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 

Reflecting on Matthew 27:11-54

The sadness descends on us like a cloak from the very first words, “One of the Twelve, Judas Iscariot…” We know what’s coming, and still we hope that, this time, Judas will NOT approach the chief priests, or that they will NOT offer the thirty pieces of silver.

Judas still had a chance to stop it. When Jesus let it be known, at the Supper, that it was he who would betray him, Judas could have warned Jesus from going into the Mount of Olives that night. He could have flung the Blood Money into the temple BEFORE the guards ever came looking for Jesus.

So many had the opportunity to stop it. I’ll bet there were some secret BELIEVERS among that large crowd, armed with swords and torches, who came into Gethsemane that night. They could have stopped it before the Romans ever got involved. The chief priests didn’t even know what Jesus looked like! That’s why Judas was there, to point him out, to betray him with a kiss. There were so many moments when it all could have just stopped.

Pilate’s wife did what she could to stop it. She warned her husband to have nothing to do with that righteous man. But the crowd—full of envy, no doubt, at the love Jesus engendered in his followers— knew best.

Pilate himself could have stopped it, but the mob intimidated him. Sure, it’s unfortunate that an innocent man has to die, he thought. But better him than me. You can’t trust these Jews to keep their little religious quibbles away from Rome.

The sadness today, of course, is our own collusion with things we still could stop.

Have you ever “fallen on your sword” to stop an evil? Were you successful?

Kathy McGovern ©2023

Reflection on John 11: 1-45

Every three years we circle back to this story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. This is the week when we picture Martha, rushing to meet Jesus, who waited a full two days before setting out to Bethany after hearing the news of Lazarus’ illness.

They greet each other, and then, immediately, Martha’s words of indictment: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. That’s the killer, the stab to the heart, because it strikes so close to home. How many losses have we suffered, crying Lord, if you had heard my prayers, this death would not have happened?

My experience of grief is, first, we have to forgive Jesus for not being there to save our loved one from death. Second, we acknowledge him next to us at the tomb, weeping. Third, we find ourselves upheld by Martha’s words, “even now I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you.” And then the journey of making sense of our grief, and our faith, begins.

There is something holy about grief. We enter into a sacred space, where outlines of our loved one begin to fill in, and we know them better in death than in life.

Those who identify as agnostic or atheist will read this story and ask, “Did Jesus save your loved one from death? I was at the funeral.” Those who cling to their baptism, and their faith, will bring Martha to memory and say, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Christ.”

It is the Christ who journeys with us in all the years after loss, planting in us resurrection seeds.

Has deep grief drawn you closer to Christ?

Kathy McGovern ©2023

Reflecting on John 9: 1-41

Let us now consider Plato. You remember him. He’s the Greek philosopher who wrote that beautiful “Myth of the Cave,” in his Republic, around 350 years before Christ. He gives the example of prisoners in a cave, whose only connections with the outside world are the flickering images on the cave wall. One of the prisoners, however, escapes, and returns with fanciful stories of light, and life, and warmth outside the cave.

He’s crazy, of course. They know that the only reality is their chains, and the cold, and the dark, and those amusing images on the wall. Remind you of anyone?

Those Pharisees, and the man’s neighbors, were so deadly intent on disproving the healing of that Man Born Blind that they came up with every possible disclaimer:

No, you just LOOK like the guy who was blind from birth!

No, I’m the guy.

But he healed you on the Sabbath! That makes him a sinner!

Well, I don’t know anything about that, but here’s what I do know: I was blind, and now I see.

I don’t ever want to be like the Pharisees, or the prisoners in the cave. I want, always, to look to the Light that is always flickering outside the rigid and sad structures of our sophisticated and cynical world. Miracles? I absolutely believe that Jesus Christ is still healing. But here’s your part. It’s the task of the baptized to help prisoners, blind to the goodness of God, step out into the Light.

What experiences have you had of healing? Have you even taken the time to notice them?

Kathy McGovern ©2023

Reflecting on John 4: 5-42

I hate drinking water when I’m not thirsty, and, due to my sedentary lifestyle, I’m almost never thirsty. But there it sits, the chart of the eight empty boxes I’m supposed to check off, as I gag down those 64 ounces of water every day. It’s like having a full-time job. It’s got great benefits, but you actually have to put in the work to get them.

Metaphorically speaking, I don’t think we as a culture are very much in touch with our thirst either. There’s too many things pretending to be water. We can shove our thirst underground with endless diversions. (I gave up scrolling the internet for Lent, by the way, and all of a sudden I notice my thirst for the living God. It turns out I’m thirsty after all.) Thank God for Lent.

The thing about thirst is that, since we don’t know we’re thirsty, dehydration creeps up on us. We’re feeling achy, our brain is foggy. We blame it on everything else but the culprit: we don’t thirst for water. The opposite scenario is that we’re sick with illnesses that deplete our fluids, and all of a sudden dehydration is suffocating us.

In the chapel at the Samaritan House in Denver there is a crucifix, and the last words of Jesus underneath it: I thirst. Guests at the shelter are often found there, prostrate underneath the crucifix. They are dying of thirst, dying for recovery from poverty, dying for the deep love of Jesus.

Has dehydration set in in your soul? Have you thirsted for that which doesn’t satisfy? Tell Jesus that you thirst for him. The great gift is that he is even thirstier for you.

What ways have you used to divert yourself from your thirst for Jesus?

Kathy McGovern©2023