What is the Colour of Joy?

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

Gaudete Sunday arrives like a soft sunrise in the midst of the city's hazy mornings (High AQI?), inviting us to pause, breathe, and rejoice in God's greatest miracle. The readings on Gaudete Sunday invite us to rejoice at the coming of Jesus in our lives, as we prepare for Christmas. "Gaudete in Domino semper" (Rejoice in the Lord always) exclaims the opening antiphon!

The Church expresses this joy by lighting a rose candle on the wreath, and clothing the priest in rose vestments. Yet, today's celebration also invites a deeper question: What is the real colour of joy? The liturgy gives us a hue, but the heart knows that joy cannot be contained by any single colour. True joy radiates in every shade of human experience—from quiet tenderness to unexpected hope, from patient longing to the bursting wonder of encountering God made flesh.

The reading from Isaiah offers some of Scripture's most vivid imagery of joy. He speaks of deserts blooming, parched lands overflowing with life, and weak hands strengthened for the journey. Isaiah understands the human heart's deep ache—the ache of not yet being enough, of not yet seeing the fruit of our longing. But he also insists that God works precisely in these barren places. Joy comes not from denying life's deserts, but from trusting that God is already sowing life beneath the soil. Joy is the promise that fountains will spring up where we least expect them.

Saint James, in the second reading, offers a more ordinary but no less profound image: the farmer who waits. This patience is not passive; it is a hopeful attentiveness, a steady trust that life is stirring underground, long before it breaks into sight. This patient, hope-filled waiting mirrors the spiritual life. Like little shoots hidden in winter soil, God's work often unfolds unseen, yet surely. Joy blooms for those who do not lose heart.

The Gospel gives us John the Baptist—imprisoned, discouraged, and questioning. Last week he proclaimed Jesus boldly; this week, he wonders if he was wrong. And how does Jesus answer? Not with theories, but with evidence of joy taking flesh: "The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor receive the Good News." These are not merely miracles; they are colours of joy—hope where there was despair, healing where there was brokenness, life where there was death. Jesus invites John to rejoice, not in what he expected God to be, but in who God actually is: love made visible, joy entering the world through humble healing.

And so we return to our question: What is the colour of joy?

Joy is the laughter of children singing carols about the birth of the Saviour. Joy is buying gifts for loved ones—and especially for the forgotten or alone. Joy is the smile on the face of someone who realises, perhaps for the first time, "I am cherished." Joy is a late-night message from a friend who simply wanted to share something beautiful. Joy is someone waiting up for you when you travel late into the night, or someone sitting quietly beside your bed when illness steals your strength. Joy is a mother's home-cooked meal, made with love and memory.

But all these joys, as precious as they are, pale beside the greatest joy: gazing upon the face of the Babe of Bethlehem. The colour of joy is the glow that radiated from Mary and Joseph, from shepherds breathless with wonder, from Magi kneeling before a mystery they barely understood. It is the light that filled the hearts of Simeon and Anna, who had waited a lifetime to behold the salvation of the Lord. Joy has no single colour because Christ comes for every heart, in every circumstance, in every shade of human experience. Joy is not a colour on a vestment or candle; it is the radiance of Christ's presence breaking into our darkness.

If we know the Saviour, then joy is already within us. And if joy is within us, we are called to colour the world with it. On this Gaudete Sunday, we rejoice not because the world is perfect, but because Christ is near.

Rejoice in the Lord always. Again, I say: Rejoice.

Clearing the Air for Christ

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

In recent weeks, people have often asked me, "Father, how's the new parish?" And my retort to them is, "Fantastic! The AQI levels here are very low, and hence I am in much better health these days." And this is true; in contrast to the never-ceasing construction work around Metro lines, redevelopment projects and roads in my previous parish, my present parish is located in the midst of a green military enclave, with green trees all around, fiercely guarded by vigilant soldiers in smart olive green uniforms. A greener environment, I have discovered, is not just favourable for a good body, but also a healthy spiritual heart.

Over the past few weeks, the news headlines have been warning us of a rising AQI—Air Quality Index—reaching "poor" or even "severe" levels. Eyes itch, throats burn, and masks have made a comeback, not for a virus, but for the smog. We sigh and complain about the state of our city, yet we know, deep down, that the causes of this crisis are largely human-made. In our relentless pursuit of so-called 'development,' we have paved green spaces, multiplied vehicles on static streets, and allowed short-term convenience to triumph over long-term stewardship. The result? A city struggling to breathe.

