Tag: bible

Ruah

The water moves gently along the Schuylkill trail while the breeze brushes against my skin. The birds chirp as the city slowly wakes. As I pick up speed, my breathing grows heavier, blending with the rhythm of my footsteps against the pavement. Early summer mornings in Philly have become one of my favorite times to run. If I am not writing or reading on these summer days, it is normal to find me lacing up my shoes for a run. It has become a place where my thoughts settle long enough for words to form clearly. After finishing my run, I quickly get dressed to make my way to the station.

The train platform buzzed softly with movement. Coffee cups rested in people’s hands as they made their way toward another workday. The sound of rolling suitcases against the floor, the muffled announcements being made overhead filled the station as I boarded the train and I took one of the window seats. As the train pulled out of Philadelphia toward DC, the city slowly faded, replaced by rivers, warehouses, and rows of trees rushing by in silence. The sound of the engine settled into a rhythm almost like a heartbeat. Train rides remind me of the season in my life when I first moved to Philly, and how I used to take the Amtrak almost every month to visit my brother and niece in Jersey. But this time, I was heading south toward DC for a Pentecost retreat. Part of me felt sad knowing that I am not in Texas celebrating the ordination of a brother from our community. Especially during Pentecost, it felt meaningful to witness someone say yes to the LORD in such a radical way. It felt like this season was overflowing with vocations, with lives quietly being offered back to God.

It was just last weekend that a deacon from my parish was ordained as part of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. I remember the church already overflowing with people when I entered. I stood in the back for most of the liturgy, occasionally sitting on the side steps to rest my legs. Families filled the pews. Young adults crowded the aisles. The scent of incense lingered heavily in the air while cream vestments moved softly near the altar.

At one point during the ordination, the eight deacons laid prostrate across the floor before the altar while the Litany of Saints echoed through the cathedral. Their bodies pressed against the marble as the choir and crowd prayed over them in unison. Priests from across Philadelphia and nearby cities filled the sanctuary beside the altar, having come to witness the ceremony. Later, the archbishop placed his hands over their heads in silence before the other priest followed behind him to do the same. The line seemed endless. Near the end of the rite, the newly ordained priests knelt before the archbishop with their hands folded together in prayer while their palms were anointed with oil and gently wrapped in white cloth.

Watching the ceremony unfold, it felt something ancient like a quiet surrender that was being passed down from generation to generation. The cathedral felt so alive with the incense rising slowly through the air, voices echoing against the wall, and silence between each prayer.

After the ceremony ended, I waited outside the main church to welcome the newly ordained priests as they came out. Excitedly, I took out my phone to capture the moment. First came the altar server carrying the cross, then the archbishop, followed by the priests and knights of Columbus, uniformed in suits with swords at their sides. The hallway suddenly filled with loud applause as the newly 8 ordained priests finally stepped through the cathedral doors.

Among them was the deacon from my parish who had gone on a mission trip with me this past lent to Peru. Filled with joy, I reached out and tapped his hand. He turned toward me for a brief moment, and we exchanged a bright smile before he continued greeting the crowd. Seeing him stand at the altar, I was taken back to my mission days in Peru. I was reminded how quietly the Holy Spirit moves through the people we journey beside and through the missions that remain with us.

Back at the retreat in DC, sitting before the Blessed Sacrament, I remember how last year around this time during adoration, I felt my vision slowly blurring. I rubbed my eyes a few times, but everything still felt unfocused. There was a longing in me I could not fully explain. I eventually stepped outside feeling lightheaded, carrying a heaviness that stayed with me long after adoration ended.

Later that evening during prayer, I came across the passage where Jesus says, “Blessed are those who have not seen me and yet believe.” The word stayed with me long after. Now that Ascension and Pentecost just passed, I keep thinking about Christ promising that we would not be left orphaned. There was a point in my life when I could only write when I am ready, feeling inspired or being led by the Holy Spirit. For years, I wrote mostly out of restlessness like fragments of thought, observations, little pieces of myself I did not know what to do with. But somewhere between adoration, silence, and long periods of waiting, writing stopped feeling like self-expression and more like prayer. 

