Mount Tabor’s Visionary Shepherd: The Enduring Legacy of His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan (of blessed memory). Commemorated- 03 December.

 

Little Thomas was about six or seven years old when St. Gregorios of Parumala visited his home parish, Puthiyacavu Church in Mavelikkara. As the saint interacted with the children, his eyes fell upon Thomas, and he embraced the boy warmly. At that moment, the parish vicar reminded St. Gregorios of a prophecy he had made concerning this child while still in his mother’s womb. The saint recalled the incident vividly.

Nearly six years earlier, a devout couple, Callumpurath Poovathur Mathew and Smt. Aleyamma, had sought an audience with St. Gregorios at Parumala. They requested his fervent prayers, as the expectant mother was facing severe health complications during pregnancy, worsened by fits. The saint assured them of his prayers and, by divine inspiration, foretold the destiny of the unborn child. He said, “Avante thalayil thoppi vekkan yogam ondu” (he is destined to wear the priestly cap). St. Gregorios instructed the parents to dedicate the child to the Lord. Through his intercessions, the mother’s health was restored, and the pregnancy progressed safely.

Thus, wrapped in prophecy and blessing, infant Thomas was born on 8 June 1887 in the Callumpurath household at Puthiyacavu, Mavelikkara. Recalling this divine moment, St. Gregorios reiterated his instruction to the parents about the boy’s sacred calling. The father, however, expressed his intention to send his younger son for priestly ministry while training Thomas in the family trade. Smiling, St. Gregorios replied, “God has set the elder one apart—may He utilise the younger one also,” indicating that both sons would serve the Church. This prophecy came true: Thomas became a stalwart bishop of the Malankara Orthodox Church, and his younger brother, C.M. Isaac, was ordained a priest.

St. Gregorios then ordained little Thomas to serve at the Holy Altar and instructed the parish vicar to ensure the boy was thoroughly taught the Orthodox faith. From that day, the roots of faith were deeply planted in Thomas’s heart, shaping a life dedicated to God and His Church.

Thomas completed his schooling at Mavelikkara B.H. High School and later graduated from CMS College, Kottayam. He was then ordained as a deacon by the revered Malankara Sabha Bhasuran, St. Dionysius Vattasseril, and pursued priestly education at the Old Seminary in Kottayam and the Parumala Seminary. His thirst for knowledge led him to Calcutta, where he secured admission to the MBBS programme at the Prince of Wales Medical College. Semassen envisioned serving humanity both as a doctor and a priest. However, after completing his first year of medical studies, St. Dionysius Vattasseril recalled him to Kerala, as the Malankara Orthodox Church was facing severe challenges and urgently needed committed ministers like Thomas Semassen to strengthen the faithful.

Thomas began his public life as a teacher at M.D. High School for two years and later served as the headmaster of M.G.D. School, Kundara, for 14 years. During his tenure in Kundara, Semassen undertook a 40-day fast every year, entirely of his own accord, spending those days in prayer and solitude at a small church dedicated to Prophet Elijah (Mar Elijah) in Koduvilla near Kundara. It was in this sacred silence that he received the inspiration to establish a monastic order. These contemplative periods not only deepened his spiritual life but also became the wellspring for many of his devotionals and sermons that would later inspire generations.

During the tenure of Semassen as the headmaster of M.G.D. English School, Kundara (1916–1930), one remarkable incident occurred that revealed the depth of his character and Christ-like compassion. One afternoon, after completing his official duties, Deacon C.M. Thomas retired to his room for a brief rest. What seemed like an ordinary day soon turned extraordinary with the unexpected arrival of a visitor.

The uninvited guest was a tall, middle-aged Tamilian man with an imposing physique. At first glance, Semassen sensed that the stranger was not of noble character. Yet, with characteristic grace and courtesy, the young deacon engaged him in polite conversation, striking a friendly chord. Before leaving hurriedly, the man handed over a suitcase to Deacon Thomas, instructing him to keep it safe and promising to return within three days to collect it.

Suspicious of the man’s intentions, Semassen examined the suitcase after the visitor departed. It did not take long to discover that the contents were stolen goods. Without delay, he informed the Kollam Deputy Superintendent of Police and local authorities. But for Semassen, duty did not end with reporting the crime. The love of Christ burned deeply within him, compelling him to seek not only justice but redemption for the offender. With courage and compassion, he made an unusual request to the senior police official:

“Please do not harm the man physically. Give him an opportunity to reform, he could become an asset to society. Perhaps he might even serve in your department. It will be difficult to overpower him by force, so please send two constables in civilian clothes to Kundara on the day he returns.”

Moved by Semassen’s conviction, the Deputy Superintendent agreed.

On the appointed day, the thief returned to reclaim the suitcase. Semassen welcomed him calmly and led him to a room. In a gentle yet firm tone, he said: “You will have a good future if you speak the truth; otherwise, matters will worsen. Say only the truth.”

The man broke down: “Sir, please save me. I will tell the truth. These are stolen belongings.”

As he confessed, the two plainclothes policemen waiting in the adjacent room stepped forward to arrest him. While they escorted the man to the station, Semassen reminded them not to harm him and to ensure he was given food in jail.

