For March 2, March 5 (Ash Wednesday), March 9, March 16, March 23, and March 30
Eighth Sunday of Ordinary Time – March 2, 2025
Readings: Sirach 27:4–7 • Psalm 92:2–3, 13–14, 15–16 • 1 Corinthians 15:54–58 • Luke 6:39–45
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/030225.cfm
The apse of the church of San Clemente in Rome is adorned with a mosaic depicting a lush garden with flourishing vines, plants, trees, and an array of animals. The source of the garden’s vibrancy, however, is not what one might initially expect. What generates this lively garden is not the light of the sun, nor the water of a river, nor the expertise of an experienced horticulturist. Rather, it is Christ crucified, depicted at the center of the mosaic, who is the source of the flourishing flora and fauna in the mosaic. The artist who decorated the apse with this image provides a brief commentary right below the mosaic: “We have likened the Church of Christ to this vine; the Law made it wither but the Cross made it bloom . . .” The cross of Christ, firmly planted on Golgotha, has caused a new garden, that is, the Church, to bloom on earth.
The image of a flourishing garden as a metaphor for heaven and the spiritual life has its roots in sacred scripture. In the book of Genesis, of course, God created a garden called paradise (itself a Persian word referring to a regal forest) for his creation to inhabit. Our psalm today invokes a similar image: “The just one shall flourish like the palm tree, like a cedar of Lebanon shall he grow. They that are planted in the house of the LORD shall flourish in the courts of our God” (Ps 92:13–14). Those who are just — that is, those who respect God’s greatness and recognize God’s goodness (v. 5) — are likened to palm trees and cedars of Lebanon. Both kinds of trees were, in the Ancient Near East, symbols of strength and vigor. The psalm, however, attributes the just one’s flourishing not to any natural elements, but to the fact that they are “planted in the house of the LORD.” God’s house, another term for the Temple in Jerusalem, was the unique and privileged expression of God’s presence among the people of Israel. Those who are described as planted in his house and who are “flourishing in [his] courts” are those who remain close to God and see in God, and in God alone, the source of their life and joy. Psalm 1, likewise, states that those who meditate on God’s word and claim the divine word as the source of their joy are “like a tree planted near streams of water, that yields its fruit in season; its leaves never wither” (v. 3). Those who are not firmly planted in God’s do not receive the nourishment they need, for the “wicked,” the psalm continues “are like chaff driven by the wind” (v. 4).
Today, the scriptures prompt us to consider where we are planted, so to speak. Where do we put down roots? What nourishes us? As we prepare for the beginning of Lent in a few short days, it is helpful for us to consider these questions so that we might begin to be grounded more deeply in our Christian faith. As Christians, we are invited to plant ourselves squarely in the house of the Lord which, for us, is the body of Christ, the new temple from which all new life flows. In a world that is constantly in flux, which offers nothing substantial to hold on to, in which anxiety and depression are on the rise, and feelings of loneliness and disconnectedness are commonplace, the cross of Christ remains the one source of human flourishing. To be planted under that tree, from which Christ’s blood and water flow, ensures that we will not be blown away like chaff in the wind, but firmly rooted in all that is true, good, and beautiful and a part of that vine which continues to blossom more than the palms and cedars of the old paradise. By our participation in the Mass, nourished by word and sacrament, may we become a part of that new garden, the Church, whose plants “bear fruit even in old age” and remain forever “vigorous and sturdy” (Ps 92:15).
Ash Wednesday – March 5, 2025
Readings: Joel 2:12–18 • Psalm 51:3–4, 5–6ab, 12–13, 14 and 17 • 2 Corinthians 5:20—6:2 • Matthew 6:1–6, 16–18
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/030525.cfm
Why ashes? Where does this rather unusual tradition come from? What do the ashes really represent? Let’s begin with a little history lesson!
