Beyond Defence: Making the Catholic story visible in India

Anthony DSouza

The Church does not need a new mission. It needs a better way of ensuring that its existing mission becomes part of India's national story.

The Catholic Church in India occupies a curious place in the national imagination. Christians constitute only a small fraction of the country's population, yet Catholic and other Christian institutions together educate and care for numbers far beyond that proportion. Across India, they run 14,000 schools, colleges, innumerable hospitals, dispensaries, training institutes and social service centres, many in regions where access to quality education and healthcare has long been limited. Their institutions have served millions through classrooms, hospitals, orphanages, homes for the elderly, rehabilitation centres and relief programmes, often in places where few others were willing or able to work.

Yet, ask many Indians, especially those who have never set foot in one of our institutions, to name the first word they associate with the Church, and many will not say education, healthcare or service. They will, more often than not, say "conversion."

That perception has not emerged in isolation. It has been reinforced by sections of political discourse and parts of the media, where the Church is often presented primarily through the lens of religious conversion, rather than its broader social contribution.

Whether that perception is fair is, in one sense, beside the point. Public opinion is rarely shaped by the full complexity of reality. It is shaped by the stories that are repeatedly told, and by whoever tells them most consistently.

The question, therefore, is not whether the Church has served India faithfully. History has already answered that—in classrooms, hospitals, villages and mission stations, through more than a century and a half of quiet service. The more pressing question is whether the Church has done enough to ensure that this service forms part of the story India tells about itself.

I believe the answer is not yet, and not consistently.

The interior Castle in the age of notifications Reclaiming mental privacy, one Mass at a time…

Adanoi Joseph Abraham

You are kneeling in the pew, incense still hanging in the air, as the priest raises his hand for the final blessing, "Go in peace, glorify the Lord by your life." And before the 'Amen' has fully left your lips, your hand is already moving towards your pocket.

It happens to teenagers scrolling under the hymn book. It happens to grandmothers checking on grandchildren three time zones away. It happens to me, somewhere between the Agnus Dei (Lamb of God…) and Communion, wondering if an email has landed. We are, most of us, living through Mass with one foot in the pew and one foot inside a small glass rectangle that never quite lets us go.

This is not a story about willpower. It is a story about design.

As a law student who spends most days buried in technology policy, I've come to see this pull for what it is: not a personal failing, but a business model. Legal scholars have begun using a phrase that deserves wider currency in Catholic circles — cognitive liberty – the right to control the contents of one's own mind, free from outside manipulation. Beside it sits a newer cousin, mental privacy: the idea that our attention and our unspoken impulses deserve the same protection the law has long given our homes and our letters.

The trouble is what experts call information asymmetry: the platform on the other end of your screen knows far more about you than you know about it. It knows, almost to the millisecond, which colour of notification makes you flinch, and which hour of the day your resolve is weakest. Behavioural psychologists are hired not to inform you, but to condition you, and the resulting architecture — infinite scroll, variable rewards, autoplay — all of this is not accidental.

The MINISTRY of Presence

Fr Peter D'Cunha

Recently, during my parish visits, I met a remarkable couple—a 99-year-old husband and his 87-year-old wife. As I entered their home, I witnessed something beautiful. Their faces lit up with joy. We spoke of life, faith, family, and the many blessings God had bestowed on them through the years. We prayed together, shared memories, and laughed over stories from the past. As I left, I carried with me a touching and heartfelt realisation: no parish meeting, however important, can replace the grace of a pastoral visit.

The priest is first and foremost called not to manage a parish, but to shepherd God's people. Before we are administrators, organisers, or committee members, we are fathers, pastors, and servants of Christ. Our vocation is not merely to run a parish efficiently, but to make Christ present wherever His people are.

The Gospels reveal a Lord who was constantly on the move. Jesus did not remain in one place waiting for people to come to Him. He walked from village to village. He entered homes, sat at tables, blessed children, comforted the sick, forgave sinners, and restored hope to those who felt forgotten. The Good Shepherd knew His sheep, and they knew His voice, because He lived among them.

Every priest is called to continue that same ministry of presence. When we cross the threshold of a parishioner's home, we do more than pay a social visit. We bring the blessing of the Church. We become visible signs of Christ, who still desires to dwell among His people. Sometimes, no prayerful words are necessary. A listening ear, a warm smile, a gentle touch on the shoulder, a heartfelt blessing, or a few moments of prayer can often communicate God's love more powerfully than many sermons. In those simple gestures, people experience the compassion, closeness, and healing presence of Christ.