And perhaps, without meaning to, we have created a mirror for ourselves. For if Mumbai's AQI reveals the visible pollution around us, Advent invites us to consider a more hidden but equally harmful reality: the spiritual pollution clouding our hearts. If there were an instrument that could measure the purity of our inner life, what would our "Advent Quality Index" reveal? Would it show clarity and openness to God—or would it flash red with the accumulated smog of resentment, pride, complacency, unchecked desires and a disregard for the divine? Isaiah, the great prophet of Advent, continually calls Israel—and us—to recognise the haziness within, and turn again to the Lord: "Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God" (Is 40:3).

The desert he speaks of is not only geographical; it is the wilderness of the human heart that becomes barren when estranged from God. The more we allow sin to settle, the more we allow the blind busyness of our daily life to consume us, the more obscured our spiritual vision becomes. We choose noise over silence, consumerism over contentment, grudges over forgiveness, and self-sufficiency over reliance on God. The result is an inner environment where it becomes difficult to breathe spiritually.

In Matthew 3:1-12, John the Baptist cries out from the wilderness, urging the people to "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near." He warns them not to be complacent, not to assume that identity or habit will save them, but to "bear fruit worthy of repentance." John's imagery is strikingly ecological—trees being cut down, fruit inspected, chaff burned away. It is as if he is conducting a spiritual environmental audit, reminding the people that any pollution of the heart must be confronted and cleared, not ignored.

The Church, in her wisdom, proposes Advent as a season of purification—a time to lower our Advent Quality Index, so to speak. It is a call to slow down, breathe deeply, and examine what prevents us from seeing Christ clearly. In a city where we check air quality levels each morning, perhaps Advent asks us to check our spiritual quality levels with equal seriousness.

Have anger or grudges accumulated like soot on our souls?

Has prayer become thin and dry, like a tree deprived of rain?

Have we allowed the fumes of hyperactivity and distraction to choke our inner peace?

The good news is that Advent is not a season of despair, but of hope. Isaiah assures us that God desires to transform our inner landscape: "Every valley shall be lifted up, every mountain and hill be made low… and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed" (Is 40:4-5).

Come Christmas morning, we will gaze upon a Child born not in grandeur, but in simplicity. To recognise Him—to perceive His presence in our lives—we need a heart unclouded, a soul purified. Just as citizens hope for clear winter skies, we hope for a clear interior vision that allows the light of Christ to shine unhindered. Let this Advent be a season of spiritual detox. Let us practise repentance as John the Baptist urges, seek reconciliation as Christ invites, and restore the green spaces of grace within our souls that Isaiah promises.

Let Advent Be Advent

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

As November 30 approaches and the Catholic Church prepares to enter the sacred season of Advent, our streets, markets and shopping malls already glitter with Christmas lights and decorations. The world, it seems, is eager to leap straight into celebration. Yet Advent gently resists this hurry. It invites us to pause, to wait, and to prepare. It is not merely a countdown to Christmas, but a deeply spiritual season rooted in longing, hope, and renewal—a time that asks us to make room for God in our lives.

At its heart, Advent exists because of holy expectancy. The Church, in her wisdom, makes present again the ancient longing of Israel for the Messiah, while stirring in us a renewed desire for Christ's second coming in glory. We live in what theologians call the "in-between time" — between Christ's first coming in the flesh and His promised return at the end of time. Advent, therefore, is not only backward-looking, commemorating Bethlehem, nor only forward-looking, anticipating the Parousia, but a living celebration of the mystery of the Incarnation itself: God-with-us, here and now.

The Scripture readings of Advent help us to enter this mystery. The First Sunday reminds us: "Stay awake! For you do not know on which day your Lord will come" (Matthew 24:42). The Second and Third Sundays focus on John the Baptist, whose cry, "Prepare the way of the Lord" (Isaiah 40:3; Matthew 3:3), still echoes through the Church. His humble confession — "He must increase, but I must decrease" (John 3:30) — becomes the posture of every Christian during this season. The Fourth Sunday turns our gaze directly towards the events preceding Christ's birth, inviting quiet awe before God's saving plan.

