India's Casualties of Neglect and Apathy

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

In India, unfortunate deaths caused by accidents, natural disasters and other causes have become the norm. Stampedes, train accidents, bridge collapses, flooding and electrocution, road cave-ins, dilapidated buildings collapsing during the monsoons, fires, drownings in water bodies or open drains, road accidents, are all a familiar feature in every morning's newspaper. As I write this, the latest tragedy has occurred at Mumbra, where desperate commuters hanging on to overcrowded local trains during Monday morning rush hour, fell onto the tracks – more than a dozen people from two trains moving in opposite directions – about five dead, a few others in critical condition.

While India is not the only country in the world to witness human tragedies such as these with alarming regularity, there seems to be a deeper malaise which has penetrated the national psyche, especially polity and Government, both at the state and national levels. Political and bureaucratic accountability is virtually absent, Government servants are insulated from prosecution and punishment, human life is considered cheap, and platitudes, prayers and compensations are offered/promised to the victims until the news-cycle moves on to the next tragedy or newsworthy story.

The stampede in Bengaluru sparked by RCB's maiden IPL victory is a case in point. The various stakeholders connected to the victory parade and celebrations are busy passing the buck to one another; top cops have been suspended in what appears to be scapegoating, but there appears to be little hope that anyone will actually be prosecuted for the loss of innocent lives, whether from the Government or the cricketing authorities.

The advent of the monsoons this year saw all too familiar sights of flooding and other monsoon-related accidents. The Maharashtra Government blamed the rains for coming too early! These tragedies are not isolated incidents; they occur with frightening frequency. Their recurrence shows us what we often refuse to confront: that in India, there is little institutional regard for the value of an individual human life, particularly when that life belongs to the common citizen, the marginalised, or the voiceless. Even more serious is the apathy of the majority towards changing the narrative and holding their public servants accountable.

Underlying these recurring disasters is a chronic failure of governance. Rules exist—whether for building safety, event management, or monsoon preparedness—but enforcement is abysmal. Licenses are given without inspection, warnings are ignored, and political patronage shields the negligent. After every tragedy, there is a familiar script. A Commission of Inquiry is announced. Compensations are declared. Politicians make perfunctory visits. Then the nation forgets. Reports are buried, recommendations ignored, and the cycle begins anew.

But governance alone cannot bear the burden of blame. There is a deeper crisis of citizenship in India—an erosion of civic responsibility and moral engagement. Our political culture rewards charisma over competence, populism over policy. Voters often re-elect those who preside over failures, swayed by identity politics, short-term handouts, or appeals to religion and nationalism. Meanwhile, civil society's ability to demand accountability has weakened in the face of shrinking democratic spaces and a polarised media.

Citizens too bear responsibility when they tolerate disorder, bypass rules, and accept corruption as inevitable. When we give bribes to expedite work, flout traffic laws, or prioritise personal convenience over public order, we contribute to a culture of negligence. "Nothing is ever going to change." The normalisation of systemic dysfunction, coupled with fatalism, has dulled our collective conscience.

If we want to break this cycle of tragedy and hopelessness, then every person will have to believe that every voice counts, and that individual actions can make a difference to the quality of life and living. We will have to rise above considerations of religion, language, gender, caste, class and economic status. We will have to hold our bureaucrats and elected political representatives accountable. We will first and foremost have to change our own behaviour with regard to public order, cleanliness, adherence to civic rules, and hold ourselves personally accountable for our immediate surroundings. Government and populace must engage in a collaborative partnership of mutual accountability and transparency.

At the heart of all this must lie a moral conviction: that the life of a poor farmer in Bihar matters as much as a tech CEO in Bengaluru; that a child drowning in a flooded subway deserves the same national outrage as any high-profile death. Only when this moral compass is restored can we hope to build a safer, more humane India.

Breath of God 

Soon after we were born, we emptied our lungs of fluid and breathed for the first time. During an average lifespan, a human being breathes 650 million times before we take our last breath. Life is one breath after another. Our sharing in eternal life is also a drama of breathing. 'Then the Lord God formed man out of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being' (Genesis 2:7). The divine name revealed to Moses has been said to be like the sound of breathing. Every time we breathe, we utter God's name. On the Cross, Jesus breathed out His final breath that we might live.

