There’s something hauntingly beautiful about being recognized by someone without needing to explain yourself. Jesus doesn’t say, “I observe my sheep.” He says: “I know them.” That’s different. To be known is to be seen past the surface. To be held without being trapped. To be called not by label, but by name. “My sheep hear my voice,” He says. But how does one learn to hear that voice in a world of algorithms, breaking news, and constant buzz? The voice of Christ is not louder — it’s truer. It speaks not to the ears but to the heart. And the heart, when quiet, always knows when it is being addressed by love.

I think of Rainer Maria Rilke, who once wrote: “The only journey is the one within.” And perhaps the path of the sheep is precisely that: an inward journey toward the voice that already lives inside us. Jesus promises something almost reckless in its generosity: eternal life. Not as a distant reward, but as a present intimacy. To live in His hand is to live already beyond the reach of despair. The luminous painting at the beginning is by Kiko Argüello; it depicts the Good Shepherd, in which Christ gently embraces a lamb. His expression is tender yet alert — not passive, but protective. The background is calm, almost suspended in time. It’s not just an image of safety; it’s an image of belonging. Christ is not leading a crowd. He is holding one. And one is enough. And in the background of this Gospel, I hear the Largo from Dvořák’s New World Symphony. There’s something in that melody — almost like homesickness for heaven. A longing both aching and serene. It doesn’t speak. It listens. Just like the sheep. In the end, it’s not about proving we belong to Christ. It’s about letting ourselves be held — really held — in hands that will never let go. His voice calls. His hand steadies. His heart remembers. And nothing, nothing, can take us away from Him • AE

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

Fr. Agustin E. (Parish Administrator)

Saturday, May 10, 2025.

5.00 p.m. Sacramento de la Confesión

6.00 p.m. Santa Misa.

Sunday, May 11 (Mother´s Day 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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IV Domingo de Pascua (Domingo del Buen Pastor. Ciclo C)

Artista anónimo, El Buen Pastor con ovejas y palomas con ramas de olivo (segunda mitad del s. III), celda “Velatio” de las catacumbas de Priscila (Roma)

Hay voces que confunden, que gritan, que se imponen. Pero hay una que llama. Una voz que no hiere, que no empuja, que no domina. Es la voz del Pastor. Y el alma que ha aprendido a escucharla… ya no se deja engañar. Jesús dice: “Mis ovejas escuchan mi voz, yo las conozco y ellas me siguen.” Esta frase, tan breve, contiene una intimidad infinita. No dice que Jesús conozca sobre nosotros. Dice que nos conoce. Como solo se conoce en el amor. Observa la imagen que acompaña este texto: es la primera imagen del Buen Pastor de la que se tiene noticia. No es un rey armado, ni un juez distante. Es un joven sereno que carga una oveja sobre los hombros. No por fuerza sino lleno de ternura. Ese eres tú: la oveja cansada, herida, amada. Y Él te dice: “Nadie te arrebatará de mi mano.” Ese “nadie” incluye tus miedos, tus pecados, tus caídas, tus enemigos. Nadie es nadie.

En El Gran Inquisidor, de Dostoievski, Jesús vuelve a la tierra. No habla, no discute, no se defiende. Solo escucha, y cuando al fin se acerca al anciano inquisidor que lo ha acusado… le besa. Porque el Buen Pastor no pelea con espadas, sino con misericordia. Y su voz no se imponen, sino que convence desde dentro. La libertad que ofrece es tan radical, tan solida, que descoloca, pero al mismo tiempo trae una paz profunda, como el aria de Bach, Sheep may safely graze, que suena como pradera abierta al mediodía. Al final, todo se reduce a esto: Jesús me conoce. Jesús me habla. Jesús me cuida. Y Jesús me salva. Y si Él me tiene en su mano, que tiemble el mundo si quiere: yo no me suelto. Porque no hay voz más verdadera, ni amor más firme, ni camino más seguro que el suyo. Todo lo demás —el ruido, el miedo, la oscuridad— pasará. Su voz, no. Su mano, no. Su promesa, jamás • AE

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¿qUé aNDAs lEYendO?

