Aristophanes was a Greek philosopher. One day, as
philosophers often do, he was walking along the road, lost in thought. His
steps were slow, his mind far away, absorbed in the questions that had occupied
him for most of his life. As he was
crossing the road, a young man came running at full speed and crashed into him.
Both of them fell to the ground. The young man, angry and irritated, shouted at
the philosopher, “Who on earth are you, man?”
The philosopher remained silent for a few moments. He
looked at the young man calmly and then replied with a gentle smile, “My dear
friend, could you please tell me who I am? I have been searching my whole life
to understand that myself.”
Mark 8:29: "But what
about you?" he asked. "Who do you say I am?"
Jesus
once asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” But before he asked that question, he was
praying. Jesus knew who he was—the Son
of God. And yet, when the whole world began to turn against him, when rejection
grew stronger and the plot for his death was already unfolding, he sought
reassurance—not from the crowds, but from the faith of those closest to
him. Then he asked the more personal
question: “But who do you say that I am?”
This
retreat invites us to face a similar question: Who am I? Not by listening only
to the preacher. Not by repeating what others say about us. But by listening
attentively to the revelation of God spoken in the silence of our hearts.
Identity:
Received, Not Invented
Jesus
said to Peter, “It is upon you that I will build my Church” (Mt 16:18).
And today, Jesus says the same to each one of us: “I will build my Church
upon you.” A comforting thought—and also a challenging one. God trusts us
with his work. The real question is whether we are willing to discover who we
truly are in his eyes.
Saint
Paul speaks about himself with deep clarity and conviction: “Paul, a servant
of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle, set apart for the gospel of God”
(Rom 1:1). For Paul, identity was not something he invented or achieved; it was
something he received. He knew who he was because he knew who had called him:
chosen, selected, set apart, called by God (Gal 1:15–16).
After
the Second Vatican Council, much was said about the identity crisis—in the
Church, in society, and in the individual. People struggled to answer the
question: Who am I? But today, the situation feels even more
serious. We no longer speak much about an identity crisis—because, in many
ways, we have lost the very sense of identity itself.
When
identity is no longer rooted in God’s call, everything becomes fragile,
temporary, and negotiable. This retreat invites us to return to the source and
rediscover who we are—not by the world’s labels, but by God’s loving choice
(Eph 1:4–5).
You
Can Change Your Clothes, Not Your Calling
An assistant parish priest was once completely
exhausted. Between school work, parish duties, and endless responsibilities, he
was running on empty, so he called a priest friend and suggested a short escape
to the beach. To relax, they went in ordinary clothes—no collar, no sign of
priesthood. Just two “anonymous” men enjoying the sea breeze, or so they
thought. As they walked along the shore, two elegant young women passed by. One
smiled and said casually, “Hi, Fr. John.” The priests froze—embarrassed and
exposed. So much for hiding their identity.
Determined to do better, the next day they went to a
shopping mall in casual clothes and dark sunglasses, blending into the crowd.
Yet again, two stylish young women came straight toward them. One looked up and
said cheerfully, “Hi, Fr. Alex.” Now not only embarrassed, they were curious.
“How do you know us? Have you attended our Mass? Heard us preach?” they asked.
The young women laughed: “Father, don’t you recognize us? We are the Rosary
Convent sisters from your parish.”
You
can change your clothes. You can change your location. You can even try to hide
your role. But you cannot hide your calling. This light, humorous story reminds
us that the identity crisis is not only about priests or religious sisters. It
concerns all of us. When our identity is rooted in God’s call, it follows us
everywhere. The real challenge is not being recognized by others, but
recognizing ourselves as God sees us.
My
Name Is “Beloved”
Evangelist
John identifies himself in a very unusual way. He never mentions his own
name—not in the Gospel, not even in his letters. Instead, he calls himself “the
disciple whom Jesus loved” (Jn 13:23; 19:26; 21:7, 20). John’s identity is
not built on recognition, achievement, or reputation. His identity is
simple: Beloved.