On the Feast of Pentecost, we celebrate our sharing in the divine breath, both in John's account of the Risen Lord breathing on the disciples, and the mighty breathing of God at Pentecost which descended like tongues of fire on the disciples.

What does it mean for us to be filled with the breathing of God? The first vocation of humanity was to be gardeners, caring for all that lives. In the psalm for Pentecost Mass, we sing 'When you send forth your spirit, they are created, and you renew the face of the earth' (Psalm 104). More than ever before, we are aware that we have been bad gardeners, and that our little planet is struggling for breath. In our cities, polluted air dooms people to premature death. During the pandemic, for the first time in history, billions of people wore masks (some still do) as we feared that our breathing would bring death to ourselves or those whom we love.

The Risen Lord bestows on us an even more radical gardening - the forgiveness of sins. Forgiveness is not weeding out sins and pretending that they never happened. It is a sharing in the Resurrection of the Lord, whose death bore fruit on Easter morning. Humanity slaughtered Love Incarnate, but on Easter day, the dead wood flowered with a love that can never die.

Every sterile and destructive act may be brought to the Lord with confidence that our lives, apparently doomed to futility, will be opened again to the fullness of life. The desert of our lives flourishes. We sing to the Holy Spirit in the Sequence: 'On our dryness, pour your dew.' The graves of the Trappist monks, portrayed in Of Gods and Men, who lost their lives to the murderous violence that swept Algeria in the nineties, are now covered with flowers left by Christian and Muslim pilgrims. This is the fertility of Paschal forgiveness, the breathing of the God of eternal life in our lives.

It is said that in our society, 'everything is permitted, but nothing is forgiven.' There is a pressure to wipe out the memory of previous generations, because they colluded in some way, perhaps unconsciously, with evil, as indeed we do today. Who knows how we shall be judged one day? The novelist, Malcolm Gladwell, said that 'Cancel culture is what happens when you have a generation of people who are not raised with a Christian ethic of forgiveness.' Forgiveness does not demand the erasure of the past, for we may remember all that we have done and been, individually and as a society, trusting in the fecundity of the Lord's grace to triumph over every death-dealing act. We even call that most fateful day of all 'Good Friday'.

That divine gardening of our lives has come down to Earth in the power given to each of us by the Risen Lord: 'Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them.' And when sins are retained, it is always in the hope of the ultimate triumph of love and life. In the Sacrament of Reconciliation, this fertility is given through those who are ordained to represent us all, the whole Body of Christ.

On Pentecost Day, the breathing of God came upon the disciples like a mighty wind, freeing the disciples to speak in different tongues, healing the divisions between nations. There were even present 'inhabitants of Mesopotamia', the forebears of our Christian brothers and sisters in Iraq who suffer to this day. As international tensions deepen, and the threat of violence and war grows again, we have much divine gardening to do.

(Guest Editorial) Cardinal Timothy Radcliffe O.P. 

Cultivating a Communication of Care

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

In a world increasingly dominated by noise, division, and digital saturation, communication has never been more powerful, nor more perilous. From TV debates and social media threads to political rhetoric, and even personal conversations, we find ourselves entangled in a culture of aggressiveness, confrontation, and emotional hyper-ventilation. This toxic mode of discourse is seeping into family life, civic discourse, and religious communities, threatening to erode the very foundation of trust and mutual respect upon which any authentic communication must rest.

Pope Francis, in his 2025 Message for the World Day of Social Communications, offered a strikingly timely and profound call to "communicate hope" through "gentleness and reverence," echoing 1 Peter 3:15-16. His message is not only a theological reflection, but a practical guide to navigating and transforming today's fragmented communication landscape.

Communication in the modern world is under siege. One of the most corrosive forces is aggressiveness. Whether it's in political commentary or casual online interactions, too often, we wield words like weapons. Confrontation has become the default mode of debate, not as a means to find truth, but to assert dominance. Instead of dialoguing, we duel.

Equally alarming is the prevalence of fake news and bias, which compromise the integrity of information and distort our perception of reality. Pope Francis warned of a "programmed dispersion of attention," orchestrated by digital algorithms that feed us content aligned with our preferences and prejudices, thus reinforcing echo chambers. This "atomization of interests," as he puts it, undermines our communal bonds, dismantling our ability to truly listen and understand one another.

