The doors were locked. Fear had taken hold of the disciples. But Jesus came and stood in their midst. He did not come with condemnation. He did not come with explanations. He came with wounds. The Gospel tells us He showed them His hands and His side. The glorified body of the Risen Christ still carries the marks of love. And then, from those wounds, flowed peace. “Peace be with you.” This is not the peace of forgetting, or of pretending everything is fine. It is the peace that comes from knowing that suffering has been embraced, that death has been defeated from within. In these days, as we mourn the death of Pope Francis, we are like those disciples— gathered in an upper room, behind doors of sorrow and uncertainty, longing to see again the face of the Shepherd. But Christ remains. He enters through closed hearts and weary minds. He does not leave us orphans.

Through the life and witness of Pope Francis, many of us heard again the voice of the Good Shepherd. A voice that did not shout but whispered. A voice that spoke of mercy, justice, tenderness, and tears. He reminded the Church that the Gospel is not an idea, but a Person. And that Person still says, “Touch my wounds. Do not be unbelieving but believe.” As Thomas was invited to touch the marks of the nails, so the Church today is invited to remain in contact with the real flesh of Christ: the poor, the forgotten, the elderly, the imprisoned, the refugee, the abused. The Church is not made strong by walls or laws, but by the Spirit that Jesus breathes into the community of the forgiven. Today, Christ breathes again. Not through an encyclical or an apostolic palace— but through the breath of the Spirit in every heart that believes. “Peace be with you,” He says to us now. And maybe, just maybe, Francis heard those words one last time— not from a crowd, but from the Lord himself. And he smiled • AE

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St. Joseph Catholic Church (Dilley, TX) • Weekend Schedule

Fr. Agustin E. (Parish Administrator)

Saturday, April 26, 2025.

9.00 a.m. Rehearsal for First Communion 2025

11.00 a.m. Sacrament of Baptism for Atlas & Christian

5.00 p.m. Sacramento de la Confesión

6.00 p.m. Santa Misa.

Sunday, April 27, 2025

8.00 a.m. Sacrament of Reconciliation

8.30 a.m. Holy Mass.

10.30 p.m. Sacrament of Reconciliation.

11.00 a.m. Holy Mass.

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Segundo Domingo de Pascua (2025)

Jesús resucitado se aparece a los discípulos “al anochecer de aquel día, el primero de la semana”. Las puertas estaban cerradas, y el miedo había paralizado sus corazones. Pero Él se hace presente. No como un fantasma, ni como una idea, sino como una Persona viva que lleva en su cuerpo glorioso las señales del sufrimiento. Las llagas no han desaparecido. Son ahora gloriosas. Y es desde esas llagas que Cristo ofrece la paz, el perdón, la fe.

En estos días de duelo por la muerte del Papa Francisco, este Evangelio resuena con fuerza singular. Porque si algo caracterizó su ministerio fue precisamente eso: mostrar al mundo las llagas de Cristo. No como una acusación, sino como una invitación a la compasión. No como un espectáculo, sino como una pedagogía del amor. Francisco, como Tomás, no tuvo miedo de tocar las llagas del Señor. Las buscó en las periferias. Las reconoció en los inmigrantes, en los ancianos descartados, en los presos, en los enfermos mentales, en las víctimas de abusos. Y al tocarlas, proclamó con fuerza: “¡Señor mío y Dios mío!” Fue un pastor que supo llorar, que supo escuchar, que supo reformar con misericordia. No todos lo entendieron. Algunos, como Tomás, necesitaron tiempo. Otros nunca quisieron ver. Pero Cristo estuvo siempre en el centro de su predicación: el Cristo humilde, el Cristo herido, el Cristo compasivo. Y también el Cristo vivo, que se deja reconocer en la alegría, en el perdón y en el pan compartido.

Hoy, mientras la Iglesia se prepara para un nuevo cónclave, mientras millones dan gracias por su vida y su pontificado, el Evangelio nos recuerda lo esencial: No heredamos un proyecto político. No celebramos una ideología. Celebramos a un pastor que caminó detrás de Jesús con los pies descalzos del Evangelio. Y ahora que el Papa Francisco ha partido, oímos de nuevo aquella palabra que tanto repitió y vivió: “Paz a ustedes”. Que esa paz permanezca. Que esa fe crezca. Que esa herencia no se pierda. Y que, como Iglesia, sigamos tocando las llagas del Resucitado para creer de verdad • AE

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¿Qué lees?

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La bella flor que en el suelo
plantada se vio marchita
ya torna, ya resucita,
ya su olor inunda el cielo.

De tierra estuvo cubierto,
pero no fructificó
del todo, hasta que quedó
en un árbol seco injerto.
Y, aunque a los ojos del suelo
se puso después marchita,
ya torna, ya resucita,
ya su olor inunda el cielo.