The thief spent a few days in custody, but thanks to Semassen’s intervention, he was treated with dignity. The deacon personally followed up on the case and, impressed by the man’s good conduct, appealed to higher officials for leniency. In time, the man was pardoned and—on Semassen’s recommendation—appointed as a constable in the Travancore Police Department. Grateful for this extraordinary act of mercy, the former thief often returned to Kundara to express his heartfelt thanks to Deacon Thomas.

A gifted orator, Thomas Semassen’s sermons and devotionals stirred hearts and strengthened the faithful to remain steadfast in the True Faith during a time marred by schisms and defections to other churches. This was an era when transportation was scarce, and speakers had no microphones to amplify their voices. For over two hours, one had to shout to be heard by large gatherings—a testament to Semassen’s endurance and zeal.

An incident of God’s providence in Semassen’s life stands out vividly. His success in fortifying the faithful against reformist propaganda provoked hostility. A young man, influenced by such propaganda, plotted to attack Semassen. Concealing himself in the bushes with his accomplices, he waited for the deacon to pass. But divine intervention prevailed—the man was bitten by a snake, causing commotion. Unaware of the deadly plan, Semassen happened upon the scene and, seeing the man in distress, ensured he received proper medical care. Days later, the young man and his father came to Semassen, seeking forgiveness—a powerful witness to grace overcoming malice.

Pathanapuram, covered by thick forests, is inhabited by wild elephants. Back then, the tree canopy was so dense that sunlight could barely penetrate through it. While passing through this region, Semassen learned of a lower primary school about to be closed. Seizing the opportunity, he purchased it and established a proper school in honour of St Stephen, the proto-martyr—offering education without barriers of religion, caste, or creed. This was revolutionary in an era when literacy was a privilege for a few. In newly independent India, educational opportunities were scarce, yet Mar Dionysius Thirumeni’s vision transformed Pathanapuram from kaadu (forest) to naadu (town). Today, the institutions he founded-schools for boys and girls, training schools, an art college, and technical colleges, stand as towers of excellence, attracting students from across India and bearing witness to his foresight.

In 1933, Thomas Semassen was ordained to the priesthood. The following year, he accompanied His Holiness Baselios Geevarghese II, the Catholicos and Malankara Metropolitan, to Holms, Syria, for peace talks concerning church disputes. He embraced monastic life in 1937 and was consecrated as a bishop in 1940. In the interim, he pursued higher studies at Oxford University, enrolling in the B.Litt. programme, where he studied alongside eminent scholars, including Dr Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, later President of India. During his time in England, he also spent enriching days with the Cowley Fathers, learning deeply about their monastic order.

In 1942, Thirumeni accepted the British Indian Government’s invitation to serve as a military chaplain during World War II. Traversing the length and breadth of the country, he ministered to soldiers, offering spiritual solace in turbulent times. This experience impressed upon him the need for the Malankara Church to extend its reach across India. Acting on this vision, he established a school in Tiruchirapalli upon his return.

In Pathanapuram, Thirumeni saw not only the need for education but also for a monastic order to nurture an ascetic life. Thus was born Mount Tabor Monastery, founded on four guiding principles: transfer, transform, transfigure, and translate. The monks embraced simplicity, combining spiritual duties with manual labour and administrative responsibilities in educational institutions. Thirumeni ensured they received the best education, producing leaders of exceptional calibre. Mount Tabor has since given several bishops—including a Catholicos—to the Malankara Orthodox Church. A convent was also established nearby, furthering his vision of consecrated service.

Mar Dionysius Thirumeni was renowned for his compassion, extending help without regard for religion or caste. Under his care, an inmate named Vadakkan Mohammad lived to the age of 108. Witnesses recall Thirumeni feeding him with his own hands and, upon his passing, ensuring burial according to Islamic rites—a profound testimony to Christian love.

People from all walks of life were drawn to Thirumeni’s towering personality. He moved with ease among global and national leaders while remaining a tender father to the poor and needy. If anyone offered him a gift, he would slip it into his cassock pocket and, without even glancing at it, hand it to the first person in need. His life was a seamless blend of humility, generosity, and vision, a shepherd who built not only churches but futures.

Two years before Thirumeni’s repose in the Lord, an incident revealed the depth of his compassion and simplicity. After the morning prayers and Holy Qurbana, Thirumeni was resting in his room when a few priests from the Dayara came in for a conversation. At that moment, a man known to Thirumeni entered. By his appearance, he seemed to be a middle-class family man—his clothing suggested he was not poor or destitute. The priests present assumed the same, but Thirumeni knew his background and the financial struggles he was facing.

After speaking with the man, Thirumeni quietly reached into his cassock pocket, took out a bundle of currency notes, and handed it to him. The money was what Thirumeni had received the previous day as a token of gratitude for officiating a marriage sacrament. Witnessing this act of generosity, one senior priest asked, “Thirumeni, it is a blessing to support the poor and needy, but what good is it to help those who seem financially secure?”

Thirumeni replied with characteristic wisdom: “Achen, if a man does not hesitate to ask for help, we should not hesitate to give. Our Lord has commanded us to help the one who asks.”