The Stele of the Vultures is an ancient Mesopotamian monument from the third millennium BC discovered in southern Iraq by French archaeologists in the late nineteenth century. The limestone stele is a victory monument which celebrates the military triumph of the Babylonian king Eannatum. A section of the stele depicts the valiant warriors of the king who died in battle. Their bodies are lined up, being prepared for burial, while attendants are carrying baskets upon their heads. According to Ancient Near Eastern scholar Morris Jastrow, Jr., the baskets on the heads of the attendants would have been filled with dirt which was used to cover the bodies of the soldiers in burial. This early depiction of an Ancient Near Eastern funeral rite provides an illustrative historical context for the significance of placing ashes on our heads at the beginning of the Lenten season. As the Stele of the Vultures demonstrates, the placing of dirt, dust and/or ashes on the head began as part of an ancient burial practice, whereby those who were responsible for interring the dead carried the dirt used for the burial as a weight upon their heads. Over time, this practice became ritualized and the “carrying” or wearing of dirt upon the head served as an outward expression of mourning.
There are many instances in the Old Testament where grief is expressed by the pouring or spreading of ashes on the head or body, accompanied oftentimes by fasting, the rending of garments, and the wearing of sackcloth. In the Hebrew text, the terms ’adamah (dirt/earth), ‘aphar (dust), and ’epher (ash) are used interchangeably in contexts of mourning. In 2 Sam 1:2, a messenger arrives to report the deaths of Saul and Jonathan to David. The messenger relays this sad news “with his garments torn and his head covered with dirt.” In the Book of Job, when the protagonist’s three friends arrive and see his great misfortune “they began to weep aloud; they tore their cloaks and threw dust into the air over their heads” (Job 2:12). Tamar, in 2 Samuel, after being the victim of violence, “put ashes on her head and tore the long tunic in which she was clothed. Then, putting her hands to her head, she went away crying loudly” (13:19). In all of these instances, dirt, dust, or ash covers the head as a symbol of personal or shared grief. In the book of Daniel, this social convention is specifically connected to prayer. In 9:3, the prophet Daniel, upon seeing a vision of Jerusalem’s future destruction, “turned to the Lord God, to seek help, in prayer and petition, with fasting, sackcloth, and ashes.” In this verse, the typical biblical expressions of mourning are expressly connected with prayer and petition to God.
Ashes poured on the top of the head are thus an ancient practice which, in the biblical tradition, developed into a symbolic gesture of lamentation and, eventually, “prayer and petition.” Naturally, the Church adapted the biblical tradition in its liturgy, incorporating this specific gesture in the Ash Wednesday service. The sprinkling of ashes on the head is a Lenten practice that grew in popularity throughout the entire Church by the end of the eleventh century. Yet such a practice was common in local churches even before this time. A later adaptation of this practice, employed by some local churches in northern Europe and English-speaking countries, is to place the ashes not on the top of the head, but upon the forehead. This custom may have developed during the time of the Protestant Reformation as a means for Catholics to assert and maintain their identity in places where their religious practices were being undermined. There is, in fact, no rubric in the liturgical books that specifies where exactly on the head the ashes are to be imposed. The Roman Missal simply states: “cineres imponit in capite” ([the priest] imposes ashes on the head”). While in the US we are used to having the priest make the sign of the cross on our foreheads with ashes, the majority of Catholics around the world receive ashes in accord with the more ancient and biblical custom — that is, on the crown of the head. That there is no hard and fast rule, at least liturgically, concerning where on the head the ashes are to be placed perhaps reflects the nature of a sacramental as opposed to a sacrament. According to the Catechism, “Sacramentals do not confer the grace of the Holy Spirit in the way that the sacraments do, but by the Church’s prayer, they prepare us to receive grace and dispose us to cooperate with it” (CCC 1670).