Today,
how many of us want our names written somewhere—on walls, on buildings, on
plaques? How often do we hear older priests or religious proudly say, “I built
this… I built that…”? Yet John built something far greater: intimacy with
Christ. He disappears so that love may remain.
The
Bible tells us clearly: “He appointed twelve, that they might be with him
and that he might send them out to preach” (Mk 3:14). Before sending them
to preach, before giving them authority, Jesus first called them to be
with him. Presence came before mission.
Saint
Paul expresses this same certainty when he says: “I know in whom I have
placed my trust” (2 Tim 1:12), and again: “If God is for us, who can be
against us?” (Rom 8:31). Paul’s confidence did not come from success,
influence, or productivity, but from belonging to God.
How
did Jesus Christ understand himself? Not as a miracle worker. Not as a
preacher. Not as a magician. He knew himself as the Beloved Son. At
his baptism, he heard the voice of the Father: “This is my beloved Son, with
whom I am well pleased” (Mt 3:17). At the Transfiguration, the same voice
was heard again: “This is my beloved Son… listen to him” (Mt 17:5).
That
is why, after long days of ministry, Jesus withdrew to pray alone (Mk 1:35). He
returned again and again to the place where his identity was affirmed—not by
people, but by the Father. In the hour of his agony, Jesus said to his
disciples: “You will leave me alone; yet I am not alone, for the Father is
with me” (Jn 16:32).
That
was his strength. That was his confidence. That was his identity. And today,
where is our confidence? In our work? In our family? In our friends? Many
people say, “I am lonely.” I ask them gently, “Why are you lonely?” Very often,
the answer is simple and painful: I do not know who I am. When
we forget our identity—being with God—loneliness enters.
The
best moment of the day is the time I spend with my Beloved Lord. The one thing
I cannot live without is prayer. Because before I do anything for God, I must
first remember who I am to God: Beloved. There is one thing I
cannot be without: prayer, the place where I remain with my
Beloved.
The
One Thing That Cannot Be Taken Away
We
all remember the Gospel story of Mary of Bethany and Martha of Bethany (Lk
10:38–42). Martha is busy—very busy. She says, in her own way: “I have so much
to do. I have many places to go. I have many people to attend to.” She is
active, generous, committed.
But
Jesus gently lifts up Mary and says: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and
worried about many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the
better part, and it will not be taken away from her” (Lk 10:41–42). Mary
chose presence over productivity. She chose being with
Jesus over doing things for Jesus.
Once,
I visited a parish where the parish priest was a close friend of mine. He
proudly introduced me to his parish youth group. They were impressive—active,
energetic, always involved. They were doing everything in the church:
organizing, arranging, planning, decorating, managing. Always busy. Always
moving. Always doing something.
Then
the parish priest said something that struck me deeply: “The only place
where I never meet them is during prayer.” He continued, almost sadly:
“They cannot remain in silence even for five minutes. For them, it is
impossible.”
This
is the danger of our time. We are not lacking activity. We are lacking
stillness. Like Martha, we are busy for the Lord—but not
always with the Lord. Yet Jesus reminds us again and again:
only one thing is truly necessary—and that one thing cannot be
taken away.
No
Prayer, No Discipleship
I
may be many things—but I cannot be a disciple if I do not pray. That is the real failure of the Christian
life. My first priority is not my work,
not my ministry, not my activity. My
first priority is to be a disciple. In
the Gospel, Martha of Bethany says to Jesus Christ, “Lord, do you not care that
my sister has left me to serve alone?” (Luke 10:40).
Jesus
replies—not harshly, but truthfully: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and
worried about many things” (Luke 10:41).
Behind Martha’s complaint, Jesus uncovers something deeper: - You are busy - You are anxious - You are
restless - You are angry
Then
he adds the heart of the Gospel: “There is need of only one thing. Mary has
chosen the better part, and it will not be taken away from her” (Luke
10:42).