After serving the Malankara Orthodox Church as a bishop for 32 glorious years, His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan entered eternal rest on 3 December 1972. His Holiness Baselios Marthoma Didymos I, Catholicose and Malankara Metropolitan (of blessed memory) once said: “I faced immense sadness only once in my life. And that occasion was the departure of His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Thirumeni- he who like a father, selflessly loved me, brought up and raised me to this status. This incident remains the greatness sorrow of my life.”

The immense contributions of His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan to the Church and society cannot be captured in a few paragraphs. May this article offer a glimpse of the blessed life of this saintly father to inspire the younger generation.

By the prayers of our holy father among the saints, His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan, Lord, have mercy upon us and help us.

In Christ,

Rincy

 

Ref: My humble gratitude and thanks to Shri George Kuruvilla, nephew of His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan (of blessed memory) for sharing the precious stories about Thirumeni. Other sources: Translated from Malayalam- ‘Manushya Snehiyaaya Mar Deevannasiyos’, Very Rev. N. J. Thomas Ramban, Mount Tabore Dayara, Pathanapuram, April 2014 (Third Edition). All image sources are the from the personal collections of Mr.Gikku George Kuruvilla.

His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan alongwith His Grace Abraham Mar Clemis of Knanaya coming out after the WCC conference in Delhi in 1964. Also seen- Fr. K.C Thomas (later His Grace Thomas Mar Makarios Metropolitan), Fr. K. Philipose (later His Grace Dr. Philipose Mar Theophilus Metropolitan), Fr. Paul Varghese (later His Grace Dr. Paulos Mar Gregorios Metropolitan) and Mr. K.M Cherian  (Malayala Manorama).

Meeting the Oxford colleague- the then President of India- Dr. S. Radhakrishnan.

  With the then Catholicose and Malankara Metropolitan His Holiness Baselios Augen I, when Augen Bava Thirumeni was on his way to Kerala from Edessa (Mosul) with the holy relics of St. Thomas the Apostle.

His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan with his spiritual guru- His Holiness Baselios Geevarghese II Catholicose and Malankara Metropolitan.

His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan with his dear spiritual son- His Grace Thomas Mar Timethios Metropolitan (later His Holiness Baselios Marthoma Didymos I, Catholicose and Malankara Metropolitan).

His Holiness Baselios Geevarghese II Catholicose and Malankara Metropolitan and His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan welcoming Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie I at Catholicate Palace- Kottayam.

 At WCC- New Delhi-1964

His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan with his brothers- Fr. C.M Isaac and C.M. George.

The mortal remains of His Grace Thoma Mar Dionysius Metropolitan at Medical College Kottayam on Dec 03, 1972. Also see are- His Grace Mathews Mar Athanasius Metropolitan (later His Holiness Baselios Marthoma Mathews I Catholicose and Malankara Metropolitan), Very Rev. Zachariah Rambachan (later His Grace Zachariah Mar Dionysius Metropolitan) and His Grace Thomas Mar Timethios Metropolitan (later His Holiness Baselios Marthoma Didymos I, Catholicose and Malankara Metropolitan)

The Tomb at Mount Tabor Dayara chapel, Pathanapuram

Mount Tabor Dayara chapel, Pathanapuram.

Jesus and the Women of the Fourth Gospel: Reflection on the liturgical ‘Women’s Day’

The visitation of the holy Theotokos to St. Elizabeth is commemorated in the Malankara Orthodox Church as the ‘Women’s Day’. The Advent is a special season which celebrates its central women characters display behaviours non-conforming to the society- a young maiden questioning a celestial being and a woman blessing in a loud voice (St. Luke 1:34,42).

In a culture, as is now, that exalts aggressive masculinity as a sign of power, Christ is undeterred to express the tender, feminine and motherly feelings especially at the very climax of His earthly ministry. Soon after His triumphal entry into Jerusalem as King, He laments with the yearning of a mother: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing” (St. Luke 13:34). Like a mother’s daily routine of bathing and feeding the children, He stoops to wash the disciples’ feet and nourishes them with bread and wine and ultimately lays down His life with the self-giving love that mirrors a mother’s sacrifice.

The Fourth Gospel boldly records Christ’s profound dialogues and transformative actions with women, an extraordinary countercultural witness in a society shaped by rigid gender hierarchies. These encounters include His tender yet purposeful interaction with His mother at the wedding in Cana (St. John 2:1–5), His revelatory conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well (St. John 4:7–26), His merciful response to the woman caught in adultery (St. John 8:3–11), His warm exchange with Martha and Mary of Bethany (St. John 11:21–32; 12:1–3), and His commissioning of Mary Magdalene as the first herald of the Resurrection (St. John 20:11–18).

St. Mary- the Theotokos. (“I will greatly rejoice in the Lord;  my whole being shall exult in my God, for He has clothed me with the garments of salvation”- Isaiah 61:10)

The narrative of the wedding at Cana opens with the quiet yet significant presence of the Lord’s mother (St. John 2:1).  Ordinarily, the lack of wine would have prompted the relatives and the hosts to seek practical solutions or make alternate arrangements for the provisions of wine for the guests. Yet the Blessed Virgin turns swiftly to Christ, though only a guest at the feast, bringing the urgent need before Him.

The history of Israel is replete with men and women waiting faithfully in anticipation of the Messiah. The Blessed Virgin, who was brought up in the Temple, received the annunciation from angel Gabriel, the one who sung the Magnificat that praises the remembrance of the Lord for His servant Israel wasn’t a passive agency but one who actively pondered the events in heart (St. Luke 2:19).