Even our homes are not immune. The polarisation we see in society often reflects itself in familial relationships, where digital devices replace meaningful conversations, and ideological differences trigger silence or conflict, instead of understanding. The Church and religious communities, too, are sometimes drawn into this divisive rhetoric, veering from the Gospel call to unity and love.

Pope Francis offered a potent remedy: a communication that appeals not only to the intellect, but also—and especially—to the heart. We often default to rational, fact-driven arguments in the hope of persuading others, but logic alone seldom heals wounds or changes hearts. What people yearn for today is not more data, but more compassion; not louder voices, but deeper understanding.

The Pope emphasises a "disarmed communication," one that purifies itself of aggression and distortion. Such communication speaks gently, with reverence for the other's dignity, and with an openness that mirrors Jesus' walk with the disciples to Emmaus. As Christ listened and responded with patience and warmth, so too must our communication model closeness, care, and kindness.

This shift requires courage. As Georges Bernanos noted, "Hope is a risk that must be taken."

In this light, communicators—whether journalists, pastors, parents, or friends—must strive to tell "stories steeped in hope," as the Pope said. Not superficial feel-good narratives, but real stories of resilience, mercy, and quiet heroism that shine through the debris of war, economic hardship, and loneliness. These stories rekindle the belief that change is possible, that goodness still exists, and that every person matters.

So how can we bring this vision into the world of daily life and faith?

1. Start with the Heart: Before speaking or writing, ask not only "Is this true?" but also "Is this kind?" and "Does this inspire hope?" Gentleness, as Pope Francis insists, is not weakness; it is strength under control.

2. Choose Companionship Over Combat: As communicators in families, communities, or parishes, our goal should be to walk with others, not argue against them. Communication should resemble a shared journey, not a battlefield.

3. Highlight the Good: In media and conversation alike, intentionally look for the "gold," as Pope Francis put it—those hidden acts of generosity, love, and courage that often go unnoticed. These are the seeds of hope.

4. Model Forgiveness and Empathy: When conflicts arise, resist the temptation to escalate. Instead, model the language of reconciliation. Words have the power to either deepen division or build bridges.

5. Let Faith Speak Through Love: Our witness should raise questions—"Why are you like this?" and our answers should be rooted not in abstract theology, but in the living hope we have encountered in Christ.

In a world besieged by noise, let us dare to whisper love. In a society fractured by distrust, let us be the ones who speak to the heart—and in doing so, help to heal it.

Transfers and Transitions: A Time to be Thankful

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

With the end of May comes the time to say goodbye for many priests and parishes. For priests who are transferred, the last few days in May are a busy time, preparing files and resources to be handed over to the incoming priests, as well as packing and moving, and farewell encounters with their parishioners. Every transfer is a like a Death-Resurrection experience, both for the priest and for those parishioners who have grown close to him over the years.

When a priest arrives in a new parish, the church becomes his home. The parishioners become his family. His life is interwoven with those of his parishioners. He feeds them daily with the Bread of Life, the Eucharist. He consoles and strengthens them with the words of scripture. He celebrates joyful moments with them that are milestones in every family, he comforts the sick, buries the dead and grieves with their families, he is a doting 'father' to the children of his parish, he is a mentor and guide to the youth, he is a counsellor and comforter to those who are in distress.

Leaving such a tapestry of connections behind is never easy. It is not simply a matter of packing one's bags or clicking a mental switch. It means being uprooted from a place he has called home for many years (in my case, six). The emotional toll is real and deeply human. After all, priests are not spiritual machines; they love, they grieve, they remember.

Once the Bishop has informed you of your impending transfer, life changes immediately. Your limited days in the parish now have a telling impact on your interactions with your parishioners. A priest can now be loath to take any long-term decisions realising his temporary presence in the parish, and that, ethically speaking, any new decisions would be best left to the incoming Parish Priest. However, there are a bit of fun moments here too.