Overcoming setbacks in Priestly and Religious Life

Fr Sahaya Roselin MMI 

The Silence Before Resolution

Every man who kneels for ordination, and every man or woman who professes religious vows, begins with a dream of a life poured out at the altar until life intervenes: an unwanted transfer, a wound, a failure nobody saw coming. Somewhere along the way comes the question Joseph must have asked in the pit at Dothan, and later in prison: where is God in this silence? Joseph spent nearly two decades in a story that looked like total abandonment, and only later could he tell his brothers, "You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good" – the testimony of a man who lived years not knowing how his story would end. Donald Cozzens, whose book on the priesthood is subtitled A Reflection on the Priest's Crisis of Soul, names this condition directly: an unsettled search for identity that seeps into how a man preaches and carries himself; the crisis is real, but never the last word.

Tip: Name the setback honestly before trying to fix it. Joseph didn't skip to "God meant it for good"; he lived years without that clarity. Don't rush a struggling priest or religious (or yourself) towards premature resolution. Naming the crisis of soul out loud, to a director or confessor, is the first step, not a failure of faith.

2. Discerning the Cross from the Wrong

A dangerous misconception plagues the spiritual life: that every wound is God's will. A corrosive piety insists every hardship – a toxic community, an unjust superior, a personal collapse – must be swallowed whole as divine plan, nothing resisted; but that is not the faith of the saints. Christ named the works of the evil one plainly: to steal, kill, and destroy, and spent His ministry undoing exactly those things. Not every circumstance comes from the same source: some crosses are carried, others resisted, and formation exists to teach the difference.

Tip: Learn to discern before you decide to endure. Not every hardship should simply be absorbed. Bring a specific situation to spiritual direction, and ask directly: is this a Cross to carry, or a wrong to resist? Ignatian discernment exists precisely so this isn't guesswork done alone.

Treasures in Broken Clay Vessels

Fr Anil Rego

Some years ago, I had stopped at a petrol pump to fill fuel in my motorcycle. As the attendant looked at me, he suddenly asked, "Are you a priest?"

Curious, I asked him how he knew. He smiled and replied that he had seen me celebrating Mass at Mount Mary's Basilica, Bandra.

He then began sharing the story of another priest in Mumbai who had profoundly touched his family's life. His son had fallen into alcoholism, and this priest had stood by him through one of the darkest periods of his life. He accompanied him to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, encouraged him through the long struggle, and eventually, the young man gave up drinking. The priest also helped him secure stable employment, enabling him to rebuild his life with dignity.

The attendant concluded by saying, "Because of this priest, our family has started going to church sometimes. Perhaps, one day, we may even become Christians."

As I rode away from the petrol pump, I could not stop thinking about what I had just heard. How deeply this priest had impacted a family—not merely through his preaching, but through his compassion, accompaniment and practical care. His witness had awakened in them a desire to know Christ.

Ironically, this priest was widely known in the archdiocese as a fun-loving, cheerful and light-hearted person. Yet, beneath that easy-going exterior burned a quiet passion to serve God and transform lives. Who knows how many other families he has touched without anyone ever hearing their stories?

Kissed, weathered hands serving Christ in Humility 

Shaun Pascal Pereira

On May 31, 2026, youth and adults from across the Archdiocese of Bombay gathered to celebrate a year dedicated to formation, discipleship and committed Christian leadership. The occasion marked the graduation ceremony of the CLAYM and PYAS Course (2025-2026), a year-long programme designed to nurture committed lay men and women for the life and mission of the Church.

Presiding over this joyous occasion was our beloved Archbishop John Rodrigues—a man whose humility, quiet authority and pastoral warmth are immediately evident to all who encounter him. As he entered the hall, a renewed spirit of joy and reverence seemed to fill the gathering. 

As he personally presented certificates to each graduate, every interaction was unique. Some offered a handshake, others sought his blessing, exchanged a few words, or simply smiled with gratitude. Then my name was announced. Overcome with nervousness, my heart raced as I walked towards him. As he extended his right hand while handing me my certificate, I instinctively and almost involuntarily bent down and kissed it.

It lasted only a few seconds. Yet, in that brief gesture, I was profoundly moved.

I kissed the hands that are stretched out every day in the service of God and His people—hands that celebrate the Holy Eucharist, anoint the sick, bless children, comfort the grieving, welcome strangers and embrace the forgotten.

To some, such a gesture may appear old-fashioned, excessive or merely ceremonial. Others may dismiss it as an act of obligation or conformity. But for me, it was none of these. In that fleeting moment, my mind travelled back to the day Archbishop John received the pallium from the Holy Father—a visible sign of his pastoral office and communion with the Universal Church. It also brought to mind the countless occasions, both public and personal, when I had witnessed his generous service to God's people.