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As we move through the Easter season, the Gospel of this Third Sunday meets us with the familiar tenderness of Jesus, risen and luminous, yet still quietly present on the shores of our lives.

Peter and the others, disoriented after the events of the Passion, return to what they know: fishing. But that night, they catch nothing. It is only at dawn — when the light begins to chase away the shadows — that Jesus appears. He directs them, fills their nets, and then, in one of the most intimate dialogues of the Gospels, asks Peter three times: «Do you love me?» Peter, wounded and humbled by his past denial, answers with the love he can muster: «Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.» This exchange echoes deeply in the Church today. The death of Pope Francis has left the Church like Peter and the apostles — feeling the ache of absence, the weight of transition. We are again by the shore, casting our nets into uncertain waters, awaiting the gentle voice that calls us to renewal. On May 7, the conclave will gather to elect the next successor of Peter. The world will watch, speculate and judge. But for those who love the Church, the true task is different: it is to remain by the shore, in prayer and hope, trusting that the Risen Lord still feeds His flock, still asks each shepherd — and each one of us — «Do you love me?»

Pope Francis spent his life answering that question not with grandiose words, but with gestures of tenderness, mercy, and proximity to the poor, the forgotten, the wounded. His passing reminds us that the only true measure of greatness in the Church is love — a love that feeds, that heals, that forgives. As we await the new Peter, may we pray not for a «powerful» pope, but for a man who, like Peter, has been broken and healed by Christ — a man who can humbly say, «Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.» As music to accompany your meditation, I suggest Gabriel Fauré’s «Cantique de Jean Racine», a piece that breathes Easter serenity and the gentle awakening of spring — a prayer rising like morning light over the waters. We are living in a sacred time: between the tomb and the full flowering of Resurrection. Between Peter’s heartbreak and Peter’s new mission. Let us remain attentive by the shore, with the certainty that Love will not abandon His Church. Tolle, Lege • AE

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

Fr. Agustin E. (Parish Administrator)

Saturday, May 3, 2025.

10.00 a.m. First Confessions 2025

5.00 p.m. Sacramento de la Confesión

6.00 p.m. Santa Misa.

Sunday, May 4, 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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III Domingo de Pascua (Ciclo C)

Mayo ha comenzado, y con él, el mes que la Iglesia dedica a la Madre de Dios. Este año, su luz materna nos envuelve de una manera especial: peregrinos en medio de la Pascua, dolidos aún por la partida del Papa Francisco, y aguardando el nuevo cónclave que iniciará en pocos dias. El Evangelio de hoy nos presenta a Jesús resucitado, preparando un fuego y un desayuno para sus discípulos cansados. Es un pasaje de ternura silenciosa. Pero también es un pasaje de reenvío: Pedro, que había fallado, es restaurado y enviado a apacentar las ovejas. Este «volver a empezar» que el Evangelio nos propone tiene mucho que ver con María.

Cuando la Iglesia se siente frágil, cuando sus líderes parten, cuando el futuro parece incierto, La Virgen es el corazón que late tranquilo en medio de la tormenta. Como en Pentecostés, María Santísima acompaña a la Iglesia naciente, la sostiene en oración, la llena de esperanza. El Papa Francisco, con su incansable énfasis en la ternura, la sencillez y la misericordia, nos recordó siempre que María no es solo la Madre de Jesús, sino también la Madre de la Iglesia. Hoy, mientras esperamos a orillas de un futuro incierto, sabemos que Ella permanece a nuestro lado. Confiamos el próximo cónclave a su intercesión. No porque esperemos milagros mágicos, sino porque sabemos que María educa a los corazones para decir “sí” al Espíritu. Así como formó el corazón de Jesús, hoy forma el corazón de la Iglesia. En este mes de mayo, entre lágrimas y esperanzas, entre despedidas y nuevos comienzos, repetimos con la Iglesia de todos los tiempos:

Regina Caeli, laetare, alleluia!
Ora pro nobis Deum, alleluia!

María nos acompaña. La Iglesia no camina sola. La fe, como el amanecer sobre el lago de Galilea, no se apaga • AE

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¿Qué lees estos días?

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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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