MARCH 25: DAY OF THE UNBORN CHILD

 

THE ANNUNCIATION OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY AND THE INCARNATION OF THE WORD

Today's feast reminds us of the great event in history: the Incarnation of the Lord in the most pure womb of a Virgin. On this day, the Word became flesh and was united forever to the humanity of Jesus. The mystery of the Incarnation merits for Mary Most Holy her most beautiful title, that of "Mother of God," in Greek Theotokos, a name that the Eastern Church always inscribed in letters of gold, like a precious diadem on the foreheads of its painted images and statues. "Placed at the very limits of Divinity," for she provided the Word of God with the flesh to which He was hypostatically united, the Virgin has always been honored with a preeminent cult called "hyperdulia": the Son of the Father and the Son of the Virgin naturally become one and the same Son, says St. Anselm;  And since Mary the Virgin has been the queen of humankind, we should all venerate her.

Since the title of Mother of God makes Mary Plenipotentiary, let us ask her to intercede with Our Redeemer, so that through the merits of His Passion and His Cross, we may attain the glory of His Resurrection. Amen.

MEDITATION ON THE ANNUNCIATION

I. Today, Mary Most Holy is made Mother of God; her humility and purity have earned her this ineffable honor. How much joy it gives me, O divine Mary, to see you elevated to such a high rank of glory! And since you are the Mother of Jesus Christ Our Lord, you are also the Mother of Christians. Ah, how consoling this thought is! You are all-powerful to help me, because you are the Mother of God; you possess a heart overflowing with love for me, because you are my Mother.  I too, if I so desire, through faith and charity, can possess Jesus in my heart. The Virgin Mary gave birth to Christ according to the flesh; all Christians can give birth to Him in their hearts through faith (Saint Ambrose).

II. From this day forward, Jesus is our brother; the love He has for us makes Him like us, so that we may become like Him. He comes to earth so that we may go to Heaven. I adore You, Word incarnate in the virginal womb of Mary Most Chaste! Oh, that I had the power to do You a favor as precious as You have done for me! O most loving Brother and Redeemer, I offer You all my efforts and my works, my whole being.

III. Mary Most Pure is our Mother, Jesus our Brother: are we worthy children of Mary Immaculate, worthy brothers and sisters of Jesus Christ Our Lord?  Mary Most Holy is completely pure, humble, and obedient: do you possess these virtues? Our Lord Jesus Christ seeks in all things the glory of His Father and the salvation of souls: are you animated by the same zeal? Would Jesus not have reason to complain and say to His beloved Mother: “The sons of my Mother have fought against me”? (Song of Songs).

PRAYER

O God and Lord, who willed that Your Word should be incarnate in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary at the moment when, upon the Angel announcing this mystery to her, she pronounced her “Fiat,” grant that our prayers, as we honor her whom we firmly believe to be truly the Mother of God, may obtain the help of her intercession with You.

Through Jesus Christ Our Lord, Amen.

JACARANDAS OF PASSION

 

By Oscar Méndez Oceguera

In Mexico, Holy Week doesn't arrive: it descends. It descends the church towers with the slowness of a shroud; it settles on the starched tablecloths of elderly ladies, on the candles that keep watch like a small domestic army, on the dark honey of the capirotada (a bread pudding) and the anise flavor of the bread, on the muffled peal of the bells that suddenly fall silent as if the bronze had felt, before us, the shame of God's death. It enters through the vestibule, crosses the courtyard, brushes against the whitewashed walls, and leaves in the cupboard, next to the crockery and the worn missal, a sacristy-like solemnity.

And then the jacarandas bloom.

They don't bloom like a pleasure garden or a park offered up for Sunday. They bloom with liturgical solemnity, with the reverence of a royal burial.  It is as if heaven, seeing the Church enter its deepest days, wished to clothe itself in a Mexican purple: not the purple of the courts, but our lilac, a little dusty, a little humble, a little sad, and a little glorious, which fits equally well over the capital and the modest brow of the provinces. It is the color of the church atrium in the violet hour, of the clean shawl, of the pious spinster who guards a reliquary, of the afternoon that kneels upon the tile and the stone.

Because Holy Week in Mexico is not contemplated: it is experienced.

It is experienced in the palm of Palm Sunday, which enters the home like a gentle, verdant victory. It is experienced in the procession of the Nazarene, whose tunic advances amidst prayers as if it were dragging behind it not only the cross, but the weariness of our ancestors, the sweat of our brows, the meager bread, and the tilled earth.  It is Holy Thursday, when the most devout women—and sometimes the most silent men, those who keep their faith like a good knife in their pocket—go out to visit the Seven Churches. Each church is a station of the soul; each tabernacle, a wound of light; each bell tower, a watch. And the Mexican heart then measures the distance in Hail Marys, in steps on stone, in sighs that catch on the atrium gate.