The Blessed Virgin’s simple plea, “They have no wine” (St. John 2:3), resonates with the ancient cry of Israel for the wine of salvation during the promised Messianic age: “The new wine fails, the vine languishes… there is a cry for wine in the streets” (Isaiah 24:7–11). Yet Isaiah’s prophecy does not end in deprivation. The following chapter unveils a glorious hope; the Lord Himself will prepare a lavish banquet and conquer death, ushering in eternal joy. This vision of the great Messianic Banquet is rooted in these words:
“…the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines… He will swallow up death forever… And it will be said on that day: ‘Behold, this is our God; we have waited for Him, and He will save us. This is the Lord; we have waited for Him; let us rejoice and be glad in His salvation’” (Isaiah 25:6–9).

On the surface, St. Mary’s request may appear as a concern for preserving the honour of the hosts. Yet, through the lens of Jewish expectation, her words echo the prayer of Israel for the promised wine of redemption that was spoken of by Prophet Isaiah. Her instruction to the servants, “Do whatever He tells you” (St. John 2:5), reveals her profound understanding of her Son’s identity and His mission. At this early stage of His ministry, her unwavering confidence becomes the catalyst for the first sign at Cana. Without her intercession and faith, this manifestation of divine glory would not have unfolded.

St Paul, writing to Timothy, commends the generational transmission of faith that first dwelt in his grandmother Lois and his mother Eunice (2 Timothy 1:5). Likewise, the holy tradition teaches that St. Mary herself was born of the fasting and supplication of Sts. Joachim and Anna. The Incarnation was thus cradled in the womb of intercession. A later legend has that after the death of St. Joachim, St Anne purchases property near the Garden of Gethsemane. Whether this is historically verifiable or not, its symbolism is poignant. The place where Jesus agonised in prayer, sweating drops of blood, may have stood upon ground once touched by His maternal lineage woven with threads of prayer, faith, suffering and grace.

It is often the steadfast faith of the mother that sustains the prayer life of the home, a sacred routine that persist even amid the (pandemic) reality of the father’s absence in spiritual leadership at home. Yet society continues to place the entire burden of virtuous upbringing of children upon women. Tragically, many sermons from the pulpits, far removed from the challenges of domestic life, compound this injustice by casting aspersions on mothers especially during the feast days of the Theotokos.  

From the hidden sanctity of the home emerges a mystery that mirrors the altar where the body becomes a vessel of self-giving love. The mother’s blood, transfigured into life-sustaining milk, nourishes the fragile existence of the newborn, a silent Eucharistic echo within the domestic sphere. Against this backdrop, the scene from Calvary resounds with profound tenderness: ‘When Jesus therefore saw His mother..” (St. John 19:26).  How often do we pause to see, to acknowledge and appreciate this unseen, uncelebrated labour that sustains homes? Christ’s gaze upon His mother is not mere filial affection; it is also a theological affirmation of the dignity of maternal sacrifice. It is a summon to honour those whose hidden intercessions and embodied offerings uphold the sanctity of life.

“Is He not Mary’s son?” (St. Mark 6:3). What seems a simple question in Nazareth conceals a deeper prejudice. In a society where lineage was traced through the father, naming a man by his mother implied suspicion, a shadow cast upon the honour of the Blessed Virgin. Divine mysteries often challenge and scandalize human reasoning. The virgin birth, foretold by the prophets, became a stumbling block to those unable to fathom grace breaking into history. The apocryphal document called the Gospel of Nicodemus records that during Jesus’s trial, one of the charges against Him was that He was born of fornication. However, twelve men testified before Pilate to refute this claim. While this is a non-canonical tradition, it still whispers a truth; even as Christ stood silent during His kangaroo trial, fulfilling Isaiah’s prophecy of the suffering servant who “opened not His mouth” (Isaiah 53:7), He did not leave His mother undefended. Providence raised voices to guard her honour.

May the prayers and intercessions of the Theotokos move us to defend, through word and deed, the dignity of women against unjust aspersions, to recognise the enduring strength of faith across generations, and to honour the silent sacrifices that make redemption tangible within our homes. In a world that measures worth by paychecks, the Cross declares that unseen labour of love is central to God’s saving work. May we, like the beloved disciple, take this truth into our homes and hearts, living lives that honour the mystery of grace entrusted to us through those who prayed, wept, and believed before us.

The Samaritan Woman (“With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation”- Isaiah 12:3)

At Jacob’s well, the Samaritan woman comes weary from the relentless rhythm of daily chores, a rhythm familiar to countless women across generations. In her world, rest is often branded as idleness, though God Himself commands rest as holy. He commanded Sabbath for His people and even for the land: “but in the seventh year there shall be a Sabbath of complete rest for the land” (Leviticus 25:4). If soil deserves rest, how much more the soul?

Yet, for women, the cycle of work rarely pauses. The Samaritan woman embodies this truth; her life is a cycle of drawing water, bearing burdens, and enduring social scorn. However, Christ meets her in that very place of exhaustion, not to condemn her weariness but to transform it. The well that once symbolised endless labour becomes the meeting place of grace. In Christ, the dignity of her toil is affirmed, yet its tyranny is broken.

