Holy Thursday-Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper

Jesus knows.

He knows the hour.
He knows the betrayal.
He knows the Cross.

And knowing all this—
He does not conquer,
He does not condemn,
He does not withdraw.

He kneels.

He takes water.
He takes feet—dusty, tired, unworthy feet—
and He washes them.

“Do you realize what I have done for you?”

Which is, perhaps, the most dangerous question
ever asked by God.

War.
Assassinations.
Riots.
A nation divided against itself.

And I, a boy of ten,
had just come out to The Glenn
thinking, perhaps, that the land itself
could shield me from the chaos beyond it.

But even then,
the world had a way of finding its way in.

And yet—
in the midst of that year,
something happened.

Apollo 8.

Three men orbiting the moon
read the opening words of Genesis.

“In the beginning…”

And somehow—
that moment washed the year.

Not by solving it.
Not by erasing it.

But by reminding us
that there is a beginning beyond our endings.

And now, I find myself in another year
that feels… familiar.

Different names.
Different conflicts.
But the same unrest.

The same anxious awareness
that something is not quite right.

And I find myself asking:

What will wash this year?

Will it be another mission?
Another moment?
Another effort of man?

But Holy Thursday interrupts me.

For Christ does not wash the world
from above—
but from below.

He does not orbit the chaos—
He kneels within it.

And He does not wash the year—
He washes feet.

Which is a far more demanding thing.

For I would much prefer
a grand gesture
that restores everything at once.

But Christ offers something smaller,
stranger,
and infinitely more personal:

We dream of revolutions,
movements,
great sweeping changes.

We would wash the ocean
if we could.

But Christ, in His divine absurdity,
takes a basin
and begins with a single pair of feet.

The joke, of course,
is that this is how the world is actually changed.

Not by escaping it,
not by rising above it,
but by stooping into it.

Apollo 8 looked down at the earth
and reminded us it was one.

Christ looked up at His disciples
from the ground
and made them one.

The difference is not in the vision—
but in the method.

You who kneel before me
when I would rather stand above others,

teach me to be washed—
and to wash.

In a world that feels fractured,
give me the humility
to begin with what is near.

When I long for grand solutions,
remind me of the basin.

When I feel overwhelmed by the state of things,
place before me a person to serve.

Cleanse my heart
of pride,
of distance,
of despair.

And let me believe
that even the smallest act of love
can wash more than I imagine.

Laudato si’ §9

A new world is built not by abstraction,
but by concrete acts of fraternity and care.

Today, I will:

Communion is the Diocese of Amarillo’s Centennial pillar for March
  • Perform one humble act of service that goes unnoticed.
  • Choose relationship over argument.
  • Walk synodally—recognizing that the Church moves forward not by force, but by accompaniment.

For communion is not declared—
it is washed into existence.

A gentle song about walking through darkness with quiet trust—
a reminder that even when the world feels uncertain,
light still follows closely behind.
A story not of escape, but of return—
revealing that even in crisis,
human ingenuity and cooperation can preserve life.
Yet Christ goes further—
He does not simply bring us home,
He kneels to remake us.
Ever tried serving at church and thought, “This isn’t my ministry…or my personality”? 😅 Deacon Tino Frausto proves you can go from “I’ll just help behind the scenes” to proclaiming the Gospel — one slightly uncomfortable “yes” at a time. We dive into introverts in ministry, finding your fit without forcing it, and why God loves working through the people who’d rather not be the center of attention. A funny, honest, and encouraging convo about growth, community, and trusting God when He nudges you out of your comfort zone. Everyone has a seat at this table!
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.
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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