Mary
of Bethany chose to be with Jesus. She
chose to listen to him. Jesus does not
reject work. He does not condemn
service. But he clearly establishes the
order—the gradation. The better part
always comes first: to be with him, to
listen to him. We cannot say, “I have
too much to do, so I have no time to pray.” Prayer is not optional. It is fundamental. It is foundational. “I called you to be with me” (cf. Mark
3:14). Before mission, before service,
before preaching—presence.
What
happens when prayer becomes optional?
Like
Martha: - I become angry - I feel empty
- I blame others - I am always tired. If these signs are present, it means one
thing: I have pushed prayer to the
margins of my life. But what is kept at
the margin can always be cut off. Prayer
must never be at the margin. Prayer must
be at the centre- the part that cannot be cut away.
And
once again, the question returns to us quietly, persistently: Who am I?
If I am a disciple, then prayer is not something I do. Prayer is where I belong.
You
Can Lose Everything—But Not Your Identity
Once, a very wealthy businessman came for a
retreat. He did not come alone—his two
sons brought him. Although he was
physically present, he never came to the prayer hall. He remained alone in his
room, distant and silent. Sensing that something was wrong, his sons came to me
and said,
“Father, our father has just discovered that his
closest friends betrayed him. His business partners have turned into enemies.
They have taken all his shares, cheated him, and left him with nothing.” In a single moment, the man lost everything
he had built over a lifetime. They told
me something even more painful: “He has tried twice to end his life.” When I finally met him, the man looked at me
and said honestly, “Father, I don’t want to listen to you. I already know what
you will tell me—not to commit suicide.”
I listened to him quietly and then said, “My dear friend, you have
forgotten the fundamental truth of your life.”
I continued gently, “You can lose your wealth. You can lose your position. You can even lose your friends. But you must never lose your identity.” You are not your success. You are not your business. You are not your achievements.
Your
deepest identity is this: you are the
beloved of God. Everything else can be
taken away. This cannot. The moment we
forget who we are, despair enters. The
moment we remember whose we are, hope is reborn. This retreat invites us to return to that
foundation— not to what we have, not to what we do, but to who we are. Beloved. Chosen. Held by God. And that can never be stolen.
The
Crisis Facing Religious Today
It
is shocking to see many young priests and nuns committing suicide—not just in
India, but in other parts of the world also. Alcoholism among priests has
become a serious problem. In Mangalore, there is even a dedicated addiction
centre for priests.
There
is deep dissatisfaction in the life and ministry of many priests. Why are we
doomed? Today’s people are no longer inspired by religious. Because prayer life
has become optional, not fundamental. Religious people are sad. They don’t
radiate happiness.
A
Personal Crisis Before Priesthood
Now
that I am 52 years a joyful priest… When I was a deacon, I was asked to write
the request letter to be ordained priest.
The moment I started writing that request, I fell into
crisis. My eyes filled with tears and panic. “How am I sure that I am called by
God?” “How do I know whether I will be faithful
forever?” I could not complete the letter. I immediately went to speak to my
rector—a German priest. When I put my question to him, he replied with the same
question: “How do I know whether you are
called or not?” “Only you should have heard the call of God.” He reminded me of
the story of Samuel: “Speak, Lord, for
your servant is listening” (1 Samuel 3:9-10). “Don’t sleep. Listen to the voice
of God.” Why was Samuel not able to listen or recognize the voice of God? Because
he was not familiar with the voice of God. But he was familiar with the voice
of Eli. And Eli helped him to recognize the voice of God. Repeat it often:
“Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.” Confirmation in God’s Voice (Is 43:4)
“You are precious to me. You are dear to me. I love you” (Is 43:4) This voice
cannot be heard by the external ear, but by the heart. It cannot be forgotten.
It is not mere knowledge—it’s beyond knowledge.
