Living in Chicago for the past few years, I have been fascinated to learn about monarch butterflies in the natural world and their significance as a cultural symbol for many communities. I am in awe of their breathtaking back-and-forth journey across the Americas. I imagine the monarchs’ travels from place to place, physical spaces where they continue thriving amid the increasing challenges and threats they face in the natural world. I did not know that Chicago was on one of their paths between the United States and Canada, where they feed and lay their eggs on milkweed flowers that sustain them on their journey to southern Mexico to overwinter. I recently learned that the Chicago Park District and local communities organize various activities, such as the Monarch Palooza, at the end of summer to celebrate the butterflies and educate the community on how to protect and care for them. 

Yet the story of butterflies does not end here. The monarca and other butterflies have entered through the mystery of culture and become a symbol of dignity, resilient hope, and the struggle for liberation of historically marginalized communities in the United States, particularly our migrant communities. I have seen the butterfly in the colorful murals of the barrios of Chicago and amid the city’s noise, saying: I am part of this neighborhood, and our communities matter. I have seen the butterfly on local storefronts, signaling to the marginalized and fearful: You are welcome here, and these are your rights. I have seen the butterfly in my students’ projects when they talk about their elders, ancestors, resilient mothers, and abuelas, saying: Recuérdame, remember me. Our memories and sabiduría matter. I have seen the butterfly on graduation caps, celebrating: I can go to college! Or, I am the first to graduate from college! Our stories continue. I’ve seen the butterfly struggling to thrive amid the beauty and messiness of lo cotidiano. 

On Palm Sunday, also known as Passion Sunday, the Gospel of Luke takes the audience through Jesus’ joyful entrance and welcome into Jerusalem amid waving palm branches. But the event narrative suddenly turns, immersing the reader in a long and overwhelming series of events around Jesus’ sentence, way of the cross, crucifixion, death, and burial. As I read this narrative today, it can be challenging and gloomy to imagine “eschatological glimpses” of hope, particularly when reflecting that the events of the Passion continue happening here and now in this world. In these moments and spaces, it makes more sense to lament in community: “My God, my God, why have you abandoned [us]?” 

Ethicist and theologian Ada María Isasi-Díaz talks about the kin-dom of God, la familia de Dios and the assembly as an “eschatological glimpse” that “listens, dialogues, and shoulders the burden of knowing…without ignoring structural sin. [A people of God] who do justice, who stand in solidarity with the poor and the oppressed.” The glimpse comes at ”[m]oments in our lives when we have a sense of ‘this is what is going to be like’...when we all will have the opportunity to reach beyond, to become who God intended us to be” (Women of God, Women of the People, 1995).

I wrestle with the tension of the eschatological glimpses of Passion Sunday. I think of the Mount of Olives and the milkweed flowers that sustain the journey of the migrant Jesus and the monarch butterfly. I long to imagine these as spaces and moments of hope, though they can be easy to skip and challenging to appreciate amid the suffering and sorrow of the world. I imagine them as ordinary spaces and unexpected moments that allow us to be actively present for our loved ones, so we can better listen and discern the signs of the times. Moreover, I dare to imagine them when lamenting the signs of the times and resisting with rock en Español, the music of Mercedes Sosa and Celia Cruz, or breaking bread at home with arepas. I imagine these spaces and moments in our lives when it could not be more crucial to turn to our comunidades and organize hope. Theologian and Secretary of the Pontifical Commission for Latin America Emilce Cuda reminds us of Pope Francis’s invitation to “organizar la esperanza”—to organize hope (Congress of Ecclesia in America Network, Synodality in America: Dialogue South-North, University of San Diego, 2025). Organizing hope is concretely doing. Moments and spaces of actively participating in the creation of redes solidarias (networks of solidarity) in the margins of our society. 

As I mentioned, I have seen the butterfly on graduation caps, expressive of the journey it took to get there, but also of the story that continues. As an educator, teaching in a Catholic Hispanic-serving institution is a visible example of eschatological glimpses and organized hope, particularly when working in the classroom with students moving toward graduation. Many of my students are imagining the opportunity to reach beyond by being the first in their familias to obtain a college degree and making a direct impact on future generations. At the same time, they bring their unique identities to the university context as they navigate between different worlds, including the diverse cultural contexts and lived experiences of their comunidades. In this case, the Palm Sunday narrative that leaves us all at a tomb takes a turn when my students consider the possibility of imagining themselves beyond suffering and sorrow. And as we continue the journey toward the Paschal Mystery of the Resurrection and the monarchs continue their journey in a warm place in the Americas, the world hears from the milkweed flowers: The tomb is not the end. Death is not the end. We graduated! And our stories continue….