Toda es de flores la fiesta,
flores de finos olores,
más no se irá todo en flores,
porque flor de fruto es ésta.
Y, mientras su Iglesia grita
mendigando algún consuelo,
ya torna, ya resucita,
ya su olor inunda el cielo.

Que nadie se sienta muerto
cuando resucita Dios,
que, si el barco llega al puerto,
llegamos junto con vos.
Hoy la cristiandad se quita
sus vestiduras de duelo.
Ya torna, ya resucita,
ya su olor inunda el cielo

(de la Liturgia de las Horas)

¡Felices Pascuas de Resurrección para todos!

Fader

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Dutch Master, Deposition of Christ (ca. 1525), oil on wood, Städel Museum, (Frankfurt)

Something strange is happening — there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and Hell trembles with fear. He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, He who is both God and the Son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the Cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast in terror and cried out to everyone, ‘My Lord be with you all.’ Christ answered him: ‘And with your spirit.’ He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: ‘Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.’

I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for you and your descendants I now by my own authority command all who are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in Hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I in you; together we form one person and cannot be separated.

For your sake I, your God, became your son; I, the Lord, took the form of a slave; I, whose home is above the heavens, descended to the earth and beneath the earth. For your sake, for the sake of man, I became like a man without help, free among the dead. For the sake of you, who left a garden, I was betrayed to the Jews in a garden, and I was crucified in a garden.

See on my face the spittle I received in order to restore to you the life I once breathed into you. See there the marks of the blows I received in order to refashion your warped nature in my image. On my back see the marks of the scourging I endured to remove the burden of sin that weighs upon your back. See my hands, nailed firmly to a tree, for you who once wickedly stretched out your hand to a tree. I slept on the Cross and a sword pierced my side for you who slept in Paradise and brought forth Eve from your side. My side has healed the pain in yours. My sleep will rouse you from your sleep in Hell. The sword that pierced Me has sheathed the sword that was turned against you. Rise, let us leave this place. The enemy led you out of the earthly Paradise. I will not restore you to that Paradise, but will enthrone you in heaven. I forbade you the tree that was only a symbol of life, but see, I who am life itself am now one with you. I appointed cherubim to guard you as slaves are guarded, but now I make them worship you as God. The throne formed by cherubim awaits you, its bearers swift and eager. The Bridal Chamber is adorned, the banquet is ready, the eternal dwelling places are prepared, the treasure houses of all good things lie open. The Kingdom of Heaven has been prepared for you from all eternity • From an ancient homily on Holy Saturday (PG 43, 439, 451, 462-463.

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Sábado Santo (2025)

J. de Ribera, Lamentación sobre Cristo Muerto (c. 1620), óleo sobre tela, National Gallery (Londres)

Duerme la tierra en su sombra callada,
grita la ausencia en la piedra sellada,
todo parece final sin aurora,
todo es vacío donde el Verbo mora.

Las manos que sanan y dan la vida
reposan ahora en muerte vencida,
los labios que hablaron del Reino eterno
yacen cerrados en lecho yermo.

Los cielos retienen su luz primera,
la luna no alumbra la noche entera,
la brisa no canta, los montes callan,
el cosmos entero detiene el alba.

Pero en lo hondo, la muerte tiembla,
algo invisible sus muros quiebra,
hay una chispa en la fría tumba,
hay un susurro que el aire inunda.

Nada está muerto, todo es latido,
nace en la sombra lo prometido,
porque esta espera no es puro duelo,
sino la puerta que lleva al Cielo •

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Caravaggio, The Flagellation of Christ (1607), Museo di Capodimonte (Roma)

Good Friday is a wound at the heart of time. It is the hour when Love is broken, when the Innocent One is condemned, when the world’s cruelty reaches its peak. The cross, simple and brutal, stands as a sign of contradiction: the instrument of death that becomes the source of life. In Caravaggio’s The Flagellation of Christ, light and shadow carve out the moment of suffering with raw intensity. Christ stands at the center, his body bent beneath the blows, yet his face serene—a paradox of agony and acceptance. This is not just an image of torture; it is a revelation of the silent strength of sacrificial love.