By the time I stepped outside later that evening, rain had begun falling softly across the city while people hurried past umbrellas. I walked slowly through DC back to my friend’s apartment in silence, letting the cool rain settle against my skin like breath returning after exhaustion. The water moved through the gutters beneath the passing traffic, carrying forward the prayers from the cathedral, the hands laid in blessing and the words I once struggled to write.

To remain near the cross

The rain had not stopped for days. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky from morning until night as water overflowed onto narrow roads and flooded the rice fields. Trees swayed against the wind while the sound of rain striking the Odu (clay-tiled) rooftops and river constantly was heard throughout. The scent of wet earth drifted through the windows alongside the cool monsoon air that summer of 2004.

Schools had closed because the roads were too flooded to travel safely, and my mom would not let my brother and I play outside because she was afraid we’ll go too close to the river. The strong currents moved through the waters as ripples spread endlessly across the surface. I was feeling restless staying indoors for so many days. Around that time, a local neighbor brought us a DVD copy of The Passion of the Christ. I remember feeling strangely excited simply because it was something new to watch while the rain continued endlessly outside.

I had not yet started Bible school at our parish because I was still too young, so many of the stories about Christ were unfamiliar to me. Through out the movie, I asked my mom so many questions. “Who are the people standing beside Mother Mary?” “Why is that person carrying a strange-looking baby?” I felt confused throughout most of the film, still too young to fully understand everything unfolding on the screen. But there was one scene that deeply struck me. It was the moment Jesus, fell to the ground while carrying the heavy wooden Cross. Not too far away stood Mother Mary watching Him with grief in her eyes.

Hearing all my questions, my mom fondly told me that my older sister was very much like this too, always curious and excited about Jesus. She shared how, even at just 2 years old, my sister used to sing Kurishinte Vazhi, the Malayalam stations of the Cross hymn sung during Good Friday services back home in India. The hymn traces Christ’s journey to Calvary through the fourteen stations, beginning from His condemnation before Pontius Pilate to His burial in the tomb. As the people walked from station to station placed around the church grounds meditating on Christ’s Passion, my sister would kneel at every station while singing the hymn, perhaps simply because she saw everyone else doing it.

I can almost imagine my sister doing that because when I look at my four-year old niece now, she asks similar questions, retells Bible stories with excitement, and speaks so innocently about Jesus.

Years later, I found myself returning to those same images of Christ’s Passion, though now through the lens of grief. This past Good Friday, I stood before the empty sanctuary waiting in line to kiss the feet of Christ while the Taizé chant “Jesus, Remember Me” echoed softly through the church. This time, I thought not only of my sister, but also of my grandmother who passed away just a week before holy week. Once I approached the altar where the priest was holding the wooden cross, I kissed the wounds on Christ’s feet aching with the wish of somehow I got the chance to kiss my sister and grandmother one last time too.

Only a few days earlier during Palm Sunday weekend at a retreat, I had sat on the floor near the altar before the blessed sacrament journaling everything I carried the weight of within my heart. Before me rested a jar laid upon a table with a long veil flowing from within it into a basket below. The image was to portray of how Mary of Bethany poured perfume from her alabaster jar upon the feet of Jesus and wiping them with her hair. Her anointing His feet with tenderness, love, and devotion. On a small piece of paper, I wrote down everything I carried inside me from grief, fear to longing and placed it into the basket.

It was just two days earlier, while walking to church for an adoration night like this, that my mom called to tell me my grandmother had passed away. I remember the strange contrast of returning from my Peru mission filled with joy only to encounter sorrow so soon. From the night I heard the news of my grandmother’s passing, to sitting before the altar pouring out my heart, to kissing the wounded feet of Jesus on Good Friday, I found myself contemplating on the beloved disciple John. The one who leaned close to Christ during the Last Supper, who remained at the foot of the cross when so many others fled, and the one entrusted with Mary. Maybe this is what love and communion truly means. To remain, like John and Mary, near both at the foot of the cross and the empty tomb. To remain through both monsoon storms and seasons of grief when suffering feels unbearable and when hope feels distant, still holding onto the same childlike wonder that first drew us toward Christ.