For a few days or weeks, the priest is aware that is he moving, while the parishioners are not. When approached with ideas for future events, I've occasionally replied with a knowing smile, "Let's look into that in June"—fully aware I would no longer be around! Conversely, starting anew in a different parish offers its own subtle advantages. For a while, the priest can refrain from wading into sensitive or long-standing issues, citing unfamiliarity. The early days are a grace-filled time to simply listen—a vital first step in the synodal journey. "Listening," as Pope Francis reminded us, is at the heart of discernment and communion.

While one's departure may be tinged with sorrow, arriving at a new parish is a resurrection moment—alive with possibility, promise, and purpose. It is an opportunity to reimagine one's ministry, to build fresh relationships, and to discover the unique needs and hopes of a new community. Leadership transitions, when embraced with openness, can revitalise not just the priest, but also the parish he leaves behind. For as much as stability offers comfort, prolonged stasis can dull the vitality of a community.

That's why the transfer process must be more than an emotional rite of passage; it must be carried out with clarity, care, and collaboration. An orderly, transparent handover—covering documents, assets, ministries, and ongoing pastoral concerns—is crucial. It ensures that the work of the Church continues seamlessly, and that the new priest can build upon the solid foundation left by his predecessor. A touch of professionalism, supported by the goodwill and cooperation of the laity, can go a long way in advancing the Synodal vision championed by our late Holy Father, Pope Francis.

Above all, this season of transition is a time to be thankful. Gratitude has the power to transform farewells into blessings. Dear parishioners, take the time to express gratitude to the departing priest, even if you didn't really care for him! Give him personal notes or a thank you letter from a ministry as a whole, letting him know how much his presence and his work has affected your life. Much of a priest's impact remains unseen, and a simple gesture of gratitude can shine a light on that hidden labour of love. Notes of appreciation and messages from the heart will mean more to him than any gift that money can buy.

Transfers and transitions may be inevitable, but in the heart of every ending lies the seed of a new beginning.

Easter Joy on St Peter’s Balcony

When the white smoke rose from the Sistine Chapel, and the world turned its eyes to the balcony of St Peter's Basilica, there was more than just protocol unfolding. There was joy—undeniable, spontaneous joy—on the faces of the cardinals, particularly in the exuberant smile of the Bosnian Cardinal Vinko Puljić. That smile, radiating warmth and surprise, wasn't just about welcoming a new pope; it revealed a Church, often portrayed as divided, rediscovering its unity in a moment of grace.

It was also the joy of Easter breaking through ecclesial life. The joy of resurrection, of new beginnings, was palpable not only in the symbolism of a new pope, but also in the lived experience of communion. This echoed the spirit of Evangelii Gaudium—Pope Francis' Joy of the Gospel—reminding us that the Gospel brings a joy born not of ease, but of deep hope. On that balcony, Easter joy became flesh again, a sign that the Good News is still good, still powerful enough to gather the scattered and unite the diverse.

In the lead-up to the conclave, much was said about division within the Church. Liberal versus conservative, Global South versus Rome, pastoral versus doctrinal emphasis—the diversity is real. Cardinals come from different continents, cultures, theological traditions, and pastoral realities. Their perspectives, understandably, vary widely.

And yet, something remarkable happened in that Sistine Chapel.

Without the political wrangling we associate with secular coalition-building, the cardinals reached consensus with surprising swiftness. Some reports suggest Pope Leo XIV received as many as 100 votes—unconfirmed, but certainly indicative of broad support. This wasn't merely efficient; it was Spirit-led. Amid difference, there was clarity. The cardinals, despite varied outlooks, had listened to Someone greater than themselves.

Here was a living embodiment of Jesus' prayer: "that they may be one, as You, Father, are in Me and I in You." Not because all cardinals agreed, or were alike, but because they found unity through the Spirit, not in spite of their diversity, but through it. The Spirit does not erase difference, but works through it, bringing forth a shared discernment.

The joy on the balcony cannot be choreographed. That kind of genuine delight, seen in the smile of the Bosnian cardinal and others, reveals something deep. It was not just relief or diplomatic civility. It was the joy of those who had trusted the Spirit—and seen the fruits. Something sacred had taken place, and it left a mark.