I took a break from the community and went to another
priest’s house. I closed myself in a room and prayed continuously, asking God
to speak and confirm my call. After days of silence, fasting, and prayer, I
heard this voice again and again in my heart. Then I returned, signed the
ordination request—my hands steady, eyes dry.
Talk
to the Lawyers’ Forum: God’s Mercy as Perfect Justice
I was invited to address the lawyers’ forum, cautioned
to speak prudently amid non-Christians, atheists, and others, avoiding divisive
terms. I agreed and began: From Genesis’ era onward, seekers worldwide—across
deserts, caves, and mountains—meditated for months or years in every tradition,
penning inspired literature in their quest for God.
But Jesus entered our world with a revelation: God is
the Good Shepherd. “What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of
them would not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the lost
one until he finds it?” (Lk 15:4; Mt 18:12). I unpacked this merciful God’s
qualities—tender, relentless, personal.
Afterward, an elegant man approached: “Father, your
talk was excellent, but as a judge, I can’t accept the Good Shepherd’s justice.
I bear greater responsibility for the 99 righteous sheep.” I replied: God’s
justice is mercy. Mercy loves the undeserving. Worldly justice gives what’s
due; God’s goes beyond, upholding truth while offering restoration.
Suffering,
Mercy, and True Repentance
When
people suffer, they often cry, “Why is God punishing us?” I respond: God
isn’t punishing but blessing us—we’re the ones misreading His hand. The God
Jesus reveals isn’t a punisher but pure mercy.
One day, a tearful woman approached for Confession,
weary and broken. After years of marriage, she and her husband fought
endlessly; returning home from work, they found no love, only strife.
Listening, I asked if past guilt shadowed her heart. She confessed: Early in
marriage, pregnant amid pressure from friends and husband who deemed it “too
soon,” she aborted the child. Seeing the fetus, guilt crushed her—she’d ended
her own baby’s life. Home from the hospital, peace fled, despite confessing the
sin a hundred times.
I told her: “My dear, that wound cuts any mother deep.
We can’t undo it alone—only God’s mercy can heal. Don’t confess the same sin
endlessly; confess once, then thank God ninety-nine times, living the rest in
His joy. ‘He does not deal with us according to our sins’ (Ps 103:10). God
waits to rejoice at His children’s return (Lk 15:7).”
Repentance
isn’t repetition but life’s ongoing turn to Him. Jesus urges: “Repent, for
the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Mt 4:17). St. Paul describes that
kingdom as “righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit” (Rom
14:17). No inner joy or peace? Sin hides somewhere—turn to God in repentance.
Stages
of True Repentance
Repentance
begins with a firm decision: no more sin. Jesus warns starkly, “If your eye
causes you to sin, pluck it out; if your hand offends, cut it off” (Mt
5:29-30; Mk 9:43-47). Sever toxic relationships, habits—whatever leads you
astray. We often compromise or justify sin instead of rejecting it outright.
A woman at Mass carried an umbrella in the rain. When
it stopped, she left it behind and drove home praying, “Lord, don’t let it
reach someone who studied moral theology!” The point? Moral experts justify anything. Every
justified sin returns stronger as temptation.
After
wounding someone with anger, choose: your feelings or the one you’ve hurt?
Stand with the injured, not your pride—true repentance heals both.
Preserving
the Sacred Gaze: Roots of Sin
A young man came to me to speak. He was very sad, and
I could see cut scars in his hand—a clear sign of suicide trial. Somehow
knowingly or unknowingly, he got caught into the addiction of pornography.
After few years of suffering continuously with this addiction, one day he even
started to see his own younger sister with dirty eyes, and on that day he
decided to end his life. He cried, telling that he lost the sacred eye of the
brother.
We
should know that pornography is a multimillion business. Where do I stand? I
must admit frankly in front of God. Never ever lose the sacred eye of the
brother.