One of the most compelling contemporary images for understanding Advent is that of "formatting" and "freeing space" — like resetting a device that has become slow and cluttered. Spiritually, many of us are running on overloaded systems – anxiety, resentments, distractions, unhealthy attachments, and endless noise weigh down our inner lives. Advent calls us to clear the cache of our hearts.

This is not simply about external discipline, but interior freedom. We are invited to "delete" what does not serve love, to release grudges, to simplify our lives, and to start afresh. Like a 'factory reset,' this season offers us a chance to address spiritual "slow performance" and recover clarity, peace, and readiness.

The danger of skipping Advent and rushing to Christmas is real. To celebrate the joy of Christmas without first walking through the sober waiting of Advent is like celebrating Easter without passing through Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Without the silence, the longing, and the purifying wait, the feast loses its depth.

Advent was never meant to be lived only inside church walls. It must find a home within the "domestic Church" — the Christian family. If we want our children to understand the true meaning of Christmas, we must let them experience the beauty of Advent. Simple, meaningful practices can transform our homes. An Advent wreath placed on the family table, with one candle lit each week, becomes a visible sermon of growing light. The use of purple — the liturgical colour of preparation — on family prayer spaces or even table decorations subtly teaches that this is a sacred, different time. Reading Scripture together as a family helps anchor the season in God's Word.

Family prayer, even when imperfect, matters. Here the wisdom of G.K. Chesterton consoles and challenges us: "If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly." This is not permission for laziness, but encouragement to try. Love, not perfection, is the standard. God did not wait for the world to be perfect before sending His Son; "while we were still sinners, Christ died for us" (Romans 5:8). Even clumsy family prayers, distracted Scripture readings, or half-forgotten traditions, when done in love, please God.

Chesterton's reflection on the Incarnation captures the humility of the mystery we prepare for: "The hands that had made the sun and stars were too small to reach the huge heads of the cattle." This is what Advent leads us toward — the staggering truth that God became small so that we might become great in grace.

This year, let Advent be Advent. Let it be slow, prayerful, imperfect, and real. Let it clear space in our hearts, reset our priorities, and gently shape our families. And in whatever form it takes within our domestic churches, let us welcome the coming Lord with joyful hope.

Youthful Witnesses of Christ the King 

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

The Solemnity of Christ the King is also celebrated as World Youth Day in the Catholic Church—a convergence both symbolic and profound. In 2021, Pope Francis shifted this observance from Palm Sunday to Christ the King, placing the vitality of youth at the very threshold of the Church's liturgical year. While the grand International WYD gatherings take place every two or three years in host nations across the globe—Seoul, South Korea awaits the next such pilgrimage in 2027—the Holy Father continues to encourage every local church and diocese to honour its young people annually on this solemn feast.

Recognising the joy-filled, discerning faith that young people bring has always been woven into The Examiner's mission. This year, the celebration of WYD stirred within us the desire for something special: an issue shaped entirely by the voices of young people from the Archdiocese of Bombay. In collaboration with the Diocesan Youth Centre, a team of eager and budding writers came together, each invited to pour their hearts into themes that speak personally and powerfully to them. What you hold in your hands is the fruit of that endeavour—a beautiful issue filled with articles penned by our own youth.

Our young people stand at the very centre of parish life in ways too numerous to count. Imagine a home without children or youth, and you will understand exactly what is lost. Children and young adults carry with them a vivacity, a joy, and a restlessness that constantly ushers us adults into the future. They introduce us to new trends, technologies, and the widening horizons before us. Their youthfulness keeps us young at heart; their discerning questions compel us to examine our own prejudices; their creativity nudges us past the confines of limiting beliefs; and their passion for justice stirs within us the hope of a better, more compassionate world.

A Church without young people would not only be destined for extinction; it would slowly calcify into dogmatism, an unyielding traditionalism, a community sealed off from the world it is called to serve. In truth, young people are essential for a "Church on the move," the Synodal Church we are striving to become. It is impossible to imagine a parish journeying anywhere without its children and youth walking alongside.

