A poem

 Karkidakam

Hey there, Monsoon—
You found your way.
Wasn’t sure you’d show up,
With the world all talk of change and doom,
And skies too shy to make room.

But here you are, all gale and tide,
Storming in with your winds wide,
Like that brother who never calls ahead—
Just barges in, well-fed and wet.

You’ve brought that smell—
Of Kerala soil and mango spell,
Of sambar brewing, warm and thick,
Of old Cochin with memory slick.

The kids sleep deep, they dodge the bell,
Old men rock with tales to tell.
And women at windows, quiet as mist,
Think of Sita and what we missed.

You’re not just rain.
You’re not just grey.
You’re Karkidakam—the soul’s pathway.
A hymn, a vow, a whispered psalm,
A breath held deep in Ramayan calm.

You’re the month that bends our knees,
That calls the chants into the breeze.
Though roads flood and clothes don’t dry,
You teach us still to look up high.

So stay a while. Don’t rush past.
We’ve got some mantras meant to last.
Some tears to shed, some hearts to mend,
Some broken prayers we’d like to send.

And yes, the tea is hot and sweet.
Pull up a chair, rest your feet.
Just try not to break us as you bless,
O sacred month of heaviness.

First Sunday Karkidakam 2025

Not much difference from the picture posted a few weeks ago at the start of Monsoon. We have been rained in since then. The month of Karkidakam which bear the seriousness and the brunt of monsoon is here. This year the month has arrived in all its old Glory. Pouring and consistent just like in old days. 

The church was not that crowded and smelled of damp. Sunday best wet with rain drops. 

Oh! Pops, guide me...

A Baptism in progress on Sunday 29 June 2025

The church wasn’t crowded today, yet I still couldn’t find a place to sit for the 11:30 am service. The seating was full.

So I made my way to the Adoration Hall — a recent extension to the main church. Clean tiled floors, plenty of lights, and enough electric fans. It has a certain neatness, but also a temporary feeling to it. Perhaps that’s why I never prayed there before. Today was the first time.

I found myself sitting at the back, on the floor, leaning against the wall. Polyester pants — not the best choice. I kept slipping as I tried to stay in that leaning position, legs stretched out fully in front of me. But I stayed.

This church is many hundreds of years old, dedicated to the Holy Ghost. Generations have prayed here. The Adoration Hall, though new, is still part of this sacred space. And today, despite the slipping and discomfort, I prayed.

I started slowly, whispering the Adonai prayer — the one we’re supposed to say a hundred times a day. As I repeated the words, something within me grew still. The prayer deepened. The intensity grew. And slowly, I reached that final, quiet realisation.

I remembered what Jesus said during His trial. He declared He is the Son of God — not only that, He also promised that they will see Him return, seated at the right hand of the Father. And then… He died. And He rose again. And He consecrated His Body and Blood — His everlasting sacrifice — for the forgiveness of sin.

These four truths I believe with all my heart. And if I believe this, truly believe, then my prayers will be heard. That is His promise. As I thought about this, it filled me — this fierce, humbling hope. I could feel its power settle into me.

Yes, I had lost the opportunity God gave me — the work that came my way. If that loss was my mistake, I admit it. I learn the lesson. Maybe I’m not meant for jobs. Maybe I’m meant to do something on my own. But I confess, after giving up that job, the guilt lingered. How could I stand before God? How could I pray for new things when I let opportunities slip away, one after another?

But I know this much — at that job, I had no problems with anyone, except one. I can say it to You, my God — it was that man and his attitude. Real men do not blame others. Huh! 

Creator of the Universe, I believe in You. If I am to do something on my own, let it come my way. Make it clear. Give me the strength to rise and get on with it, as soon as possible.

I believe in you  Jesus. Amen.

A very rainy day...

Here are some pictures from the church at Vallarpadam...

The grey sky and the white painted church

Rosary park and the iconic flag post at the end..

The candles near the Meenakshi chapel..

The festive Parasols for the feast of Holy Ghost...

The altar parapet lights somehow reminded the fonts of the film Dunes. 

There were only very few people at the church. Rain kept the crowd away. 

The Pentecost

As we reflect on the sacred moment of Pentecost — when the Holy Spirit came upon the apostles in a rush of wind and flame — it’s important to remember that this wasn’t an isolated miracle. It was deeply connected to a much older and holy tradition from the Jewish faith, one that Jesus Himself honored and fulfilled.

On the Holy Ghost feast day. 