How uniquely Mexican this pilgrimage from church to church is.

It is not just about fulfilling a devotion. It is about gathering the distinct tremor of each church. In one, there is the scent of noble incense; in another, of damp plaster and market flowers; in another, of old pews, of wood that has listened to generations on their knees; in another, of the silence of quarry stone.  The faithful wander from temple to temple as they wander from wound to wound, seeking the hidden Bridegroom, following the traces of a humbled majesty that on this night no longer reigns from the throne, but from the vulnerability of the flesh. And meanwhile, the city, with its doorways, its corridors, and its flowerpots, seems to suddenly remember that it too once had a soul.

In the kitchens, religion becomes aroma.

The dark honey of the capirotada simmers, and in it, Mexico makes one of its most delicate and humblest confessions. Nothing is more ours than this alliance of stale bread, piloncillo, cinnamon, cloves, raisins, cheese, and memory. There is the bread as the embodiment of poverty; the honey as redeeming sweetness; the cheese with that somber contrast with which life tempers celebration. The grandmother stirs the spoon as one who observes a ritual; the dishes wait meekly; the lamp of the Sacred Heart watches over the vigil; and even the smoke seems to rise with that modesty with which the best prayers sometimes ascend.

At my aunts' house, who had brought from Zacatecas not only their blood, but also their mourning, their faith, and their cooking, there was never just one capirotada. There were two, sometimes three, almost in silent competition, as if each wanted to demonstrate that penance, too, could have memory and grace. One had more piloncillo, another more cheese, another that tiny secret its creator guarded with gentle pride. We children didn't quite understand that good-natured rivalry; we only knew that each capirotada tasted different and that in each pot steamed something more than bread, honey, and cloves: the house, the family, all of Zacatecas transformed into a solemn sweetness on the table, steamed.

Because our people, when they were still a people and not just a crowd, understood that faith should enter through the mouth, through the eyes, through the knees, through the weariness of the feet, and even through the overcome sleep of the early morning.  That's why the bells fell silent and the clattering of wooden rattles appeared with their penitent clang, as if the metallic joy of the world had been suspended to let the dry bone of sorrow speak. That's why the images were covered. That's why the altar grew sad. That's why the streets were filled with Christs and Our Lady of Sorrows amidst trembling candles, like someone bringing out their most delicate treasures into the night. And in the homes remained the palm from the previous year behind the crucifix, the rosary on the table, the holy card inside the missal: small fortresses of a homeland that defended itself with tradition.

And amidst all of this, the jacarandas.

These days, the jacarandas possess an eloquence that puts rhetoricians to shame. Their blossoms fall on sidewalks, on churchyards, on unseen cars, on the shoes of those who no longer know they are treading upon a metaphor. They fall like a delicate grace, without fanfare, without ostentation. And one senses that they are not there by botanical chance, but by a secret agreement between nature and liturgy, between sap and blood.

I cannot see them without certain things that seemed dormant returning with a jolt: my mother's soft voice, my grandparents' slower pace, the murmur of my aunts in the kitchen, the weariness of my feet upon leaving the seventh church, the glow of the wax in the afternoon, the dimness of the temple, the house slowly entering into silence. Everything returns, and yet it does not return the same.  Memory possesses that tenderness and that wound: it restores to us scenes whose essence can no longer be touched, but whose truth continues to live within us. One looks at the jacaranda trees and feels that beneath their lilac foliage pass once more those hands, those voices, those footsteps; not as empty shadows, but as a gift received, as something that shaped the soul and still accompanies us.

Perhaps that is why Holy Week grows deeper with the years. As a child, one receives it; later, one loves it; finally, one understands that it was also entrusted to oneself. One no longer walks only out of memory, but out of devotion and fidelity: devotion to the holy mysteries, fidelity to those who taught us to kneel, to be silent, to observe, to accompany. One enters the churches with those present and those absent. One tastes the capirotada and seeks not merely a flavor, but an entire home. One hears the ratchet and does not merely listen to the wood: one hears the transmission of a world.  And he understands, with gratitude and trembling, that all of it was beautiful not only to be remembered, but to be preserved and passed on.

In other countries, perhaps spring is just a season. Here, when it coincides with Holy Week, it becomes living memory. The earth blossoms when the Church contemplates death. The sky is adorned when the altar is stripped bare. The city turns violet when Christ enters his darkest hours. And that contradiction, which as a child seemed only beautiful, reveals its truth with the passing years: among us, beauty has never been separate from suffering. Glory does not erase sacrifice: it gathers it and makes it fruitful.

That is why Mexican Good Friday was not for me a spectacle, but a profound impression. The Holy Burial procession moved with a slowness that still weighs heavily on my soul. The candles raised their humble architecture. The men removed their hats. The women carried their prayers with the same naturalness with which they carry the weight of their homes.  And as a child, one learns that there are beautiful sorrows, and that certain solemnities don't fade: they are deposited in the soul like a secret reserve for the hour when it's time to bear them.