The immense depth of Jacob’s well represents the cycle of human striving: labour that never ends, jars that never stay full. How many of us live at that well? We draw from careers, relationships, achievements, yet remain thirsty. The woman came for water; Jesus offered a spring. He shifts the conversation from physical need to spiritual longing: “Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst” (St. John 4:14).

Jacob’s well in Shechem is more than a geographical landmark; it is a sacred hinge between the Old and New Testaments. After years of toil in Laban’s household, Jacob obeys God’s command to return to the land of his fathers (Genesis 31:13). Yet, before reaching Bethel, the place of his vow, Jacob pauses at Shechem, purchasing land (Genesis 33:18,19) signalling an intention to settle, even if briefly.

It is during this dwelling that Dinah, Jacob’s daughter, ventures out and is violated by Shechem, son of the local prince (Genesis 34). The narrative unfolds with chilling detail: negotiations, anger, deceit, and bloodshed. Yet amid the clamour of men, Jacob, his sons, Hamor, and Shechem, one voice is missing: Dinah’s. Scripture is silent on her feelings, her wounds, her healing. No one asks what she wants. Jacob even entertains a deal to marry her to her abuser. Dinah is named yet rendered voiceless.

Shechem’s story ends in a massacre. But generations later, in this same region, another woman approaches Jacob’s well (St. John Chrysostom, in Homily 31-Gospel of John, shares that Shechem is also the traditional location of Jacob's well where a Samaritan woman had a life changing conversation with Jesus Christ as elaborated in St. John Chapter 4).  She is nameless, perhaps society deemed her unworthy of remembrance, but unlike Dinah, she is heard.

Christ’s journey to Samaria is no accident. It is divine closure. He enters the broken history of Shechem to heal what was wounded. He dismantles walls of race, gender, and shame. His conversation is long, patient, and tender, a stark reversal of Jacob’s passive silence. His presence acknowledges the suffering of those crushed by power structures, especially women.

Dinah is named yet unheard; the Samaritan woman is nameless yet becomes a herald of grace. She leaves her jar, the emblem of endless toil, and runs to proclaim: “Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did” (St. John 4:29). Her testimony turns a city toward Christ. Where human silence once deepened wounds, divine speech now opens wells of healing.

Allow Jesus to enter the Shechem of your heart. No place is too gory for His grace, no history too fractured for His redemption, no place is too dark for His light, no heart too shattered for His love. The encounter at Jacob’s well is not incidental; it is intentional. Women whose labour never ceases, whose tears and sacrifices go unseen-Christ meets you at the well.  Jesus steps into the shadows of forgotten pain and says, “Give Me a drink”, not because He needs water, but because He longs to pour living water into our deepest thirst.

“Glory be to Christ, who sat by the well;Seeking water from the Samaritan

She would not give it , and He caused to flow;The medicine of life, which quenched her thirst

And the blood from His side redeemed the Church.” (Tuesday Matins, Sheema Namaskaram)

 The Woman caught in adultery (“If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with You, so that You may be revered.”- Psalm 130:3–4)

At dawn, the temple courts become a theatre of humiliation. A woman is dragged into the public square, her shame weaponised by men who claim to uphold the law. “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of adultery.” The phrase drips with irony. Adultery, by definition, involves two people, but only the woman is paraded before the crowd. This selective prosecution exposes the double standard embedded in patriarchal systems. The law becomes a weapon, not a shield.

The men who brought the allegations of adultery against the woman are not defenders of holiness; they are manipulators of power. They come armed with stones and Scripture, their lips speak holiness, but their hearts pulse with malice. Their aim is not moral purity or justice but spectacle and political entrapment.

Then comes the moment that changes everything. Jesus stoops, writes in the dust, forcing all the accusers to go away beginning with the elders. The He speaks to her. The men who dragged her into the temple spoke about her, never to her. She was treated as an object, a pawn in their game. Jesus disrupts the dynamics of the culture where women are spoken for or spoken over.

He turns toward her and says, “Neither do I condemn you.” She is no longer a passive exhibit in a morality trial but one on whom dignity and equality is bestowed. But Jesus does more than speak; He entrusts her with a future. His command, “Go, and sin no more”, assumes her capacity for moral responsibility.

 ‘Go’ conveys movement and agency, she is free to walk her own path. He does not impose surveillance or control; He offers autonomy.

 ‘Sin no more’ is not a legalistic threat but an invitation to live differently. He does not define her by her past. Instead, He frames holiness as a journey, not a punishment.

Jesus refuses to reduce her identity to her sexuality or her failure. He does not condone sin, but neither does He crush her under shame. He treats her as one fully capable of taking ethical choices, a radical stance in a culture that often-denied women such agency. Jesus’s act challenges communities to dismantle structures that erase female agency and to create spaces where women are addressed as full persons.