When I was studying in the Pune seminary, a seminarian
used to tell, “I must taste the sex once at least but not to get involved in
marriage, but for fun.” We thought it was a joke. Later he left the seminary
and got settled in the USA. He married and remarried, and finally he became a
Protestant preacher. After long years, I met him, and he said to me, “His life
was a failure.”
Therefore,
don’t confess only your sins, but the roots of the sin. One must come out of
his or her evil habits to be faithful to God because “the wages of sin is
death” (Rom 6:23), says the Bible.
The
Mass: Passover of Supreme Love and Transformation
Every
Mass is a Passover meal with Jesus. We participate in the Last Supper of Jesus,
where He instituted the Eucharist to be broken and shared. The memory we
celebrate at the altar is the Calvary Cross.
Is
it a joyful event to celebrate? The most cruel and unjust event. But we need to
look at it as an act of supreme love. As the Bible says, “No one has greater
love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (Jn 15:13). The
moment in the upper room is the preview of the moment on the Cross.
That
explains the Holy Eucharist celebration: The Son of Man loved me and offered
Himself for me. When he was wounded and broken, He thought of me. He offered
that agony for me and for my salvation. My value is so high because someone has
shed His blood for us.
But
in our life, we could be rejected, humiliated, etc. We must offer everything on
this altar. The best offertory is offering our own self with all our
limitations. Jesus said, “My soul is sorrowful even to death” (Mt
26:38). What is your suffering? Bring it to the altar. Your pain, sin, and
suffering with the small bread.
Jesus
says with the voice of the priest: “This is my body… this is my blood.”
Lazarus came out of the tomb by the word of Jesus (Jn 11:43-44). You too could
get life again. We offer our miseries and pains, and Jesus takes everything
into His heart and makes it His own and changes the substance—that is what we
celebrate at the altar during the Eucharist, as St. Thomas Aquinas says: transubstantiation.
Jesus
says, “No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him”
(Jn 6:44). We are not mere participants but offerers. I must know for what I am
going to the Mass.
It
was on the fourth day of the death of Lazarus (Jn 11:39). Everything is now
over. There is no more hope again, but Martha offered her pain to Jesus, and He
took everything to Himself as if His own. That is why He cried (Jn 11:35). The
sharing of love makes the miracle.
Transubstantiation takes place not only to the bread, but also in our
lives if we offer them all. Today, what is it? We need to offer to Jesus so
that He can change it—our sins and foul habits.
Fr.
Jobi’s Session: Prayer Amid Trials—The Path to Glory
This
session was led by Fr. Jobi. In Luke 22:39, Jesus “came out and went, as was
his custom, to the Mount of Olives.” From there, in Mark 14:34, He
confides, “My soul is sorrowful even to death” (Mk 14:34; Mt 26:38).
In
deepest agony, He prays faithfully, as always. Likewise, in 1Samuel 13:6,
Israel hides “in caves, in thickets, in cliffs, in cellars, and in pits”
amid distress. Yet Jonathan declares in 1Samuel 14:1, “Come, let us go over
to the outpost of those uncircumcised fellows,” and God grants victory (1
Sam 14:6, 23).
For
Jesus, greater problems meant deeper prayer. For us, troubles lessen it; peace
eliminates it. Jesus never compromised His prayer life. What of our life’s
trials? The Cross permeates every dimension—our bodies even shaped like it. In
the soul’s dark nights, senses overwhelmed, prayer falters. Yet Jesus endured
these very trials.
Suffering
draws our “Why me, Lord?”—abundance, indifference. The Cross is the
inevitable path to glory. In poverty, we complain to God; in prosperity, we
forget Him.
The
Testimony of Fr. Jobi
On December 4, 2000—the Jubilee year—I was a deacon,
just months from priesthood ordination. Returning from a community picnic, our
driver fell asleep, and the van crashed. My left arm was nearly severed. Near
Alleppey, we rushed to a medical college for first aid. They cleaned the wound,
applied medicine, and warned: “If anything can be saved, it must reach another
hospital within 45 minutes.” Twenty-five years ago, Kerala’s roads were rough;
traffic jammed us badly.