During the pandemic, I remember that the Vatican offered a directive asking the Church in the United States to distribute ashes on the top of the heads of the faithful instead of on the foreheads to minimize direct contact. This, of course, caused some consternation among the faithful. However, I thought this provided a wonderful opportunity for us to meditate on the interior disposition the outward gesture is supposed to reflect. Lent is a somber time in which we are invited to pray about our mortality — the fact that as fallen creatures we are dust and to dust we shall return (cf. Gen 3:19). This humble reality impels us to rely on God in whom “we live, and move, and have our being,” (Acts 17:28). As is the case in the book of Daniel, ashes ought to be accompanied with fervent prayer and petition to God, so that we may unite ourselves more willingly and authentically to the life of Christ who, as St. Paul says, “will change our lowly body to conform with his glorified body” (Philippians 3:21). Moreover, the imposition of ashes on the top of the head is more in keeping not only with ancient customs, but also with the Gospel. Instead of walking around with a visible mark on our head like Achilles who, upon learning of the death of Patroclus, “filled both hands with dust from off the ground, and poured it over his head, disfiguring his comely face” (Iliad XVIII), we were able to follow more closely Christ’s precept: “When you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites. They neglect their appearance, so that they may appear to others to be fasting. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward” (Mt. 6:16).
This Ash Wednesday, wherever the ashes land on our heads, may we take seriously the call from the prophet Joel, to rend our hearts, not our garments — may today’s outward observance reflect an interior disposition that looks to return to God with the whole heart.
First Sunday of Lent – March 9, 2025
Readings: Deuteronomy 26:4–10 • Psalm 91:1–2, 10–11, 12–13, 14–15 • Romans 10:8–13 • Luke 4:1–13
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/030925.cfm
There is a beautiful mosaic in the crypt chapel of the former Major Seminary in Huntington (Long Island) NY — that is where the Bishops of Brooklyn used to be buried, way back when all of Long Island was part of the Brooklyn Diocese. And in the center of the chapel is this beautiful mosaic, depicting Christ’s return at the end of time. In the foreground of the mosaic, strewn about in utter disarray, are pieces of human bones, fallen stones from a gothic cathedral, a broken bishop’s staff, and a bishop’s mitre on the floor. And behind that is the risen Lord, seated in glory upon his throne. This beautiful, artistic representation of the medieval Latin phrase “sic transit gloria mundi,” “thus passes the glory of the world,” represents Jesus’ disposition toward Satan in today’s Gospel.
In the wilderness, Satan tempts Jesus, like the Hebrews tempted God in the desert, to turn stones into bread so that he might eat. Jesus responds by quoting Deuteronomy 8:3, “One does not live by bread alone, but on every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.” In other words, Jesus is reminding Satan, as well as you and me today, that life is much more than the here and now. We can, at times, get caught up in the business and pettiness of our daily lives, and we run the risk of prioritizing those things which are really not so important when all is said and done. I think of some of my own relatives who waste so much time obsessing over acquiring the best designer handbags and binge watching Bravo TV shows just so they can keep up with the culture and attempt to outdo their peers.
There is, certainly, in each and every one of us, at one time or another, the desire for glory, power, and recognition in this world. There is that part of us that is so caught up in current events, politics, and the routines of everyday life that we can lose sight of that one thing, or rather, of that one person who is most important. Remember what Jesus says to the busy and preoccupied Martha, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her” (Lk 10:41).
Brothers and sisters, may this Lent be for us a reminder to look beyond the here and now and focus on that which is eternal and beneficial to our souls. We are not just material beings — we are spiritual beings who need nourishment from the words of God that we hear in Scripture, and who need the ultimate nourishment, the Eucharist, the Word of God made flesh. Without this we become empty; we wind up like those objects in the mosaic, which though at one time beautiful, are, in the end, strewn about, useless, with no life in them. And so we are reminded to focus, especially during this Lenten season, on spiritual things, to prioritize those things in our life that are really most important, those things which will bring us closer in love for God and neighbor, and to nourish our souls with spiritual graces that will bring us to everlasting life. Jesus himself reminds us of this: “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away” (Mt 24:35). And so this Lent, when we find ourselves tempted by Satan in the desert to seek comfort or pleasure or attachment to passing things, let us respond with the words of Christ: “One does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.”
Second Sunday of Lent – March 16, 2025
Readings: Genesis 15:5–12, 17–18 • Psalm 27:1, 7–8, 8–9, 13–14 • Philippians 3:17—4:1 or 3:20—4:1 • Luke 9:28b–36
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/031625.cfm
During Lent, I like to listen to music that corresponds to the season. Since J.S. Bach is my favorite composer, I usually listen to his compositions on the Passion; and there is a line at the very beginning of his St. John’s Passion that has always struck me: “Lord, show us, through your Passion, that you, the true Son of God, have become transformed.” This line is a sort of theological summary of the Lord’s passion — and it is also a summary of how we participate in Jesus’ life.
