As we recall the Lord’s Passion and Death today, we are confronted with two very different ways of looking at reality. We have the worldly way, and the Christian way.

In the eyes of the world, Calvary was nothing more than an insignificant hill that just barely stuck out of the dirt of Jerusalem. It was a just mound in the background of a forgotten place, outside of the paths of civilization, in the remotest corners of the Roman Empire. The events of Good Friday were simply another drama of hatred and jealousy, of people who cried in a small paved plaza asking for one conviction among so many others, a miniscule incident that was forgotten in the murmur of the Passover feast, an incident that might barely merit even a single line from the writers of the era.

But in the eyes of God, that is, in reality, the sacrifice of Christ is the real constructor of history; it is the center at which everything converges and the heart from which everything radiates. It, and it alone, is the event that gives meaning and unity to all other events in the world, in history, and throughout the centuries. Apart from the cross, nothing makes sense; with it, everything takes on new light and new clarity.

Even in Jesus’ time, as He was making His sacrifice, we find both of these ways of looking at things. We can consider the first in how the soldiers responded and how Pilate replied, and, finally, we can see God’s way of seeing things how Mary answered.

​In today’s Gospel John recounts for us the betrayal of Judas at the Last Supper. If we read carefully, we’re struck by just how merciful Jesus is, and we can see this in three of Christ’s actions towards Judas: first, where Judas was sitting, second, the giving of the morsel, and third, the fact that Jesus didn’t openly reveal Judas’ sin.
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First, when we think of where people were sitting at the Last Supper, usually we think that Peter was on one side of Jesus, and John, “the one whom Jesus loved,” was on the other. However, if this were the case, as Fulton Sheen points out, Peter wouldn’t have asked John to ask Jesus the question: he could’ve just asked Jesus himself. Rather, it’s likely that Judas was seated right next to Jesus. Jesus wanted his betrayer as close as possible to Him, so that He could help him to repent. Christ never tires calling of out after those who He has chosen, encouraging them, and begging them to repent.

There’s a great deal that could be said about today’s Gospel, but one thing that calls our attention immediately is the great difference between Mary and Judas.
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Mary gives Jesus a very generous gift; we know that the oil is valued at 300 days’ wages. If we think about it, we know that she must have saved up for a long time to buy it, since obviously she had to eat and buy some things in order to obtain it; even if she went without eating every other day, it would’ve taken her at least two years to save up that amount. We can think of all of the sacrifices, all of the work and all of the love that went into that gift. What’s the result? John the Evangelist tells us “The house was filled with the fragrance of the oil.” Her good deed spread throughout the entire building; her actions benefited, not only Jesus, but everyone else in the house as well, who were able to partake of her good deed.

Today’s Gospel presents us with Christ in Cana in Galilee, and a royal official who comes to asks for a miracle on behalf of his son. Yet Jesus gives the man a surprising response, and the official repeats his request, which is then answered. There’s a lot we could say about this passage, but one of the most beautiful teachings, and most pertinent to this Lenten season, is about prayer. John gives us two insights into the official’s prayer, two elements that need to be corrected, and then shows us how Christ responds to sincere and humble prayer.

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.