Yet the hypocrisy of unequal standards echoes through history and persists into our churches today. Often shortcomings in men are often framed as “mistakes” or “temptations” whereas a woman’s failure, real or perceived, becomes a scarlet letter. Our parishes face a critical blind spot: the conflation of forgiveness and reconciliation. A troubling, yet common reality involves women being urged to forgive and reconcile with unfaithful, addicted, or abusive spouses “for the sake of the children” or “for the sake of society.” While forgiveness is a Christian imperative, reconciliation is not automatic. It requires accountability, repentance, and safety. When the community (including the clergy) confuse these two approaches, they risk perpetuating cycles of harm. Women are pressured to return to unsafe environments under the banner of “Christian duty,” while perpetrators evade accountability. This is not biblical mercy; it is institutional complicity.

The story of St. John Chapter 8 is not merely about an adulterous woman; it is about all of us- stone-clutching accusers and sinners alike. And it is about a Christ who restores voice and agency to the silenced, and who calls His church to embody an ethic of grace that liberates rather than oppresses and to create spaces where mercy and justice walk hand in hand-even in a world still marred by gendered hypocrisy.

Martha, and Mary of Bethany (“You show me the path of life. In Your presence there is fullness of joy”- Psalm 16:11)

It is worthwhile to consider the account in St. Luke's narrative where the home of Martha and Mary becomes the stage for one of the most tender and transformative encounters. (St. Luke 10:38-42)

The Scripture is silent on the identities of the parents or the birth order of the siblings. However, it seems that Martha would be the elder one. Her behaviour resonates with the eldest daughters- one who at an early age typically bore the weight of domestic responsibility and upholding family’s honour. Martha’s story resonates with anyone who has ever felt crushed under the weight of responsibility. Her hands speak the language of service, but her soul aches for rest. Martha embodies the world’s economy of worth: you are valued for what you do.

Yet Jesus interrupts this narrative. His gentle words: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, but few things are needed—indeed only one.” (St. Luke 10:41), are not a rebuke but an invitation. He does not dismiss her service; He redirects her focus.

Mary, on the other hand, defies cultural expectations. Her choice is radical, almost scandalous. Yet Jesus affirms her, signalling a kingdom where devotion outranks decorum and where women are welcomed as learners and lovers of God. 

Mary’s posture is as eloquent as Martha’s protest. She sits at Jesus’ feet, her silence louder than the clatter of dishes. Her choice is not laziness; it is courage. To sit when others expect you to serve is a quiet act of rebellion against a world that measures worth by productivity. Mary reminds us that contemplation is as holy as action. She teaches that the soul’s deepest hunger is satisfied not in doing but in being-being with Christ.

The tension between Martha and Mary mirrors an ancient rivalry: Leah and Rachel, two sisters contending for the love of a man. Leah, unloved, bore sons in a desperate bid for Jacob’s affection. When Rueben, Simeon and Levi are born, Leah exclaims every time that henceforth her husband will love her. Yet after Judah’s birth, her cry changes: “Now I will praise the Lord” (Genesis 29:35). She shifts from striving for human love to resting in divine love. Leah ceases bearing. Martha’s journey is similar. Jesus calls her to move from anxious service to adoring surrender. In Him, the competition ends; both sisters are cherished.

It is tempting to pit Martha against Mary, as if one represents error and the other truth. But Jesus does not condemn service; He sanctifies it. The issue is not activity but priority. When service springs from anxiety, it becomes bondage; when it flows from intimacy, it becomes worship. The Church needs both Marthas and Marys; hands that serve and hearts that listen. In Christ, action and contemplation are not rivals but partners.

This story is not merely about two sisters; it is about the human soul’s struggle between doing and being, between the societal expectations of gendered tasks and the freedom of grace. In a world that glorifies hustle, Jesus offers a better way: “Come to Me, and I will give you rest.” At Bethany’s table, we learn that the true feast is not what we prepare for Him but what He prepares for us.

 When Jesus arrives in Bethany after Lazarus has been dead and in the tomb for four days. Martha steps forward to express her brokenness boldly: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (St. John 11:21). Yet, the logical, reasoning, resilient Martha, steeped in her grief, articulates the highest Christological affirmations- “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” (St. John 11:27).

Mary falls at Jesus’ feet, repeating Martha’s words: “Lord, if you had been here…”. While Martha’s theology is voiced in bold confession, Mary’s theology is embodied in tears. She does not argue; she weeps. And Jesus does not rebuke her. Instead, He is “deeply moved” and weeps with her (St. John 11:35). In a culture that often shames women’s emotions, Christ Jesus validates lament. He shows solidarity with women’s sorrow, honours their voices, dignifies their pain and teaches us that vulnerability is not weakness, it is a language heaven understands.

St. John includes an interesting note about the meal following Jesus's raising of Lazarus from the dead: “There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those reclining with him.” (St. John 12:2). Lazarus, fresh from the grave, reclines in resurrection’s calm while his sister labours. Is Apostle John subtly calling him out for not sharing the load? Or is Lazarus a living parable; that those who have tasted death know the futility of anxious striving?

Mary Magdalene (“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1)

Mary Magdalene stands as a luminous figure in the Gospel story. St Luke records her as one who was healed of seven demons and, with other women, supported Christ’s ministry through her resources (St. Luke 8:1–3). Yes, this was a group comprising businesswomen disciples!

In a world where womanhood was often confined to marriage and motherhood, Jesus opened a radical horizon, inviting women to live beyond cultural norms, even embracing celibacy for the sake of the Kingdom. Mary Magdalene’s devotion was not tethered to domestic honour but to divine love, and in that choice, she became a signpost of freedom.