Let us go back to the root of it all: a festival called Shavuot (pronounced "Sha-voo-ot")

🌾 

Shavuot is a Jewish festival that takes place 50 days after Passover. The word “Shavuot” means “Weeks”, and it marks two things:

1. The first harvest of wheat in the land of Israel — a joyful offering of gratitude.

2. More importantly, it commemorates the giving of the Torah — God’s law — to the people of Israel at Mount Sinai.

This moment at Sinai — when God revealed His will through the Ten Commandments — is seen as the birth of the nation of Israel as a people in covenant with God.

After Jesus’ resurrection and ascension, He told His disciples to remain in Jerusalem and wait for the promise of the Father (Luke 24:49, Acts 1:4). *And they did — but not only out of obedience.*

They were also there for Shavuot, as devout Jews. You see, Shavuot is one of the three major pilgrimage feasts in Judaism. According to Jewish law, every Jewish man was to come to Jerusalem for this festival (Deuteronomy 16:16).

That’s why, in Acts 2, we read that Jews from every nation under heaven were in Jerusalem. It was Shavuot — and they were gathered to celebrate.

On Mount Sinai, God gave His people the Torah, written on stone tablets.

On Mount Zion (Jerusalem), during that very festival of Shavuot, God gave the Holy Spirit, writing His law on human hearts — just as the prophet Jeremiah had foretold (Jer. 31:33).

In both cases:

There was a mighty sound.

There was fire.

There was a covenant.

There was a beginning — first, of a people, and then of the Church.

This is not coincidence. It’s fulfillment.

When the Holy Spirit came upon the apostles, it was the moment Jesus had prepared them for. Empowered by the Spirit, they began to speak in many languages — reaching the diverse crowd in Jerusalem with one message: that Jesus is the Messiah.

Three thousand people were baptized that day (Acts 2:41). That number is significant — it mirrors the number who died at Sinai after the sin of the golden calf (Exodus 32:28). At Pentecost, grace replaced judgment. Life replaced death. A new community was born — not defined by race or nation, but by faith in Christ and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.

From that day on, belief in Christ and receiving the Holy Spirit became inseparable. As Peter said:

> “Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.” (Acts 2:38)

Baptism became the entry point — a visible sign of faith and a participation in Christ’s death and resurrection. The Holy Spirit is God’s seal upon us, guiding, comforting, and empowering believers to live in holiness and bear witness.

What began at Sinai with the giving of the Law was fulfilled at Pentecost with the giving of the Spirit. We, as Christians, are heirs to that promise. Pentecost is not a new invention — it is the flowering of the seed planted long ago in the soil of Israel.

Understanding this makes Pentecost even more beautiful. It reminds us that our faith is rooted — not floating — and that Christ came not to abolish the Law, but to fulfill it (Matthew 5:17).

May this deeper understanding of Pentecost enrich your heart. Let us never forget that the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, came to us on a day already holy, to fulfill a plan already set in motion.

And just like the apostles, we too are called to gather, to wait, to receive, and then to go forth — filled with the Spirit, bearing witness to the truth and love of Christ.

Chag Shavuot Sameach and Happy Pentecost, dear friends.

Saint Joseph

 

"The Carpenter's Recollection" 

I was born in Bethlehem, city of David, the city of my ancestors. But I left it behind, carrying little more than my tools and my dreams. Bethlehem had memory, yes, but not enough work for a man trying to make an honest living. Nazareth, though small and rough around the edges, offered opportunity. The Romans were building, and so were the Herodians—roads, fortresses, palaces. Just a short journey from the growing city of Sepphoris, Nazareth drew tradesmen like me who could shape wood, stone, and future.

In Nazareth, I hoped to shape more than just wood. I hoped to find a life of peace, of purpose. And then I met her—Mary. There was a stillness about her, a strength that didn't demand attention but drew it nonetheless. I saw in her someone who could make a home out of a workshop, a family out of faith.

Then came the moment that shook the ground beneath me.

She was with child. And I was not the father.

I will not pretend that I understood. No man would. I felt betrayed, bewildered—until the dream came. The angel didn’t explain everything. Just enough: “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife.” It was enough. I trusted the voice, and more than that, I trusted her.

What followed was not easy. Whispers followed us through the market. Gossip curls its way through small towns like smoke, and it choked me more than once. But we stayed. We worked. We waited.

Then came the census. We returned to Bethlehem—not for celebration, but registration. Mary was heavy with child, and I was heavy with worry. I knocked on door after door, but no one opened. I was a carpenter, not a man of standing. And so, we ended up where the animals slept. There, in the straw and silence, I held the light of the world in my arms.