The self-description used by John in his Gospel—"the disciple whom Jesus loved"—captures with striking accuracy the desire of young people in the Church today. They long to be disciples, and they long to be loved by the Lord. Their way of living the faith is itself a testimony—a living witness—to their unique and deeply personal relationship with Him. Too often, however, they are misunderstood, dismissed, or silenced; their ideas overshadowed, their enthusiasm restrained, their voices kept from the tables where decisions are made. 

Yet anyone who has worked closely with them, and earned their trust, knows how misplaced such prejudices truly are. I am often amazed when youth approach me to insist that the Youth Group should focus more on spiritual formation and outreach, rather than merely on sports or entertainment. Such moments dismantle the stereotype that young people seek only diversion or amusement. 

This Sunday, as we celebrate the Solemnity of Christ the King, the Gospel offers a striking tableau of Jesus' kingship. It is not a royal hall we encounter, nor a throne draped in silk and gold. Instead, the King of the Universe reigns from the Cross—stripped, mocked, tortured, and jeered at. Yet even in this moment of unspeakable suffering, He refuses to wield power for self-preservation or retaliation. On the wood of the Cross, Love, Mercy and Forgiveness shine with a radiance that no darkness can eclipse. "Today you will be with me in Paradise." In that single promise, the heart of our King is revealed; not a monarch of the proud, but of the humble; not of the conceited, but of those attentive to the Father's voice; not of earthly treasures, but of the gifts that endure unto eternity. 

In so many ways, the young mirror the heart of Christ in its freshness, faithfulness, forgiveness—and yes, in its irrepressible sense of fun. And why should joy not accompany us along the way? Christ is King not of the dead, but of the living. He alone is worthy of the allegiance of our hearts, especially in a world where countless earthly powers and principalities compete for our allegiance.

'The gravest form of poverty is not to know God'

As the Church approaches the 9th World Day of the Poor on November 16, 2025, Pope Leo XIV calls us to listen with renewed attentiveness to a truth that is both ancient and ever fresh: our hope is in the Lord alone. The Pope begins with the Psalmist's cry, "You, O Lord, are my hope" (Ps 71:5), reminding us that hope is not optimism, positivity, or vague encouragement. Hope is a theological virtue rooted in God's faithful love — a love that does not disappoint, even amid affliction. In a world burdened by war, economic fragility, loneliness, and spiritual confusion, the Pope urges us not simply to "care for the poor," but to learn from them, to receive from them the gift of hope that has been refined in the fires of suffering.

The Holy Father reminds us that the poor, who cannot rely on wealth, status, or power, often demonstrate a profound and radiant trust in God. Their endurance is not passive resignation, but a living proclamation of the Gospel. In this way, the poor are not merely recipients of assistance; they are witnesses. Their lives confront us with a question: Where is your treasure?

The Pope echoes the words of Jesus: "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven" (Mt 6:19-20). True security is not found in possessions, investments, or accomplishments, but in communion with the God who loves us. It is striking that the Pope identifies the gravest form of poverty as the loss of God — particularly when societies, including wealthy ones, attempt to live without Him. This is not mere spiritual rhetoric. When God is forgotten, the human person is forgotten. When transcendence is denied, life becomes transactional. Thus, the Pope calls us to recognise that evangelization and care for the poor are not two separate missions of the Church; they are one.

Quoting the Catechism, he reminds us that charity is "the greatest social commandment." Our faith must take flesh in justice – not merely feeling compassion for the poor, but addressing the structures that produce poverty. "Helping the poor is a matter of justice before it is a matter of charity." The Pope cites St Augustine: it would be better if no one lacked bread or clothing at all — meaning that our ultimate aim cannot be simply to relieve suffering, but to transform the systems that allow such suffering to persist.

This year's World Day of the Poor takes place near the close of the Jubilee Year — a time traditionally associated with liberation, restoration, and the renewal of social relationships. The Pope asks us not to treat the Jubilee as an event that ends when the Holy Door is shut. Instead, he urges the Church to carry forward the graces of this year: conversion of heart, tenderness of mercy, and a deepening of active solidarity.

In doing so, he draws attention to the quiet, often unseen, places where Christ is most present today: community homes, listening centres, shelters, schools in vulnerable neighbourhoods, places of recovery, parish tables where strangers become family. These are the modern "mustard seeds" of hope — small, perhaps, but capable of bearing abundant fruit.