Where do we see this suffering today? In the forgotten corners of war-torn cities, in the lonely hospital rooms where no visitors come, in the silent agony of those crushed by despair. The Passion is not locked in the past—it is happening now, in every neglected and abandoned soul. And yet, Good Friday is not the last word. The Cross is both an ending and a beginning. The sky darkens, the earth trembles, and the temple veil is torn—but these are not signs of despair. They are the first cracks in the old world, making way for something new. To stand at the foot of the Cross is to resist the temptation to flee from suffering. It is to remain, to watch, to wait. It is to trust that even in the silence of the tomb, God is not absent. So today, as we gaze upon the Cross, let us not look away. Let us enter into the wound, because it is there, in that brokenness, that the healing of the world begins • AE

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Easter Triduum 2025

HOLY THURSDAY OF THE LORD´S SUPPER, APRIL 17

6.00 p.m. Mass of the Lord’s Supper (Bilingual)

(Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament until 10.00 p.m. @ Chapel)

FRIDAY OF THE PASSION OF THE LORD (Good Friday), APRIL 18

10.00 a.m. Los Siete Dolores de la Santísima Virgen María

11.30 a.m. Live performance of the Passion of the Lord

(we start @ the police station, we end @ St. Joseph grounds)

6.00 p.m. Liturgical Celebration of the Lord’s Passion (Bilingual)

HOLY SATURDAY, APRIL 19

8.00 p.m. The Easter Vigil in the Holy Night (Bilingual)

EASTER SUNDAY OF THE RESURRECTION OF THE LORD, APRIL 20

8.30 a.m. English mass @ St. Mary´s Chapel 

11.00 a.m. English mass @ church

12.30 p.m. Easter Egg Hunt @ St. Joseph grounds

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Viernes Santo de la Pasión del Señor (2025)

Anónimo alemán, El Descendimiento de la cruz (hacia 1420), óleo sobre tabla, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza (Madrid).

El Viernes Santo no es solo un día en el calendario litúrgico; es el eje sobre el que gira toda la historia de la humanidad. Es el día en que el Verbo hecho carne se hunde en el abismo del sufrimiento, el día en que la Verdad es silenciada por el estruendo del poder, el día en que Dios parece perder. Los evangelios nos llevan al Gólgota, pero podríamos encontrarnos con la Cruz en cualquier otro rincón de la historia. En la literatura de Dostoievski, cuando el hombre lucha con su conciencia. En los cuadros de Goya, donde la desesperanza y la injusticia gritan sin palabras. En los versos de Celan, donde el horror de la Shoá nos recuerda que Cristo sigue siendo crucificado en los campos de exterminio de la humanidad. Y hoy, ¿dónde está la Cruz? Está en los refugiados que huyen de la guerra, en las víctimas del abuso silenciadas por el miedo, en el enfermo que agoniza solo, en la indiferencia que nos anestesia mientras el mundo arde. La Pasión no es un recuerdo; es un presente constante. Pero la cruz no es el final. La oscuridad de la tarde del Viernes Santo solo es el preludio del alba de Pascua. La historia no termina en el sepulcro. El Viernes Santo nos invita a permanecer en la herida, a mirar de frente el dolor, a no escapar del sufrimiento ajeno. Nos recuerda que, para resucitar con Cristo, primero debemos abrazar la Cruz con Él. Hoy, el desafío es el silencio. No el de la evasión, sino el de la adoración. No el de la indiferencia, sino el de la espera. Contemplar la Cruz no es detenerse en la muerte, sino prepararse para la Vida. Y tú, ¿te atreves a quedarte junto a la Cruz? • AE

Lecturas para el Triduo Pascual

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V. de Boulougne, The Last Supper (1625), oil on canvas, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica (Rome)

Holy Thursday is a threshold. We enter the Paschal Triduum through a scene that is as intimate as it is overwhelming: a table, bread and wine, a Master kneeling to wash the feet of His disciples. Knowing that His hour has come, Jesus does not leave behind theological arguments or strategic plans for the future. Instead, He bends down, serves, breaks the bread, and gives Himself away. The washing of the feet is the Gospel in action. Jesus does not merely speak of love; He enacts it. He wraps a towel around Himself, kneels, and touches the dust of those who will abandon Him within hours. Peter, confused, tries to resist, but Jesus tells him, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me” (Jn 13:8). The humility of God is so radical that even those closest to Him struggle to receive it. The Last Supper is not just a farewell, but a beginning. Jesus takes the bread, blesses it, and gives it away with words that echo through every Eucharist: “This is my body, given for you.” This is not mere metaphor or symbol. It is the ultimate act of love made presence. God does not remain in concepts—He becomes food. In art, The Last Supper by Valentin de Boulogne, housed in the Louvre Museum, offers a profound depiction of this moment. The use of chiaroscuro and the realistic portrayal of the apostles’ emotions draw the viewer into the depth of the scene, reflecting the solemnity and significance of the institution of the Eucharist. For music, Louange à l’Éternité de Jésus from Olivier Messiaen’s Quartet for the End of Time captures the mystery of Holy Thursday. Written in a concentration camp, the piece moves with an unhurried, meditative slowness, as if stretching time itself—like the silence after Jesus’ words, like the stillness of love given freely.

The wisdom of Joseph Ratzinger gives us a key insight: “The Eucharist is God’s response to the hunger of the world. It is the moment when time and eternity meet, when history and heaven touch.” The Last Supper is not just a memory—it is a reality that continues to feed the world. Holy Thursday is not just the beginning of the Passion—it is the night in which God shows us that to love is to serve, that glory is found in giving oneself away, and that His real presence in the Eucharist is the greatest miracle of all.