In the Gospel today, Luke tells us that Jesus took Peter, James, and John up a high mountain by themselves. It is interesting that the other evangelists do not specifically say why Jesus took them up the mountain. Did they want to go hiking that day? Bird watching perhaps? The context, however, gives us a hint — mountains in the Bible are locations where people encounter God. Mountains are places of prayer — think of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai, and Elijah recognizing God’s presence in the soft whisper in a cave on the mountain. Jesus takes his disciples to the mountain to pray. In his Gospel, Luke is explicit and gets directly to the point, saying that Jesus brought his disciples to the mountain in order to pray and the Transfiguration happened “while Jesus was praying.” The Transfiguration is, therefore, first and foremost a prayer experience.
And as this happens, two great Biblical figures, Moses and Elijah, appear next to Jesus and they engage in conversation. But neither Mark nor Matthew tell us what they are all talking about. What’s the topic of conversation? Are Moses, Elijah, and Jesus talking about the Mets 2024 season? Again, St. Luke comes to the rescue — Luke tells us exactly what they are talking about: “Jesus told them of his departure he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem.” In other words, Jesus is telling Moses and Elijah that he is on his way to Jerusalem to be crucified. It seems strange that these figures, covered in all of God’s glory, should be talking about suffering.
Why are they talking about suffering? Because that is the way to glory. Right before the transfiguration Jesus reminds his disciples: “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily, and follow me.” Suffering is an indispensable part of the Christian life — not a suffering for the sake of suffering! But it is a suffering that is eventually transformed. The Transfiguration is a gift that Jesus gave to his disciples, and it is a gift that he gives to you and me — it is a glimpse of the glory that awaits us after our trials and tribulations. Jesus gives us this glimpse so that we can all persevere; he does it so that we do not lose hope. Jesus shines that light of his glory so that we might not despair in the darkness. That’s why the psalmist is able to say: “I believed, even when I said, I am greatly afflicted” (Ps 116:10).
And so, the Transfiguration is a kind of preview — it shows us the results of Jesus’ painful departure to Jerusalem. Jesus’ path passes through Golgotha, the place of execution, but it does not stop there.
Brothers and sisters, you and I are now in a season which emphasizes the importance of prayer and penance, prayer and suffering. Lent, like the Transfiguration, teaches us that our own prayer and suffering helps us work toward a share in God’s glory. Our own transfiguration, like that of Jesus, is something we shall experience through prayer and a share in Jesus’ suffering.
Sometimes we can feel that the suffering we are asked to endure is too much, the penance too heavy, but we are not left to our own devices. Jesus continues to encourage us by transfiguring himself in the sacraments of the Church. The Eucharist is where the Resurrected Christ transfigures himself, hiding under the appearance of bread and wine. He does this to help us change, to help us transfigure, so that we become detached from ourselves and that his divine life might dwell more perfectly within us. Reception of the Eucharist helps us who are weak and sinful be transformed into a new creation, into Jesus’ own image and likeness.
There are a few weeks of Lent left. Let us persevere in prayer and penance with an eye on the divine glory which awaits us. And so, we echo the prayer of Bach: “Lord, show us, through your passion, that you, the true son of God, have become transfigured.”
Third Sunday of Lent – March 23, 2025
Readings (for Scrutiny, Year A): Exodus 17:3–7 • Psalm 95:1–2, 6–7, 8–9 • Romans 5:1–2, 5–8 • John 4:5–42
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/032325-YearA.cfm
Let’s being by considering thirst. How many of us have really experienced thirst? We know what it’s like to be thirsty. Nowadays, I see so many people, especially high school and college students, walking around with big plastic jugs of water — everyone wants to stay hydrated! But how many of us really know what thirst is? Now think about the people of Israel and their experience. They live in what’s called the Fertile Crescent, it’s the only fertile part of the Middle East; everything else is desert. Golda Meir, a former prime minister of Israel, would often say that God led the people of Israel through the desert for forty years to the only place in the Middle East that didn’t have oil! But they did have the ability to cultivate. The land was fertile. And this is a big deal because it is the Middle East, and the sun is very hot. And if you go on a journey who have to go at night, because you don’t travel in the heat of the sun; and you have to be careful where you are going because if you take one wrong turn you can wind up in the middle of the desert with no water and then you’re in trouble.
