfort, we will also feel something else arising, a more real awareness of our true selves. Then we too can expect a wind, a spirit that we cannot control or manage. It comes in endless and unexpected ways to energize us, to give us hope and courage. And, when we feel as if all is dead inside us, it will enable us to rise again, to God’s life, what Jesus calls eternal life.  +Amen.