I prayed the Rosary with my good hand. As prayer
ended, traffic cleared—we raced to the hospital. Doctors said they’d prioritize
life over limb. Grasping their hands, I begged, “I want to celebrate Mass with
this hand!” Three doctors—one Hindu, one Muslim, one Christian—inserted needles
in my fingers to test circulation. After 30 minutes, blood flow persisted. They
operated to reattach it fully. I endured 12 surgeries. God worked a miracle,
ordaining me priest. I’ve preached His word in 40 countries.
Every
difficulty is like an ATM card—drawing blessings for yourself and others. A
priest’s or nun’s suffering sparks miracles. Saints endured unimaginable pains,
offering them to the Lord.
If
God placed you there, it’s the best spot. Make the most of it. No life
surpasses being a priest or consecrated soul. Don’t fixate on problems or
sickness—focus on the Problem-Solver, the Healer.
Fr.
Augustine’s Talk: Mother Mary’s Faith on Calvary
Fr.
Augustine continued the talk: Mother Mary was betrothed to Joseph. She could
have been stoned to death if found unfaithful. She was so preoccupied, but she
trusted the promise of the Holy Spirit given to her by God’s angel. “Blessed
are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be
fulfilled” (Lk 1:45)—this is the beatitude Elizabeth gave to Mother Mary.
Mother
Mary pondered everything in her heart, even though she did not understand. When
we don’t understand something, we keep it in the head, but Mother Mary kept it
in the heart—the place of prayer and faith.
Mother
Mary heard many things about Jesus: preaching with authority, healing,
friendship with sinners, arguments with Pharisees, etc. But the day came when
she heard of Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion. She might have remembered the story
of Abraham and Isaac. Abraham and Isaac went to the mountain, Mount Moriah.
Isaac carried the wood on his shoulders. Isaac asked, “Father, here is the
wood, you have the knife—where is the sacrifice?” Abraham answered, “My
son, God will provide” (Gen 22:8).
God
promised Abraham descendants like the stars in the sky and sands of the sea
(Gen 22:17). But now Abraham must sacrifice his only son, Isaac. Abraham did
not think with his head, but surrendered with his heart, trusting God’s
promise. Finally, a voice came: “Abraham, Abraham! Do not lay your hand on
the boy” (Gen 22:11-12)—God wanted his undivided heart, not the son.
Mount
Moriah, where Abraham became the father of all believers. Mother Mary knew this
story well. She might have expected the same. When Abraham “died” to Isaac, he
received him back at his bosom. If what happened to Isaac had happened to
Jesus, Mother Mary might have taken Him home, removed the nails from His hands
and feet, healed His wounds, and cared for Him.
The
sky became dark with thunder and lightning (Mt 27:45). Mother Mary waited to
hear the voice Abraham heard. But heaven stayed silent. The dead body of her
only Son was laid on her lap. And on Mount Calvary, she became the mother of
all believers.
Surrender:
Faith Beyond Understanding
“How
could God do this to me? How could my superior do this to me?” We ask these
questions often. Faith is not about understanding, but about surrendering.
God
does not consult us beforehand or dialogue before acting. Superiors may discuss
transfers today, but God demands obedience—no debate promised. Yet God turns
all things to our good (Rom 8:28). If God sent a decree via angel, I’d accept;
now it comes through my superior, God’s instrument between us. That’s the
mystery.
The
potter has a plan in mind. His feet turn the wheel, hands mold the clay—but all
follows his vision. Jars, tumblers, pots emerge as intended; mind realizes plan
through hands.
Evaluate
our life as a faith journey—no room for complaint. What happens unfolds by His
design. “What is that in your hand?” God asked Moses (Ex 4:2). What do
you cling to besides Jesus?
Remember
Ananias and Sapphira in Acts (Acts 5:1-11)—sin held back after seeming
surrender. Let go fully; trust the Potter’s hand.
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