No midwife, no priest. Just me, trying to comfort Mary, trying to swaddle the impossible in cloths I had sewn myself.

And then, danger. Herod’s blade came hunting. I had another dream—Egypt. I gathered what little we had and ran. A man will do anything to keep his family safe, even cross deserts into strange lands.

Egypt was not welcoming. Foreign tongue, foreign gods, no kin to turn to. But I found work—odd jobs, heavy lifting, doors to fix, wheels to mend. I stood outside temples I did not enter, waiting for someone to need a hammer or hands. I found bread. I made sure we had enough.

We returned when it was safe, but never quite the same. I raised Jesus in Nazareth, where people never forgot the odd beginnings. Still, I taught Him my craft—how to work with patience, with care, how to respect each grain in the wood, each rhythm in life.

I am remembered as “the just man.” But I was just a man—working, wondering, waiting. What carried me through was not strength or certainty, but love. Love for Mary. Love for the boy who grew into the world’s hope. And love for the quiet dignity of honest work.

---

Historical Note:

Nazareth in the 1st century was a modest village in Galilee, but it was close to Sepphoris—a Romanized city undergoing heavy construction during the time of Joseph’s life. Historians believe this could have drawn skilled laborers from surrounding areas. Unlike Bethlehem, which had political and religious significance but limited economic opportunity, Nazareth’s proximity to Roman urban projects made it attractive for tradesmen like Joseph.

---

A Message for Today:

To those seeking work, facing rejection, or holding families together on small wages—Joseph's journey is yours too. Quiet, faithful persistence. Work done in the background. Love that builds futures out of uncertainty. In a world that praises flash and fame, may you find strength in the steady hands of the carpenter.

---

 

The shade we forgot

Good things happen to bad people.

Bad things happen to good people.

Or perhaps, as age settles in, good and bad simply happen — to old people.

Some call it harmless, but I think it is a quiet injustice that the Aarya Vepu — the noble neem — is now unwelcome in many Christian premises. Once a familiar, healing presence, it is now replaced with trees of little purpose. In the fierce summers of our land, when the skin cracks and the soul grows restless, the neem’s shade was a balm. Its breeze was not only cool but medicinal, a living blessing.

But now we plant പാഴ് മരങ്ങൾ — barren trees, soulless ornaments.

Who will speak for nature when even memory begins to forget?

Long ago, in a different land, giants walked among men.

The Anakim were among them — a race of great size and strength, descendants, it was said, of the Nephilim, those ancient offspring of fallen angels and mortal women. It was a bloodline cursed by heaven itself, a remnant of a time when the boundaries between earth and the divine were recklessly crossed.

God judged the fallen angels harshly; their children, the Anakim, remained — living in the hill country of Canaan.

When Joshua led the Israelites into Canaan, it was said he waged war against the Anakim, driving them out and destroying many. Yet some escaped and found refuge in a city called Gath — one of the last strongholds of their kind.

Generations later, from Gath came Goliath, the giant who defied Israel and fell to the sling of young David. Goliath, and perhaps his brothers, were the lingering echoes of a forgotten race, remnants of a war that stretched back to myth and mystery.

It is worth remembering: the Philistines, who lived in that land during David’s time, were themselves newcomers — migrants from distant shores of the Mediterranean. Like Joshua’s people, they too were not the original children of the soil.

History, like memory, is never as simple as we like to believe.

Here, in our own land, when Western medicine was rare and costly, our grandfathers revered the neem — Azadirachta indica — for its healing powers. Its leaves, bark, and breath were our shield against sickness, our answer to summer's cruelty.

Now, we forget.

We forget the sacred tree that gave without asking.

We forget that refuge is not always something we build — sometimes it is something that grows.

And the land, like a patient giant from forgotten days, waits in silence under the merciless sun.

Pope Francis

...thinking about the Argentine, who died yesterday. The one who was more popular than Leo Messi. 

ഗുഡ് ഫ്രൈഡേ

That rare Good Friday when it rained. It rained heavily for over an hour. I was at Santa Cruz Basilica, Fort Kochi. 

The return, in the rain, was an unforgettable spiritual experience. 

A Good Friday Reflection

On this solemn day, we remember a moment of profound sorrow and eternal significance. A sword pierced Mary’s heart as she watched her son, Jesus of Nazareth, unjustly condemned and crucified. The Sanhedrin—the upper circle of Jewish religious authority—and the temple elders believed they had triumphed. To them, Jesus was silenced, and their authority preserved.

