Wednesday of Holy Week

Judas goes to the chief priests—
not with confusion,
but with calculation:

“What are you willing to give me…?”

And later, at table,
a strange chorus begins:

Surely it is not I, Lord?”

Each disciple asks it—
with varying degrees of sincerity,
no doubt.

And Judas asks it too—
with chilling precision:

Surely it is not I, Rabbi?”

And Christ answers him
with a sentence so simple
it almost hides its severity:

“You have said so.”

It sounds like certainty—
but often hides avoidance.

Surely, that cannot be me.”
Surely, I would never…”
Surely, I am on the right side of things.”

And today—
of all days—
I am tempted to use it freely.

For it is Holy Wednesday—
a day that invites me
to consider betrayal.

But it is also April 1st—
a day that invites me
to consider jokes.

And I suspect I will unconsciously choose the latter.

It is far easier to laugh
than to look.

Far easier to assume
than to examine.

“Surely, I am not the one.”

Surely, I have not betrayed.
Surely, I have not been greedy.
Surely, I have not been disloyal
to the Body of Christ
in the great matters of our time.

War.
Immigration.
Creation itself.

Surely, I stand in the clear.

And yet—
Christ does not argue with Judas.

He does not correct him.
He does not expose him publicly.

He simply returns the words:

“You have said so.”

Which is, perhaps,
the most unsettling response of all.

For it leaves the judgment
not in Christ’s accusation—
but in my own honesty.

It is as though Christ Himself whispers:

“If you are so sure
why must you say it?”

And suddenly,
surely” no longer sounds like certainty.

It sounds like a question
I am afraid to answer.

We doubt tradition,
question authority,
analyze systems—

but rarely interrogate
our own motives.

We say, “Surely,”
as though conviction were proof.

But Judas, too,
was quite sure.

Sure enough to speak.
Sure enough to act.
Sure enough to betray.

The great paradox is this:

The more certain I am of my innocence,
the more necessary it is
to examine it.

For holiness does not begin
with certainty—
but with humility.

And perhaps the only safe use of the word “surely
is this:

I confess that I am quick to say “surely
and slow to say “search me.”

I prefer the comfort of assumption
to the discomfort of truth.

When I declare my innocence,
pause me.

When I avoid self-examination,
call me back.

Do not let me hide
behind confident words.

Instead, give me the courage
to ask honestly:

“Is it I, Lord?”

And when the answer is yes—
as it often is—

grant me not despair,
but repentance.

For I am not saved
by being certain,
but by being forgiven.

Amen.

Laudato si’ §20

Conversion begins with listening—
not only to others, but to the truth within my own life.

Today, I will:

Communion is the Diocese of Amarillo’s Centennial pillar for March
  • Replace assumption with examination.
  • Listen to perspectives I would normally dismiss.
  • Walk synodally—recognizing that I am part of the problem before I can be part of the solution.

For communion grows
not from being “surely right,”
but from being humbly open.

A quiet reflection on longing and uncertainty—
reminding me that beneath every confident statement
there often lies a deeper question
“I am serious—and don’t call me Shirley.”
A humorous line that exposes how easily words can mislead.
A reminder that certainty, when misplaced,
can become its own kind of absurdity.
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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