But let us not pretend that all cardinals will agree with every future decision of Pope Leo XIV. Nor should they. The Church is not a monolith, and the role of disagreement—honest, faithful, charitable—is vital. What the conclave shows us is that even with real differences, consensus is possible. That is the beauty of a Church that listens to the Spirit; it becomes a space where diverse voices converge in discernment, rather than fracture in division.

This is more than optimism. In a time of deep polarisation—within and outside the Church—the conclave has offered a quiet, powerful witness. It points to a different way: a unity that does not flatten diversity, a communion that doesn't require uniformity. It shows that joyful consensus is possible, even beautiful, when rooted in prayer and openness to the Spirit.

In this moment, the Church was not divided by ideological lines or geographic interests. It was a Church that could smile together—Cardinals from every corner of the world standing shoulder to shoulder, united in joy and hope. This was not naivety, nor erasure of differences. It was a spiritual convergence, a moment of deep ecclesial trust.

That smile on the balcony—especially the gleam in the eyes of the Bosnian cardinal—was more than a reaction. It was a sign. A sign that the Church, in all her diversity, can still come together in surprising and Spirit-filled ways. In the midst of our deeply polarised world, this moment offers hope: that even in the face of division, we can find unity in the Spirit. May we, the People of God, carry that joy forward—not as sentimentality, but as a living sign of the unity we are called to embody.

(Guest Editorial) Arun Philip Simon SJ is doing his doctoral studies in Philosophy at Paris.

A Tapestry of Devotion and Divine Motherhood

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

As the Earth blushes with the brilliance of Spring, the Church turns its gaze to Mary, the Mother of God, dedicating the entire month of May to her honour. This time-honoured tradition, flourishing since the 13th century, is more than seasonal piety; it is an invitation to rediscover the Christian mystery through the maternal heart of the Church. The Marian month of May is a sacred space in time, when flowers bloom as if echoing the Hail Mary, and when faithful hearts rediscover a mother's love that leads them to her Son.

The roots of this devotion are deeply embedded in both history and theology. While some attribute the institution of Mary's month to a replacement of pagan Spring rites, the true impetus lies in the fitting harmony between Mary's life-giving fiat and Nature's annual renewal. Springtime, with its renewal of life and beauty, serves as a profound metaphor for Mary's unique role in Salvation History. Just as Spring heralds Creation's rebirth, so Mary, in her virginal motherhood, gave the world its Redeemer, and renewed humanity from within.

The Jesuit Order was instrumental in spreading this devotion. By the 1700s, it was firmly established in their Roman College, and celebrated publicly in the Church of the Gesù in Rome. From there, it flowered across the Catholic world. Popes through the centuries have extolled the month of May as an opportunity for the faithful to express their love and gratitude to Mary. Pope Pius XII, in Mediator Dei, acknowledged Marian devotions—such as May crownings, Rosary processions, and hymns—as deeply dignified acts that, though outside the core liturgy, nonetheless complement and elevate the Church's praise.

But the Marian month is more than history; it is theological pedagogy, lived prayer, and spiritual intimacy. In honouring Mary, Catholics do not diminish Christ; rather, they affirm Him. Our devotion to Mary is, at its heart, Christological. As the early Church proclaimed, she is Theotokos—God-bearer—because the one she bore is fully God and fully man. As such, devotion to Mary draws us more deeply into the mystery of the Incarnation and into relationship with her Son, Jesus.

This is where the Rosary becomes central. One might call it "the gospel on a string." In praying the rosary, we contemplate Christ—His Incarnation, Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension—through the eyes and heart of Mary. The Rosary is not only a meditative prayer; it is also a "contemplative catechism" that teaches through repetition and mystery. It draws the faithful into the rhythm of Christ's life, carried in the womb, cradled in the arms, and mourned at the Cross by His mother.

The historical evolution of the Rosary is itself a Marian catechesis. Emerging from the early Church's repetition of Psalms, the Rosary developed as a "poor man's psalter" for those who could not read. In time, the practice of meditating on the mysteries of Christ's life became central, especially through the encouragement of saints like Dominic and Alan de la Roche. Even critics who question the exact historical origins of the Rosary's structure cannot deny the centuries of spiritual fruit borne from this devotion. In 2002, Pope John Paul II added the Luminous Mysteries, further enriching this prayer, and situating Mary's role more fully within the life and mission of Christ.