The Jewish people really knew what thirst was, real, real thirst. As the psalmist says, “My body pines for you like a dry, weary land without water” (Ps 63:2). Thirst is a tremendous symbol in Scripture for the longing for God. When you’re really thirsty you feel as though that there is nothing at all that you want more than a drink of refreshing water. “My body pines for you like a dry, weary land without water.” What the psalmist is saying here is that the only image I can think of for the longing for God that goes right to the root of it is thirst.
And so we have this Gospel. Our Lord comes to the well, and there’s the Samaritan woman. Now, as a devout Jew of his time, Jesus would not be expected to talk to a woman he did not know, a woman who was not in his family. But a Samaritan woman! Samaritans were worse than the pagans! How could it be that Jesus winds up talking to this woman at all? But Jesus knows that she’s thirsty, he knows her longing for God, and he wants to take care of it. So, it’s not a major issue for him, whether his disciples are scandalized, whether the neighbors are wondering what’s going on; he talks to her. But she tries to deflect him. She tries to keep the conversation in the bounds she is comfortable with. But the Lord really pushes her out of her comfort zone. There is that very awkward part of the conversation: how many husbands have you had and the one you are with now is not your husband. But through all it, the woman is looking for God, and that’s what Jesus came for.
And you know what? Every one of us is looking for God! Otherwise, we would not be here. Everybody else in the world has something better to do on Sunday morning. And you and I have other things we could be doing as well but we are here. And why are we here? We are here because of our longing for God; we are here because of our awareness that we are not whole, that we are not full. We are aware of our need for healing, we are aware of things within ourselves that we don’t even share with the person next to us because it is too personal, too deep, or too embarrassing, or too humiliating, and there we are. But we come here to Mass. We come here to the Eucharist. When come here because we know that we will experience Jesus here. We know that we will find him and become one with him.
It’s a wonderful Gospel for Lent. This third Sunday of Lent is when Lent really gets serious. We refer to these weeks as the “scrutinies” because for the next three weeks those who are preparing to enter the Church have to answer a series of important questions before they are ready for baptism. But all of us who are members of the Church are asked to be part of that process. We’re all asked to stop and look at ourselves. And I ask you to think about that wonderful story from St. Mark’s Gospel when the blind man Bartimaeus hears Jesus passing by the road to Jericho and screams out to him, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” Finally, Jesus stops and calls Bartimaeus. Then Bartimaeus goes up to Jesus and Jesus asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?” What a question! That line in Mark’s Gospel is worth everything else.
And so, on this Third Sunday of Lent, I put that question to you. What would you have Jesus do for you? What do you most need? Where do you most need healing? What could Jesus do for you that would restore you to wholeness and quench your thirst? What are you afraid of? And where can Jesus heal your fears? This Lent business is really, really dangerous, because it gets to the root of who we are. But just imagine Jesus standing before you and saying, “What would you have me do for you?” How would you answer him? And when you’ve answered that question, I think you know what you need to do for the rest of Lent.
Fourth Sunday of Lent – March 30, 2025
Readings (for Year C): Joshua 5:9a, 10–12 • Psalm 34:2–3, 4–5, 6–7 • 2 Corinthians 5:17–21 • Luke 15:1–3, 11–32
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/033025-YearC.cfm
Several years ago, I remember being asked what my favorite part about being a priest was. Almost immediately, I responded, “Hearing confessions.” To my surprise, the other priests who were with me all offered the same response. There is something about the sacrament of confession that speaks to the heart of the Christian life. From the perspective of the priest, I can say that hearing confessions is a great privilege, since it offers me a front row seat to witness pure grace. How humbling it truly is to sit before a repentant sinner who opens himself to the mercy of God, which is freely given to all his children who call upon his paternal care. The grace of mercy given to the penitent, through the priest who himself is a sinner, demonstrates God’s infinite goodness and highlights the nature of grace as pure gift. No one can do anything to earn or deserve it.