Yet the Pope does not romanticise poverty. He acknowledges that new forms of insecurity are touching wider segments of society – economic instability, lack of healthcare, diminishing access to education, and growing anxiety about the future. In this shared vulnerability, there arises a deeper call to mutual dependence. We are all beggars before God. And therefore, we meet one another not as benefactor and beneficiary, but as brothers and sisters.

As we prepare to celebrate the World Day of the Poor, let us allow this message to unsettle us, to soften us, and to reorient our priorities. The poor are not to be pitied, managed, or hidden away. They are the living icons of Christ. To encounter them is to encounter the Gospel.

May we not only serve the poor, but receive from them the gift we most need today: a hope that cannot be shaken, because it is rooted in God alone.

The Vanishing Urban Childhood

Fr Joshan Rodrigues

The urban childhood is in peril.

In our gleaming cities, children of the middle class and above inhabit worlds of comfort — worlds carefully built by the toil and dreams of their parents and grandparents. They have access to good education, nutritious food, safe homes, and a wealth of entertainment. Yet, beneath this polished façade, something deeply human is being lost.

Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt warns of two powerful forces threatening to stunt our children's growth into their fullest selves. The first is what he calls the "Great Rewiring" — the quiet but all-consuming invasion of screens into every corner of childhood. The second is our own doing: the over-structured shaping of childhood towards a career-driven future that leaves no room for the pure, unmeasured present.

The human brain is a masterpiece in slow formation; its frontal cortex, the seat of reason and restraint, does not fully mature until around the age of 22. These crucial years demand rich sensory and social engagement — running, laughing, arguing, imagining — the tangible play of real human connection. Yet, our children's minds, instead of wiring themselves to the pulse of the physical world, are being hijacked by the glow of screens.

Haidt notes that since the rise of smartphones and social media in the early 2000s, childhood has drifted from play-based to phone-based. Ironically, while parents fiercely protect their children from physical dangers, they often neglect to guard them in the limitless expanse of the digital world — a place where grooming, misinformation, and premature exposure to adult narratives lurk behind every swipe. Boys retreat into the dopamine loops of gaming, gambling, and pornography; girls, meanwhile, are trapped in the hall of mirrors that is social media — where filtered perfection and constant comparison quietly erodes self-worth. Across continents, the result is the same: rising depression, anxiety, and a pervasive loss of self. Childhood — once a garden of discovery — has become a maze of screens and algorithms.

Is there hope? Most certainly, but it demands collective courage and action. Parents, schools, and society must reclaim the sanctity of a play-based childhood.

Children should not own personal phones before the age of twelve, nor enter the wilds of social media before fifteen. Even then, their first device should be simple — a tool for communication, not distraction. Schools must be phone-free sanctuaries, protecting the sacred space of learning and interaction. Play must return — spontaneous, unsupervised, joyful play. It is in play that children learn empathy, negotiation, creativity, and resilience. It is in scraped knees and shared laughter that the architecture of Emotional Intelligence is built.

The second great threat comes from us — the anxious, hyper-involved parents of the modern age. "Helicopter parenting," as it is called, has taken charge of every aspect of a child's life, leaving little room for independent thought or risk-taking. It is worth noting that the very word "parenting" scarcely appeared in literature before the 1970s. Once, children were raised by communities — surrounded by extended families, neighbours, and the gentle guidance of many hands. Today's urban life, with its nuclear homes and transient friendships, has turned child-rearing into an anxious solo performance.

But a child is not a ship to be steered; a child is a garden to be nurtured. Our role is not to dictate the destination, but to provide the tools for the journey — a map, binoculars, a sturdy pair of shoes — and then to step back. True parenthood lies in trust, not control. Modern childhood is being regimented into a checklist — academics, coaching, extracurriculars — each box ticked, yet the soul left wanting. Reversing this cannot be the mission of a few isolated parents; it must be a shared social movement. Schools and families must come together to rebuild a culture of curiosity, imagination, and awe — where learning is deep, not performative, and play is purposeful, not scheduled.

Children who are allowed to live fully in their present will be the most capable adults of the future — empathetic, resilient, and free. So this Children's Day, let us celebrate not with gadgets or grand gestures, but with a quiet promise:

To protect the wonder of childhood.

To let our children play.

To let them be.

Happy Children's Day — to our little ones, and to the little child within each of us.