Lent | ADULT CATECHESIS & CHRISTIAN RELIGIOUS LITERACY IN THE ROMAN CATHOLIC TRADITION: hosting ONLY True Christians!!!, or "How to think Catholic!!"
By Jesus, we are transformed from dying on the cross. As St. Peter says, "He Himself bore our sins in His body upon the cross, so that, free from sin, we might live for righteousness. By His wounds you have been healed" (1 Pet 2:24). By Christ's death and resurrection, we are freed from original sin, and life with God in heaven is made possible.
In the early centuries of the Church, a practice developed in Rome wherein the pope (or his legate) would celebrate a solemn Mass in one after another of the four major and the three minor basilicas. More churches were added to this list as the number of liturgical occasions increased, bringing the count of "stations" to over forty. On the day of a station, the faithful of Rome would gather and process to the church where Mass would be celebrated by the pope. In the pre-Vatican II Missal, a station was indicated for each Sunday, major feast days, and every weekday during Lent—a total of 89 stations! There has been a revival of these customs in recent decades, and the Church still attaches indulgences to those who participate in them.
The stational church for the Fourth Sunday of Lent is the Basilica of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem, whose story is fascinating. This church was built by St. Helena (mother of Constantine) after she brought relics of our Lord's Passion and dirt from Golgotha back from her expedition to Jerusalem. The soil was spread over the site and the basilica built on top of it—the "in Jerusalem" of the basilica's name refers to this soil on which it was built, a part of Jerusalem. Because of this soil and the relics inside the basilica, this church became a substitute pilgrimage site when Christians could not travel to the Holy Land itself.
With its own history far too long to adequately examine here, another custom developed in Rome: the papal blessing of the golden rose. Related to a popular festival in which flowers were worn to mark the "victory" of spring over winter, this rose found Christological symbolism: the thorns and the red tint given to the golden petals signified the passion of Christ; the fragrance of the rose symbolized his burial. The pope would bless this sacramental and bestow it on some deserving person or place. Before you think we're off track: this blessing was given on the Fourth Sunday of Lent. Why? As a sacramental related to our Lord's Passion, where better to bless it than where relics of the Passion were kept—and where the Pope celebrated Mass every year on the Fourth Sunday of Lent?
Italians, especially Roman Italians, loved (and still love) festivals and parades. This celebration of the golden rose with the Fourth Sunday of Lent was extremely popular, so much so, in fact, that they called the day the "Sunday of the Rose." Add the lack of fixed or standardized vestment colors, even for Lent, and the festive Roman mind of the sixteenth century needed little excuse to adopt rose vestments for the Sunday of the Rose. When the Church extended Roman liturgical customs to the whole Latin Church, Catholics everywhere could see these rose vestments two Sundays a year.
While it is fair to say that "rejoicing" is an official meaning of the custom of rose-colored vestments nowadays, the traditional roots of the rose tried to turn our focus more deeply on Jerusalem and Christ's Passion there. Let us not forget to make pilgrimage with Jesus to Jerusalem.
Does the One Who shaped the ear not hear?
The One Who formed the eye not see?
Does the One Who guides nations not rebuke?
The One Who teaches man not have knowledge?
, and He knows most intimately all of our experiences, but not by enduring them Himself. This is because God doesn't change: He perfectly enjoys an unchanging and infinite happiness beyond happiness. (Impassibility) Feelings imply changeability and dependence on another. God is above this.
But don't we hear about the depth of God's feeling heart through His prophets? Don't we hear God cry out, "I writhe in pain!" (Jer 4:10) or that "the Lord takes pleasure in His people" (Ps 149:4)? Does this contradict the unchangeability of God?
No. God speaks this way not to say that we are pulling on His heart, but that His heart is freely given to us: "I have graven you on the palms of My hands" (Is 49:16). The eternal Godhead doesn't feel sorrow for our misery in the way that we do, but He establishes a covenant with us: "I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with mighty acts of judgment. I will take you as My people, and I will be your God" (Ex 6:6–7). His mercy is no weaker for the fact that the Divinity has no heartstrings to pull. In fact, it is all the stronger because it flows from a choice that is infinitely free.
That should have been enough for us, but it wasn't. God's people continued to complain that He didn't care for them, that He had tricked or abandoned them: "Why is the Lord bringing us into this land only to have us fall by the sword?" (Num 14:3). So all the passages from the prophets above, and many others, express God's repeated pleas to his wayward people, trying to convey to them the depth of His love.
Consider what it means that God didn't stop there. If it wasn't enough for us to know His peace, now He takes upon Himself the ability to feel our misery and death. literally. If it wasn't enough that He had made a covenant with us, He becomes a covenant Himself. For the Son of God became flesh, the Son to Whom it is said, "I have given you as a covenant to the people" (Is 49:8). God is still unchangeable in His divinity, but in the assumed humanity of Jesus Christ, He truly feels our misery and pain—even unto death. And the blood of this covenant stands forever.
Presence of God – O Lord, I place myself in Your presence, begging You to enlighten my soul so that I may see what are the obstacles to my union with You.
"To be perfectly united to God by love and will, the soul must first be cleansed of all appetites of the will, even the smallest" (John of the Cross, Ascent of Mount Carmel I, 11,3). In the language of St. John of the Cross, appetites are disordered inclinations or affections for St John of the Cross for oneself or creatures, tendencies which are, according to their seriousness, more or less contrary to the divine will. God wishes us to love ourselves, as well as all created things, in the measure assigned by Him, with a view to His pleasure and not to our own selfish satisfaction. These inclinations or appetites always give rise to venial sins, or at least to deliberate imperfections, when one willingly yields to them, even though it be only in matters of slight importance. The will of the soul which freely assents to these failings, slight though they be, is stained by this opposition to the will of God; for this reason a perfect union cannot exist between its will and God's. Moreover, if these imperfections become habitual and the soul does not try to correct them, they form a great obstacle to divine union; and according to St. John of the Cross, "they prevent not only divine union but also advancement in perfection" (ibid.). He gives a few examples of these unmortified "habitual imperfections": the habit of talking too much, unrestrained curiosity, attachment to little things—whether persons or objects—such as food and so forth, which the soul refuses to give up. There is also the attachment to one's comfort, to certain sensible satisfactions, little vanities, foolish self-complacency, attachment to one's own opinion or reputation. There is a real mushroom-bed of "appetites" and disordered inclinations from which the soul will not free itself, precisely because it is attached to the meager selfish satisfaction which it finds in these wretched things. It is "attached" to them; that is why it cannot make the decision to give them up completely. These are precisely the "habitual voluntary appetites" of which St. John of the Cross says, "One single unmortified appetite is sufficient to fetter the soul" (ibid.).
On the other hand, when it is a question of imperfect inclinations arising solely from human weakness, of those which do not get beyond the stage of "first movements" in which the will has no part, "either before or after," but rather tries to repress as soon as it notices them, "these do not prevent one from attaining divine union" (ibid., 11,2). It is the will that counts and it must be completely free from the slightest attachment.
"Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved Thee. Thou wert within me, and I looked outside; I sought Thee, and miserable as I was I longed for creatures, I was detained by the wonderful works of Thy hands. Thou wert with me, but I was not with Thee, though that which kept me far from Thee could exist only in Thee. Thou hast called and cried to me in my deafness. Thou hast shone as lightning, brilliant enough to drive away my blindness. Thou hast scattered Thy perfume; I breathed it, and now I sigh for Thee. I have tasted Thee, and now I hunger and thirst for Thee. Thou hast touched me, and I burn with desire for Thy peace" (St. Augustine, Confessions).