Yet what might those seven demons look like today? Perhaps they are not raging monstrous spirits but subtle tormenters-whispers that wound, weights that crush. They haunt boardrooms and bedrooms, pulpits and pews.

1) The Demon of Exhaustion: The relentless loop of expectations-home, work, church, society. A treadmill disguised as duty. She runs until her soul frays, forgetting that Sabbath was made for her too. But Christ calls her to “choose the good part”.

2) The Demon of Expectation: The crushing weight of cultural norms- exclusive focus to get married by a certain age, to bear children by a certain age, to endure abusive relationship, no cries, no complaints. These chains masquerade as ‘christian virtues’, but Christ calls women beyond roles into autonomy and purpose.

3) The Demon of Shame: The demon developed by gossip and judgment. Conversations about mental health, especially postpartum depression in new mothers, remain shrouded in taboo, forcing women into silence. But Christ stretches out His hand and writes a new name in the dust: grace instead of disgrace.

4) The Demon of Fear: Fear of abandonment, fear of violence, fear of being “too much” or “not enough.” Fear that shrinks dreams into corners. Yet, Christ’s perfect love casts out fear.

5) The Demon of Comparison: The endless race of measuring against others in aspects of beauty, success, milestones, even holiness. A finish line that never arrives, whispering, “You are still not enough.” Yet Christ does not demand perfection; He simply calls us to come as we are.

6) The Demon of Isolation: Surrounded yet unseen. Bearing burdens in silence because vulnerability feels unsafe. In the garden when she is isolated and vulnerable, Jesus calls her by name.

7) The Demon of Silence: The voice that says, “Good women do not speak and do not question” and cultures that prize compliance over courage. Yet, the Lord’s mother reasons with the angel, Jesus listens to Martha’s frustration and honours her bold confession and entrusts Mary Magdalene to share with the apostles the greatest proclamation in history. In Christ, women’s voices are not muted; they become messengers of hope.

Twice her voice trembles: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid Him” (John 20:2, 14). For Mary Magdalene, someone has stolen hope itself—someone has taken the Lord of the oppressed, the Friend of the poor and needy. How piercing the shame if our own parishes became such tombs, where seekers as well as the believers whisper, “They have taken the Lord away.” A Church without Christ is not merely empty; it is a shadow that darkens the world it should illumine.

Mary Magdalene’s encounter with the risen Christ in chapter 20 throbs with longing; the kind of love portrayed in Song of Songs: “I sought him whom my soul loves; I sought him but found him not…..When I found him whom my soul loves, I held him and would not let him go.” (Song of Songs 3:1-4).

“Mary” (St. John 20:16). Jesus calls her by name- not by any role as someone’s mother, wife or daughter. He restores her identity. This call echoes the Good Shepherd’s promise: “He calls His own sheep by name” (St. John 10:3).

Yet Jesus’ words, “Do not cling to me,” do not scold her affection, they sanctify it. In the Song, the bride brings her beloved into her mother’s house, a sanctuary of intimacy and belonging. Mary Magdalene seeks that closeness, but the risen Christ calls her to a communion deeper than touch, a love that must now become mission- “Go and tell my brothers.” The arms that once held Him must now herald Him. Here love is transfigured where affection becomes apostolic, and longing becomes proclamation.

Mary Magdalene longed for Christ when He had nothing to offer, no miracles to marvel at, no crowds, only the stillness of death. Her story calls the Church to be a garden, not a grave; to nurture spaces where love liberates, where voices restore dignity, where mission moves forward with courage and where women’s gifts are not silenced but are woven into the fabric of ministry and not just displayed as ornaments for special occasions. For in that garden, the risen Christ entrusted the greatest news in history to a woman-and heaven has never apologised for it.

In Christ,

Rincy

 

 

The Rock Beneath, the Tree Above. (Reflection on the Holy Gospel reading for the Sunday of Koodosh Etho- St. Matthew 16:13-20)

In the prophetic vision of Isaiah, the Lord declares that Shebna, the unfaithful steward of the royal household, will be replaced by Eliakim, son of Hilkiah: “I will commit your authority to his hand… I will place on his shoulder the key of the house of David; he shall open, and none shall shut; he shall shut, and none shall open” (Isaiah 22:21–22). The key symbolises not only access but authority, indicating what Eliakim opens cannot be closed by others, and what he closes cannot be opened.

This Old Testament image echoes in the Gospel when Jesus leads His disciples to Caesarea Philippi, a place associated with the “gates of Hades.” There, He asks, “Who do you say that I am?” Peter responds, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” Jesus affirms this confession and declares, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven…”Just as Eliakim received the key of David, the keys of the Kingdom are entrusted to the faith confessed by Simon Peter - a faith shared by the apostolic community.

The Lord further promises Eliakim, the faithful steward, saying, “I will fasten him like a peg in a secure place” (Isaiah 22:23). Yet Isaiah’s prophecy ends with a warning: “On that day… the peg that was fastened in a secure place will give way; it will be cut down and fall, and the load that was on it will perish.” (v.25). This is a sobering reminder that human steward, however faithful, is ultimately not the foundation; his peg gives way. Immediately after Peter’s confession, he is rebuked by Jesus: “Get behind me, Satan!” (St. Matthew 16:23). This shows that Peter, like Eliakim, is a fallible steward, not the cornerstone.