Then came Holy Saturday, with that stark poverty that leaves the soul like a half-empty house. Nothing visible happened, and yet everything remained suspended. And even there the jacarandas lingered, not as a noisy announcement, but as a promise poured out. They hadn't yet uttered the Alleluia, but they were already preparing the air. They didn't break the mourning: they perfumed it.

That's why Mexican Holy Week isn't folklore, even though folklore surrounds it; it isn't tourism, even though tourism exploits it; it isn't local color, even though the earth and sky lend it their deepest hues.  It is something more serious, more tender, and deeper: a sacred inheritance, received in faith and guarded in memory, passed down by mothers' hands, by fathers' steps, by grandparents' silence, by aunts' loving patience. It is written in sugar and wax, in incense and quarry stone, in the rattle and the silent bell, in the visit to the Seven Houses and in the collective bread pudding of the old houses. And now also, like a blossoming and faithful sorrow, in the penitential lilac of the jacaranda trees.

PRAYER TO BECOME LESS

 

PRAYER TO BECOME LESS

Lord, who sees my thirst to be well named,

deliver me from this vain lordly pride;

let not my heart, through all this passing day,

seek any honor but the one of loving You.

If another is exalted, let it not wound me;

if another shines, let me not be afraid;

for self-love is a shadow burned away,

and Your truth is silence giving life.

Make me small, yet not with somber grief;

humble, yet not cast down or made untrue;

for firmer is the bending ear of wheat

than the proud tree broken by its height.

Jesus, meek and humble, I turn to You.

Strip from me every vain presumption;

for greater honor crowns the humble soul

than a hundred crowns bestowed on error.

LET NOT SADNESS DETERMINE YOUR ACTIONS

"Strive to strongly oppose the inclinations of sadness, and even if it seems to you that in this state you do everything with coldness, sorrow, and weariness, do not, however, cease to do it; for the enemy, who tries to make us slacken in our good works through sadness, seeing that despite it we do not stop doing them, and that by doing them with perseverance they have more value, then ceases to afflict us."

Saint Francis de Sales

WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO DO TO ATTAIN SALVATION?

“If the prophet had

comande you to do something difficult,

you would have done it;

how much more so now

when he tells you: wash and

you will be clean.”

How many people might receive this admonition at the hour of their death! And how many might receive it even during their lifetime!

If God had required us to withdraw to the deserts, practice the most austere penances, or live in perpetual fasting to be saved; if it had been necessary to suffer the greatest torments to avoid hell, or if only martyrs and the most severe penitents could enter heaven, would it have been reasonable to hesitate in the choice?

Between eternal fire or a few years of penance, between fleeting suffering or eternal happiness, what sensible person would have wavered?

“How much more so now that he tells you: ‘Wash and be clean.’”

How much more should we obey when God asks nothing more of us than to love him with all our hearts, to serve him, and to live according to his will!

What does the Lord ask of us that isn’t gentle and reasonable? He asks us to love him: doesn’t he deserve our love? Is there any difficulty in loving an infinitely kind God who loves us first?

He asks us to keep his commandments: is there any that isn’t for our good? Has there ever been a gentler yoke or a lighter burden than that of Jesus Christ? He himself has assured us of this.

Let us compare what God asks of his servants with what the world demands of its own. Let us think of the suffering endured for a career, for wealth, for a job, for pleasing people, or for gaining a reputation.

How much work!

How much worry!

How much toil and sleeplessness!

Health is wasted, days are shortened, and often to no avail.

If salvation demanded as much effort as that expended for worldly things, wouldn't its price be considered just, according to the opinion of those who live in the world?

And yet, Lent seems too long; some days of fasting seem too harsh; the slightest mortification for God seems impractical.

We are covered in sin; our souls are wounded by guilt. And we are told: “Wash yourself, and you will be clean.” Jesus Christ offers us the healing bath of his Blood in the sacrament of Penance, through which we can recover our innocence; and yet we refuse to use this remedy.

What a just reproach could also be made against many devout people who, having left everything for God, live without fervor or constancy, in a lukewarm and perilous life, neglecting even the smallest acts of fidelity!

Those who have embraced a more perfect state are asked only for a little more recollection, a little more punctuality and faithfulness in small things, to enjoy inner peace and ensure a holy death.

But many prefer to drag themselves through life in the sadness of an imperfect existence rather than observe what they call small things.

“If He had commanded you to do something difficult, you would have done it; how much more so now that He only tells you: Wash and be clean.”

FR. JEAN CROISSET SJ: LENTEN REFLECTIONS

MONDAY OF THE THIRD SUNDAY OF LENT

(2 Kings 5:1-15)

CAN IT EVER BE PERMISSIBLE TO RESIST THE POPE?