Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion

“When he entered Jerusalem,
the whole city was shaken.”

Not stirred.
Not mildly intrigued.

Shaken
as by an earthquake beneath the ordinary.

And later, in the shadow of betrayal,
Christ says something even more unsettling:

“This night all of you will have your faith in me shaken.”

Peter, with admirable confidence and predictable error, replies:

“Mine will never be.”

And by morning,
his certainty has crumbled
at the sound of a rooster.

I have been shaken.

Shaken by scandal,
by betrayal cloaked in vestments.

Shaken by words that refused repentance,
even when repentance was the only thing left to say.

Shaken by the death of my son—
Daniel—
a husband, a father,
taken at thirty-four,
leaving behind a silence
that still echoes.

Shaken, too,
by decisions within the Church
that seem less like shepherding
and more like hesitation.

Moments that made me wonder—
not quietly, but loudly—
whether it would be easier
to walk away.

To deny not Christ Himself,
but Christ as found in His Church.

And yet—
somewhere in the noise of that shaking,
I heard it.

A sound so small
it could be missed:

the cock crowing.

Not a condemnation—
but a summons.

A reminder
that faith is not proven
by never being shaken

but by what I do
when I am.

And I find myself, strangely,
grateful.

For the shaking did not destroy my faith.

We build our faith on the illusion of stability—
as though God were most present
when nothing moves.

But Scripture suggests the opposite.

Cities shake.
Temples shake.
Hearts shake.

Even the earth itself trembles
at the death of God.

The great paradox is this:

What is shaken
reveals what cannot be shaken.

Peter’s confidence collapses—
but his love remains.

The Church falters—
but Christ endures.

And faith, like a house tested by storm,
is not proven by calm weather,
but by surviving the storm.

You who entered Jerusalem
and shook the city,

You who warned Your disciples
that their faith would be shaken

I confess that I have been shaken.

By suffering.
By scandal.
By loss.

At times, I have wanted to turn away—
to distance myself
from the very place You dwell.

But You did not abandon Peter
in his failure.

And You have not abandoned me.

When my faith trembles,
hold me fast.

When I hear the cock crow,
let it not drive me to despair,
but call me back to You.

And in the shaking,
teach me to trust
what cannot be shaken:

Your love,
Your truth,
Your Cross.

Amen.

Laudato si’ §6

Crises—personal and communal—
are not obstacles to communion,
but invitations into deeper solidarity.

Today, I will:

Communion is the Diocese of Amarillo’s Centennial pillar for March
  • Remain present to the Church even when I am troubled by it.
  • Listen with humility to others who have been shaken in their faith.
  • Walk synodally—recognizing that we journey together, not as the unshaken, but as the sustained.

For communion is not the absence of crisis—
but the decision to remain together through it.

A playful song born from a shaken bottle—
a reminder that even agitation can produce something unexpected.
The question is not whether we are shaken,
but what we become because of it.
A story of sudden upheaval—
where what seemed stable becomes volatile.
A reminder that beneath the surface,
forces are always at work—
and survival depends not on denial,
but on response.
Need a clean slate? We’ve got mercy for that. 🙏 In this episode, we unpack Divine Mercy Sunday, the life and mission of Saint Faustina, and why God never stops inviting us back…no matter how far we think we’ve gone. It’s a powerful mix of real stories and practical faith. Whether you’re all in or still figuring things out, this conversation brings clarity, encouragement, and a reminder that grace always has the final word — and that confession isn’t something to fear…it’s a gift. Plot twist: God’s mercy is undefeated. 🏆
Kick off your day with 5 minutes of faith! Revised Standard Version (RSV) translation New Testament: • Luke 6:27-36 • Matthew 18:21 Old Testament: • Proverbs 25:21-22 Catechism of the Catholic Church: • Paragraph 1970 • Paragraph 2263 Takeaways: • Saint Jerome taught that responding to someone’s wrongdoing with kindness can soften their heart, burn away their anger, and lead them to repentance. • When someone annoys you…like cutting you off in traffic…try praying for them instead of reacting in anger. • If people insult or mistreat you because of your faith, stay faithful and hopeful. Jesus promises that your reward in heaven will be great.
If starting a conversation at church feels like a leap of faith…you’re not alone. 🙏 You know the moment — you lock eyes with someone after church, and suddenly you’re spiritually obligated to say something. 👀 Panic sets in, and now you’re deeply invested in the nearest exit sign. “What do I say?” “Is this weird?” “Do I abort mission?” 😬 This week on The Introverted Apostle, we’re diving into the art of starting conversations without overthinking yourself into silence…moving past the awkward and into authentic connection, one small, brave step at a time. And yes…we’re laughing our way through it, because let’s be honest — we’ve all been there. 😅
My Story
Photo used by permission of Douglas Kirkland/Corbis via Getty Images
Memorial in the Grotto of St. Mary’s Cathedral. The inscription says:
In memory of the death of innocence of the victims of clergy sexual abuse. When innocence dies…a life stops. It is essential that we never forget.
I was one of “the few” Bishop Zurek spoke of in this letter. He first posted it in August of 2019, and in response to my, “calling out all the more“, he kept reposting it atop the diocesan news page until December 11, 2019. There it remains to this day.
Fr. Ed Graff, brought here from Philadelphia by Bishop Matthiesen, was arrested in 2002 for sexually assaulting a minor and died later that year in jail. Despite the harm linked to his ministry, he was buried in an honored section of Llano Cemetery among our pioneering clergy — a decision that continues to wound survivors and raise hard questions for our diocese.
A tribute to Bishop Matthiesen—now a complex symbol in our diocesan history, erected by former priest John Salazar, whose later abuse conviction reminds us how painful chapters of the Church’s past must be faced honestly as we seek healing and communion.

While we recognize your thoughtful suggestion for a renewed dialogue on Bishop Matthiesen, the present circumstances do not present an opportunity for it. I think it would foster division not dialogue. We remain confident in God’s providence and hopeful for what the future may bring.

from a letter dated March 5, 2026

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