The Holy Scripture is clear about who the true foundation is. St. Paul writes, “For no one can lay a foundation other than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 3:11). St. Peter himself affirms this in his epistle: “Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone, a cornerstone chosen and precious, and whoever believes in him will not be put to shame” (1 Peter 2:6, quoting Isaiah 28:16). St. Paul echoes this in Ephesians 2:20, describing the Church as “built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone.”

The Church, therefore, is not built on Peter the man, but on the faith he confessed, and on the Lord he proclaimed. The Church is not sustained by titles or positions, but by the Crucified and Risen Lord. All other pegs, however secure, will eventually fall. Only Christ remains.

When Christ Jesus says, “the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it,” He is not promising invincibility to a man, but to the faith that confesses Him as the Son of the living God. This is the faith that has endured through persecution, martyrdom, and suffering. When the apostles and martyrs chose death over life, when they embraced the Cross rather than deny Christ, their faith stood firm. The gates of Hades, the powers of death and darkness, have tried to silence this faith, but it did not prevail.  As we sing in Thursday Matins:

“Glory to Christ who built upon His hands;

The Church and set up the altar in it

And set the prophets, apostles and the

Martyrs who triumphed as its foundation

Blessed is He who built and confirmed His Church.”

The keys are not symbols of individual authority, instead, they are instruments of ecclesiastical stewardship to exercised in humility, in obedience to the Gospel, and fundamentally anchored in Christ, who is the true and eternal bearer of this responsibility. “These are the words of the Holy One, the True One, who has the key of David, who opens and no one will shut, who shuts and no one opens.” (Revelation 3:7). Christ is the one who holds the keys-not just of David’s house, but of death and Hades (Revelation 1:18).

Yet, we often perceive the keys only as glorious emblems of authority and power. As we sing in the Saturday Matins:

“…the apostles of our Lord
Who by their suffering and pain
Were pleasing to Christ, their Lord
And they received His Spirit
And the keys of the kingdom…”, Beneath that divine commission, however, lay the cruciform path of suffering; the apostles bore the weight of these keys through pain, persecution, and unwavering fidelity to Christ.

St. Peter’s answer is not the sole voice in the Gospel that recognises Christ’s true identity. At the foot of the Cross, a Roman centurion, witnessing the suffering and death of Jesus, declares, “Truly this man was God’s Son!” (St. Matthew 27:54). St. Peter’s confession, that comes before the Cross, is shaped by proximity and growing understanding. It is reverent and faithful, yet still within the framework of messianic expectation.

The centurion, a Roman outsider, stands at the foot of the Cross. The centurion sees suffering, darkness, and death. His response is visceral, and transformative; one that is born from encounter with the sacred in the midst of violence. This very confession, uttered in the shadow of Golgotha, planted the seed of faith in the Roman world, eventually reaching the heart of Cappadocia.

St. Gregory of Nyssa, in Letter XIII, affirms the centurion’s recognition of Christ’s divinity as a foundational moment for Cappadocian Christianity: “...and we Cappadocians (received the Gospel from) the centurion, who at the Cross acknowledged the Godhead of the Lord...” This is no passing reference. It suggests that the centurion’s exclamation became a spiritual landmark, a point of origin for the Gospel’s journey into the region. Centuries later, from that same soil, the Cappadocian Fathers (St. Basil the Great, St. Gregory of Nyssa, and St. Gregory of Nazianzus) would produce some of the most profound theological treatises on the Trinity and the divinity of Christ. Their writings would shape the Nicene faith and defend the truth that the centurion first glimpsed: that Jesus is truly God.

The centurion’s voice, rising from beneath the Cross, joins Peter’s in proclaiming the Son of God, not in triumph, but in surrender. And it is this faith, born in suffering and sealed in witness, that has carried the Gospel to the ends of the earth.

Sanctification is a story of God’s desire to dwell among His people and to shape them into a holy nation. From Abraham’s call to the Exodus, from Sinai to the tabernacle, God moves His people toward consecration. The tabernacle’s edifice (from the outer court to the Holy of Holies) imitated a progressive spiritual journey. The altar of sacrifice marked the beginning of repentance and cleansing; the Holy Place was the sacred chamber where the bread of presence was reverently kept; and the Holy of Holies, hidden behind the veil, was the place of intimate union with God. Yet, access to God was limited and the veil was a constant reminder of this separation.

At the Cross, “the veil of the temple was torn in two” (St. Matthew 27:51). In Christ, the Holy of Holies is opened, and we are invited not merely to enter, but to ascend the mountain of sanctification.
Koodosh Etho is not simply the start of a liturgical cycle; it is the renewal of our journey into holiness, reminding us that sanctity is not static but dynamic.

As we bid adieu to the season of the Cross, may we not part from its memory or its mandate, for without the Cross, the path of sanctification is not only obscured but incomplete. The Cross remains the eternal sermon, inviting us to recognise the Son of God and dwell in His presence. May we, like Peter, confess Christ boldly, and like the centurion, be transformed by the mystery of the Cross.

Wishing all a blessed liturgical New Year!

In Christ,

Rincy