The nature of divine mercy as pure gift is what makes the story of the prodigal son in today’s Gospel so powerful. To better appreciate the meaning of the father’s gesture in the parable, let us consider the condition of the son who squanders his inheritance. This is the younger son. According to Jewish law, the eldest son in the family had a birthright privilege to receive a double portion of his father’s inheritance. By law, then, the older son is the one who, by birth, merits or earns the greatest portion of his father’s estate. The rest would be divided among the other children. The Hebrew Scriptures, however, often turn this rule on its head. In a sermon preached on the topic of God’s mercy, the English priest Ronald Knox said that it is always the younger brother who is favored in the Old Testament. Fr. Knox explains:
“Isaac is the child of promise, not Ishmael; Jacob, not Esau. Joseph has dominion over his ten elder brothers, and when he brings his sons to be blessed by Jacob, Jacob deliberately blesses Ephraim first, although he is the younger, in spite of the father’s protests. And we all know the story of David, the last of eleven sons, yet chosen out of them all to be king; Solomon, too, is preferred to his elder brother Adonias . . . God chooses the younger son so as to show that his election is of free grace, and not as of right.”
And so it is in the story of the prodigal son. The younger son, because of the way he behaved, no longer had a right to his father’s estate. The portion of his inheritance he already squandered; there is, by law, nothing left for him. He expresses this clearly to his father in his own words: “‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you; I no longer deserve to be called your son.” The son is right to decry the rupture of his relationship with his father. The father’s response, however, transcends the son’s legal inability to share in his father’s wealth. Out of pure love and generosity, without regard for legal stipulation, the father continues to share his inheritance with his younger son.
The father’s mercy in the story, like God’s mercy, is pure gift. There is nothing that we can do to merit, earn, or deserve the gift of God’s grace. This is an important point, given the fact that our culture teaches us the exact opposite. If we work hard for something, we deserve it; if we put time and effort into something, then we earn what good comes to us. This, of course, is not, in and of itself, a bad thing. It is just not the way God’s grace works. As God once spoke through the prophet Isaiah, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways” (55:8). The fact that in the stories of the Old Testament, the younger son receives more than the older or comes out the hero highlights the nature of God’s grace as pure gift. In Luke’s parable, the older son resists this divine logic, instead representing a more contractual understanding of grace: “Look, all these years I served you and not once did I disobey your orders; yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my friends. But when your son returns who swallowed up your property with prostitutes, for him you slaughter the fattened calf.”
Admittedly, I think most of us can sympathize with the older son. Why lavish the choice portions onto someone who does not deserve it? Shouldn’t the reward be reserved to the one who worked hard and obeyed? At this point, though, we are thinking not as God does but as human beings do. Again, God’s mercy, God’s love, God’s forgiveness, is freely given. It’s a gift offered to all — none of whom do anything to earn or deserve it. The act of redemption, then, is the work of God alone.
The story of the prodigal son is a call to stand in awe of the free gift of God’s mercy and grace. While we do nothing to achieve or earn this gift, we must be disposed to receiving it. In the Gospel, the younger son “coming to his senses,” literally “returning to himself” recognizes his sinfulness and his need to return to the father. What goes beyond his own expectations is the love and mercy shown to him which he is able to receive with a sincere and contrite heart. As we continue our Lenten journey, a journey that leads all of us who have gone astray back to the Father, may we come to a deeper appreciation of the gift of mercy offered to us, especially through the sacraments of the Eucharist and Reconciliation. And may we who appreciate the great gift of God’s mercy that has been offered to us, though sinners, “celebrate and rejoice” with Jacob, Joseph, Ephraim, David, Solomon, and the prodigal son.
About Fr. Nicholas M. Colalella, SSL
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