Tuesday of Holy Week

“It is the one to whom I hand the morsel…”

A small thing—
a piece of bread,
dipped,
given.

And yet,
after the morsel,
everything changes.

“After he took the morsel,
Satan entered him.”

Which is a rather terrifying thought—
that something so small
could become the hinge of eternity.

And even more unsettling:

that the hand which gives the morsel
is the hand of Christ Himself.

Not of bread alone,
but of circumstance.

I had planned—quite comfortably—
to attend the 7:00 a.m. Mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral.

Routine is a pleasant thing.
It allows one to feel faithful
without too much disturbance.

But yesterday, the schedule changed.

The Holy Tuesday Mass—gone.
The Chrism Mass—needed to be accommodated.

And the posted schedule—
removed, torn, discarded.

It felt, I must admit,
like a small betrayal.

And I was handed the morsel.

Not by accident—
but quite deliberately, it seemed.

And I did what Judas did,
though in a quieter, more respectable way:

I received it…
and resentment entered.

Not dramatic.
Not obvious.

Just enough to sour the soul.

A whisper of complaint.
A subtle accusation:

“They are making this about themselves.”

Which, I must confess,
was a rather ironic charge
given how thoroughly I was making it about myself.

And then—
another morsel.

This one unexpected.

A fellow daily Mass attendee
mentioned that St. Thomas had moved their evening Mass
to the morning.

A way—quiet, unannounced—
to ensure that those who desired
to be fed
could be fed.

And suddenly, I was given a choice.

Not between Masses—
but between responses.

Between the morsel that breeds resentment
and the morsel that invites gratitude.

A morsel is a small thing.

Bread.
Schedule changes.
A passing comment.

And yet, these are the very places
where the drama unfolds.

For the soul is rarely lost in grand gestures—
it is lost in small permissions.

Judas does not begin with betrayal.
He begins with a morsel.

And the Christian life, likewise,
is not built in heroic leaps,
but in humble receptions.

The curious thing is this:

Christ gives the morsel either way.

The same hand offers it.

The difference lies not in the gift,
but in the reception.

For one man receives and hardens.
Another receives and softens.

You who place even the smallest morsel
into my hands,

teach me how to receive.

When I am given inconvenience,
keep me from resentment.

When I am given unexpected grace,
open me to gratitude.

Guard my heart
from the quiet entry of bitterness.

Let me recognize
that every moment—
every interruption—
every change of plan—

may be a morsel from You.

And when I take it,
let it not lead me into darkness,
but into deeper trust.

Amen.

Laudato si’ §3

Communion is built not in grand agreements,
but in daily choices to walk together, even through inconvenience.

Today, I will:

Communion is the Diocese of Amarillo’s Centennial pillar for March
  • Receive disruptions not as obstacles, but as invitations.
  • Choose gratitude over quiet complaint.
  • Walk synodally—recognizing that the Church’s life is larger than my preferences.

For communion is often formed
in the small morsels
we choose to receive with grace.

A simple longing expressed in quiet repetition—
a reminder that in every circumstance,
in every small “morsel,”
what I truly desire is not control,
but Christ Himself.
A meditation on the small moments that shape a life—
revealing that the soul is not formed in grand decisions alone,
but in the quiet acceptance—or rejection—of what is given.
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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