His disciples, shattered by grief, believed the mission had ended in despair. The hope that once burned bright in Galilee seemed extinguished beneath the shadow of the cross.

And yet, the truth of Jesus—the truth of love, humility, justice, and mercy—did not die on that hill at Golgotha. While the Sanhedrin and the temple elite continued for a time in their worldly prominence, meting out the law as they saw fit, a different kind of justice was unfolding.

Decades later, history turned. The great temple in Jerusalem, once the pride of the Pharisees and Sadducees, was reduced to ashes. The religious hierarchy that had once condemned prophets now faded into silence. No Pharisee or Sadducee ever again walked through the temple courts to condemn and control. Jerusalem, once crowned in ritual glory, stood without its altar—its center covered in the dust of time.

But the teachings of Jesus, the crucified Jew, spread far beyond the boundaries of Jerusalem. His words were planted in the hearts of the humble, the broken, and the seeking. Today, his message is remembered in thousands of altars, spoken in every tongue, and lived through acts of love and forgiveness across the world.

This Good Friday, let us not simply mourn. Let us be still. Let us remember that God's justice is not swift or boastful, but just and eternal.

May our hearts remain open, our spirits humble, and our lives shaped by the love of the one who gave everything, not to conquer, but to redeem.

Gratitude

The Spirit of Gratitude: A Path to Peace

Gratitude is more than a simple "thank you"—it is a spiritual posture, a way of seeing life through the lens of grace and appreciation. It reminds us that we are never truly alone, that our journey is shaped by the kindness and guidance of others, and ultimately, by the hand of God.

One of the most moving examples of gratitude in modern history is found in the life of Albert Camus, the French-Algerian writer and philosopher. Though he was not traditionally religious, his act of heartfelt appreciation echoes a deep spiritual truth: gratitude transforms not only our relationships but also our souls.

A Heartfelt Letter of Thanks

Camus, who was born into poverty, lost his father in World War I. His mother, partially deaf and struggling to make ends meet, raised him with great difficulty. In the midst of these hardships, a primary school teacher, Louis Germain, saw Camus’s potential and nurtured his love for learning. He encouraged him, mentored him, and helped him secure an education—something that changed the course of Camus’s life.

Years later, after receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature, Camus did something deeply meaningful: he wrote a letter to his former teacher, thanking him for the role he played in his life. His words were simple yet profound:

"Without you, without the affectionate hand you extended to the small poor child that I was, without your teaching and example, none of this would have happened."

His gratitude was not just an acknowledgment of success—it was an offering of the heart.

Biblical Wisdom on Gratitude

Camus’s letter reflects a timeless truth that Scripture teaches us: gratitude is a source of peace and fulfillment. The Bible repeatedly calls us to cultivate a thankful heart, not just in times of abundance but in all circumstances.

Paul writes in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18:

"Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus."

Gratitude is not dependent on perfect conditions. Camus, like many of us, came from struggle, yet he chose to look back with thankfulness. His letter to his teacher mirrors the call in Philippians 4:6-7:

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

When we choose gratitude, we shift our focus from what is lacking to what has been given. We recognize the people God has placed in our lives to guide and support us. Like Camus, we can take a moment to express our appreciation—not just to others, but to God, the ultimate giver of all good things.

The Peace of a Grateful Heart

Camus’s letter reminds us that success is never ours alone; behind every achievement, there is someone who believed in us, prayed for us, or guided us along the way. Gratitude humbles us. It teaches us to see life as a gift rather than an entitlement. It replaces bitterness with joy and anxiety with peace.

Jesus Himself emphasized the importance of gratitude in the story of the ten lepers who were healed. Out of the ten, only one returned to give thanks. Jesus asked:

"Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?" (Luke 17:17-18)

This passage reminds us that gratitude is not just an emotion but a choice—one that draws us closer to God. When we remember to give thanks, we acknowledge His presence and grace in our lives.

In a world that often focuses on what we lack, gratitude invites us to dwell in abundance. When we pause to give thanks—whether through a letter, a prayer, or a simple acknowledgment—we draw closer to God and to the peace that surpasses understanding. 

Perhaps today is the perfect day to send a letter of gratitude—to a teacher, a mentor, a friend, or to God Himself. For in thanksgiving, we find not just peace, but the presence of the Divine.

2024 Christmas in pictures

A collection of pictures from Christmas 2024.