Jesus ends today’s Gospel with a lesson about humility: “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled; but whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” “On her deathbed, being asked by one of the nursing Sisters in attendance what virtue was the most important and dearest to God, St. Gemma Galgani answered ‘Humility; humility is the foundation of all the others.’” Any other defect God can fix, and fix quite easily. If we are ignorant, He can give us knowledge; if we are impatient, He can give us patience; but if we aren’t humble, there’s nothing that can be done. The one who is proud resists God’s workings, and won’t let God be God.
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Saint Catherine of Siena says that humility flows from self-knowledge, and when we think about this, it’s easy to see why. Self-knowledge means considering ourselves as we truly are before God. Everything good that we have or that we can do, comes from Him. Everything good is on loan from Him; of ourselves, we can do nothing good. No matter what office we hold, what talents we have, it’s all a gift. However, this humility, this recognition of our littleness and our need for God’s constant care and assistance, is also our greatest source of strength and comfort. 

​Today’s brief Gospel—all of three verses—contains Christ’s words telling us how we are to deal with our neighbors, namely, by being merciful as the Father is merciful, and by forgiving.

​Commenting on the difficulties that showing mercy and forgiving entail, Fulton Sheen tells us that calling to mind two things can help us a great deal: first, remembering our own sins, and second, to see ourselves as helping God to save souls.

Today’s Gospel gives us some beautiful insights into the nature of anger. Christ says, “I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment.” An ancient commentary on this text from the Gospel of Matthew says that Christ’s commandment is even more perfect than the law, since “often an individual does not kill because he fears punishment, but nonetheless he is angry,” [1] and wishes evil on his brother; we could say that anger would kill if it could get away with it. There is, of course, such a thing as righteous anger, and we can find a test in the last chapter of the book of Jonah. After God spares the citizens of Nineveh, Jonah throws a fit. Although translations vary, often God’s question to Jonah is rendered “Do you do well to be angry?” This is a question that, very often, we must answer “No,” since our anger doesn’t usually fulfill God’s righteousness, as Saint James writes (cf. 1:20). However, many times we try to convince ourselves that it does. 

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Chair of St. Peter.

It is a day wherein we should give thanks to God for the gift of the Petrine ministry to the Church and wherein we should pray and offer our Lenten sacrifices for the Holy Father.

If there was ever a moment in the third millennium when the Chair of Peter—the authority of Peter—needs to shine forth as a "throne of truth”[1] and hope, it is now.

But even if the Chair of Peter should crumble—and we know it cannot, because Christ promises us in today’s Gospel, the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it—but even if it could, we place our hope first and foremost in another Chair—the cross—"God’s chair in the world”[2]—as St. John Paul II puts it.

Fr. Christopher Etheridge, IVE
Stabat Mater Series: First Week of Lent

I preface this short reflection by saying, that I have decided to focus my Wednesday homilies for the rest of Lent on the Marian hymn, Stabat Mater. I will not be able to get through all the verses, but focusing on a new one each week I hope to use Our Blessed Mother's example to help us enter the mystery of her Immaculate Heart and it's intimate union with Christ.

The first verse of the hymn reads, 
Stabat Mater dolorosa
iuxta Crucem lacrimosa,
dum pendebat Filius.
 
At, the Cross her station keeping,
stood the mournful Mother weeping,
close to Jesus to the last.

There’s a lot that could be said about today’s Gospel, but we can consider just two points: first, what Christ says about heaven and hell, and, secondly, the importance of the little things we do as religious.

​Regarding the first, we’re reminded that Christ “wills everyone to be saved and to come to knowledge of the truth” (1 Tm 2:4). Jesus tells those who have acted well to “inherit the kingdom prepared for [them] from the foundation of the world” (Mt 25:34). This is man’s ultimate goal, his happiness, and it has been prepared for him from all eternity. 

As some of you might know, this year is the first year since 1945 that Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday have coincided. At first, it might seem that the two celebrations couldn’t be any more different, since Valentine’s Day has become the rather worldly, sentimental, and saccharine carnival of earthly, emotional love, and Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of the Lenten season, with its somber liturgies, fasting, abstinence from meat, almsgiving, and the like.  
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Yet, as strange as it might seem, Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday are closer than we might think: both point us beyond that one day, on towards the greatest love that there is. 

​“They begged Jesus that they might touch only the tassel on His cloak” (Mk 6:56). If we meditate on the request of the citizens of Gennesaret, there are two truths that emerge. First, notice that, out of all the things the citizens of Gennesaret could’ve asked Jesus for, they asked only to touch His cloak, and not even the whole cloak, but just the tassel, the smallest part. They could’ve asked for spiritual healing, or salvation, or to love Him more, but they didn’t. Now, it’s not evil to ask to touch His cloak, and clearly they had enough faith in Jesus for Him to be able to work miracles for them, but Mark gives us the impression that they’ve missed the point: it’s as though they’ve forgotten which was greater: the tassel, or the One wearing the clock. 

In today’s first reading, King David lays dying, and his last pieces of advice to his son Solomon include an injunction that is useful for us too. David tells his son: “Take courage and be a man.”

In the Latin Vulgate, it’s esto vir. Esto vir: be a man, and it’s linked to practicing the virtue of courage (or fortitude). In fact, Saint John Paul II said just that: “To be men we need fortitude.”[1] “To be men we need fortitude.”

​Courage has to be at the heart of Christian and priestly life. 

How well do you know Jesus Christ? After hearing this Gospel, we should all take a moment to seriously ask ourselves this question. Our condition as religious, or even as Christians for that matter does not guarantee that we have a living faith in Jesus Christ.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus’ “very own”, “his fellow countrymen” hardly knew Him at all.
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Sure, they knew His profession, they knew His mother, they knew His relatives—they knew Him “superficially” from the outside—but they did not know Him—true God and true man.