Yet, the Marian month is not solely about Marian prayer; it is about maternal love. The solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, reveals that God did not merely use Mary as a conduit for the Incarnation; He loved her as a mother. Jesus received not just a body, but human affection, warmth, and familial love from Mary. Through her, God entered fully into the human condition. She became the first human to love Him, not only as her God, but also as her child. This profound mystery reveals why Mary is not a peripheral figure in salvation, but its maternal heart.

May, therefore, is a time to pause, reflect, and return to the school of Mary—a school where love is learned, and where the heart is taught to beat in harmony with the Sacred Heart of Jesus. In her maternal embrace, we discover not only the mystery of the Word made flesh, but also the vocation of every Christian: to bear Christ to the world, as she once did.

Faithful witness in an age of disruption

As the news outlets have been reminding us, Pope Francis was the first non-European Bishop of Rome since the very early Middle Ages. But this is not as simple as it sounds. As he himself underlined in his autobiographical musings, his specific non-European experience was, in fact, an experience of displacement, the experience of Italian migrants in Latin America – something that makes sense of his consistent, courageous, and vividly expressed solidarity with migrant communities world-wide. He understood something of a world in which clear geographical and cultural boundaries are not timeless fixtures, a world where millions have no choice but to make their homes somewhere other than their homelands. 

For all the loud global rhetoric about protecting cultures from contamination by alien influences, this is a world that has already been colossally disrupted by political catastrophe, violence, economic pressure and (increasingly) environmental crisis. Pope Francis' most lastingly important interventions as a teacher of the faith, not least Laudato Si’ and Fratelli Tutti - take it for granted that Christian witness today and tomorrow must address this world, must reckon and engage with the depth of disruption that so many live with. It is a world more and more manifestly at odds with itself, shaped by a set of ideas and practices that seem to be dismantling the bonds of common life and the sense of a shared human fate in a vortex of acquisitive, addictive and selfish habits, profiting only a vanishingly small group of powerful humans, and profiting them only for so long as they can go on persuading themselves that mortality can be held at bay. 

The Pope's critique of late capitalism was not a revolutionary innovation. Both his predecessors - indeed, most popes for the last century - had made similar points. It was Pope Francis' gift to bring to bear on this situation the perspective of someone who had learned in Argentina a saving impatience with the various evasions that "the West" or "the global North" had refined so as to soften the urgency of the disrupted world's challenge. It can't be said too often that his theology was completely in tune with that of Pope Benedict XVI and Pope John Paul II; both popes stand firmly within a continuous pattern of teaching about dignity and solidarity, grounded in the vision of humanity in the divine image. Pope Francis washing the feet of migrants, or embracing others who had been displaced, rejected and demeaned, was declaring as plainly as possible that Catholic Christianity has not only a central and orthodox doctrine of God, but a central and orthodox doctrine of humanity. 

It may help us understand why this saving impatience extended to fashionable concerns about the future of "the West". In different ways, Pope John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI were preoccupied with the riskiness of a cultural situation in which Western societies no longer had a clue about where and how they had learned the political doctrines they assumed to be true. Both very rightly warned against a chaotic but hyper-confident humanism that lacked any focus on the divine image. Both knew about the authoritarian spectres that waited in the wings for the moment when chaos triumphed; not an abstract point just at present in the world of Trump and Putin. 

Pope Francis had no interest in culture-war polarisation and retrenchment. For him, the problem was not the survival of the West, but the survival of the human family. His ears were open to those outside the northern hemisphere for whom discussions of the fate of Western civilisation might ring a little hollow in the context of endemic civil war over natural resources, collapsing political systems, and environmental degradation. The Synod on the Amazon represented a powerful statement of alertness to all this. 

He tried to keep before us the wholeness of humanity to which Easter life is offered. His instinctive generosity was evident in so much of what he said and did, however many loose ends this left for others to tie up. He was able to embody the possibility that the Church might, after all, be a sign of God's utter fidelity to all Creation. That is perhaps most of all what we shall remember and give thanks for. 

(Guest Editorial) Rowan Williams was the 104th Archbishop of Canterbury (2002-2012). 

Source: The Tablet