A quiet voice resounds within the bread,
a whispered promise woven into wine,
the hands that bless now break, the hands that bled
will trace the cross in mercy’s grand design.

O feet once kissed, now washed with love’s embrace,
the humble King who bends to serve His own,
a gesture strong enough to shift and place
a throne within the dust where feet have known.

And so He kneels, so we must kneel as well,
to love, to serve, to bear the weight of grace,
to hold the chalice and be wholly fed.

The cup is full, the silence speaks to tell:
He gave, He gives, He offers still His face—
the night of love, where Heaven shares its bread.

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Easter Triduum 2025

HOLY THURSDAY OF THE LORD´S SUPPER, APRIL 17

6.00 p.m. Mass of the Lord’s Supper (Bilingual)

(Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament until 10.00 p.m. @ Chapel)

FRIDAY OF THE PASSION OF THE LORD (Good Friday), APRIL 18

10.00 a.m. Los Siete Dolores de la Santísima Virgen María

11.30 a.m. Live performance of the Passion of the Lord

(we start @ the police station, we end @ St. Joseph grounds)

6.00 p.m. Liturgical Celebration of the Lord’s Passion (Bilingual)

HOLY SATURDAY, APRIL 19

8.00 p.m. The Easter Vigil in the Holy Night (Bilingual)

EASTER SUNDAY OF THE RESURRECTION OF THE LORD, APRIL 20

8.30 a.m. English mass @ St. Mary´s Chapel 

11.00 a.m. English mass @ church

12.30 p.m. Easter Egg Hunt @ St. Joseph grounds

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Jueves Santo de la Cena del Señor (2025)

Jacopo Robusti Tintoretto, El Lavatorio (1548), óleo sobre tela, Museo Nacional del Prado (Madrid)

La noche de Jueves Santo es un umbral. Nos adentramos en el Triduo Pascual con una escena tan íntima como sobrecogedora: una mesa, pan y vino, un Maestro que lava los pies a sus discípulos. Jesús, sabiendo que ha llegado su hora, no deja discursos teológicos ni estrategias para el futuro. En lugar de ello, se inclina, sirve, parte el pan y se entrega. El gesto del lavatorio de los pies es el evangelio en acción. Jesús no predica sobre el amor; lo muestra. Se ciñe una toalla, se arrodilla y toca la suciedad de los pies de aquellos que en unas horas lo abandonarán. Pedro, confundido, intenta resistirse, pero Jesús le responde con una frase que atraviesa la historia: “Si no te lavo, no tendrás parte conmigo” (Jn 13,8). La humildad de Dios es tan desconcertante que incluso los suyos no saben cómo recibirla. La última cena no es solo un adiós, sino un inicio. Jesús toma el pan, lo bendice y lo reparte con palabras que resuenan en cada Eucaristía: “Esto es mi cuerpo, que se entrega por vosotros”. No es metáfora ni símbolo. Es una realidad que atraviesa el tiempo, el acto definitivo del amor que se hace presencia. Dios no se queda en doctrinas, se hace alimento. El Lavatorio de Tintoretto, captura magistralmente este momento. La composición dinámica y el uso dramático de la luz reflejan la tensión y la profundidad del acto de servicio de Jesús. La escena, llena de movimiento y emoción, nos invita a contemplar la humildad y el amor en acción. En la música, Ubi Caritas de Maurice Duruflé es una expresión pura de lo que significa este día. Su melodía fluye como un eco de las palabras de Jesús: “Donde hay caridad y amor, allí está Dios”. El pensamiento de Raniero Cantalamessa ilumina este momento con una clave esencial: «El amor en la Eucaristía no es solo algo que recibimos, sino algo en lo que participamos. No estamos en un teatro observando un drama, sino en una mesa compartiendo un destino”. El Jueves Santo no es solo el inicio de la Pasión, sino el día en que Dios nos enseña que amar es servir, que la gloria se encuentra en la entrega y que no hay mayor milagro que su presencia real en el pan y el vino.

Te inclinaste, Señor, sobre la vida,
dejaste el cielo y te ciñó la tierra,
con agua y luz desarmas toda guerra,
y haces del pan entrega compartida.

Bendito el día en que partiste el trigo,
cuando en la mesa fue tu amor presencia,
y el sacrificio abrió la puerta inmensa
de un Dios que quiso ser hermano y amigo.

Hoy nos ofreces pan y amor profundo,
cáliz de vida que a los hombres llama,
un Dios que sirve, entregado hasta el fin.

Déjame ser contigo don fecundo,
pan que alimenta, amor que nunca exclama,
silencio santo en el umbral sin fin.

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