Rejoice, O Jerusalem: The Maternal Mystery of Laetare Sunday
A Lenten Conference on the Church as Mother and Guide in the Midst of Penance
By ✠Jerome OSJV, Primus of the Old Roman Apostolate

INTRODUCTION

Halfway through the great fast of Lent, the Church in her maternal wisdom grants a reprieve, a glimpse of Easter light amidst the penitential purple. The Fourth Sunday of Lent, clothed in rose, is no liturgical accident. It is Laetare Sunday: a sacred pause to lift up weary eyes toward the eternal Jerusalem, to recall the sweet maternity of the Church, and to steel the soul for the final ascent to the Cross.

She who is both Virgo Ecclesia Facta and Mater Ecclesia—the Virgin made Church and the Mother who bears us in grace—calls her children home. We are reminded that the Christian life is not an ideology, not a program, not a movement, but a supernatural birth into a Mystical Body—nourished, disciplined, and led by our Holy Mother, the Church.

Let us, then, consider the fivefold title traditionally given to this day: Laetare Sunday, Rose Sunday, Refreshment Sunday, Mothering Sunday, and the Fourth Sunday in Lent. Each name draws us deeper into the mysteries of grace, as befits a Church that thinks not like the world, but like a mother.

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I. Laetare Sunday: The Church Above, Our Mother

The introit thunders with joy: Laetare, Jerusalem… The prophet Isaiah speaks not of an earthly city, but of the heavenly Jerusalem, which St. Paul identifies as “our mother” (Galatians 4:26). This is the Church in her eschatological identity, the Bride descending from heaven, the freewoman whose children are born of the promise.

St. Augustine says: “You begin to have God as Father when you begin to have the Church as mother.” (Sermo 57.7)

And St. Cyprian exhorts with fatherly severity: “He can no longer have God for his Father who has not the Church for his mother.” (De Unitate Ecclesiae, 6)

Laetare Sunday confronts us with the truth of our origin and our destiny. We are not spiritual freelancers. We are children of a visible, teaching, sanctifying Church, born not of the flesh, but of water and the Holy Ghost. We were conceived in her womb through baptism and are nourished daily by her sacraments and doctrine. Her priests are spiritual fathers because she is the spiritual mother.

To rejoice today is to rejoice not merely in the promise of resurrection, but in the ecclesial life that has already begun to raise us. The Church leads us not to comfort, but to glory. And she does so not as a tyrant but as a mother—stern at times, but never abandoning her own.

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II. Rose Sunday: Mary, the Mystical Rose and Archetype of the Church

The rose vestments—liturgical joy tinted by penitence—remind us that beauty is not contrary to sacrifice. It is born of it. This is the beauty of Our Lady, the Rosa Mystica, who bears in herself both the sorrows of Calvary and the fragrance of Paradise.

St. Ambrose teaches: “The Church is like Mary: a virgin who conceived by faith, a mother who gives birth to the faithful by the Spirit.” (Expositio Evangelii sec. Lucam, II.7)

Mary is the mirror and the matrix of the Church. What she is in singular perfection, the Church is in the mode of pilgrimage: virgin and mother, sorrowful and rejoicing, immaculate in heaven and yet suffering on earth. In Mary, the Church sees her own vocation completed and crowned.

Pope Leo XIII affirms: “The Blessed Virgin is rightly called the Mother of the Church, for she is the mother of Christ and she is also the mother of all Christians.” (Adiutricem Populi, 1895)

On this Sunday, the Church blushes with the joy of Mary, anticipating the Resurrection while still dwelling in the valley of tears. The faithful should see in rose not a novelty, but a deep Marian symbolism. In the liturgy’s softness, we are reminded that Christ came to us through beauty, through the consent of a woman clothed in grace.

Rose Sunday proclaims that joy does not mean frivolity, and reverence does not exclude beauty. Mary teaches us to rejoice rightly—in humility, in obedience, in suffering accepted with love.

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III. Refreshment Sunday: The Church as Pilgrim and Provider

Traditionally associated with the Gospel of the multiplication of the loaves, this Sunday reminds us that Holy Mother Church feeds her children in the desert. The sacraments are not mere rituals—they are divine sustenance.

St. Leo the Great teaches: “What was visible in our Redeemer has passed into the sacraments.” (Sermo 74.2)

This Sunday is a foretaste of the relief that awaits us beyond Good Friday. But even now, Christ does not abandon us to our own strength. The Church is both Ark and Manna; she is the tabernacle in the wilderness, the pillar of cloud by day and fire by night.

She gives us not only food but formation. Her catechism, her liturgical calendar, her penitential practices—all are means of shaping the soul into the likeness of Christ. To enter the Church is not to find an oasis of emotional comfort, but a mountain path marked by sacraments.

Refreshment Sunday thus exhorts us: Do not turn back. Do not despair. Christ feeds us in the liturgy because He calls us onward. The Bread we eat is His Body, broken yet glorious. And the chalice we drink is our share in His Passion.

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IV. Mothering Sunday: Return to the Font of Life

In medieval England, this day became known as Mothering Sunday. It was the custom for servants and laborers to return to their home parish—their “mother church”—where they had been baptized and catechised. Along the way, they would often visit their earthly mothers, bringing flowers or small tokens of love.

The practice speaks to a profound Catholic instinct: to honor both natural and supernatural maternity. The Church is not an abstraction; she is rooted in places, rites, and relationships. One is not born into the Church by ideology but by baptism.

The English martyr-poet Robert Southwell, S.J., under persecution, could write: “The Church, though widowed of her spouse by violence, doth still give suck of grace to such as seek her breasts.” (Triumphs over Death)

To return to one’s mother church is to return to the womb of grace. It is to affirm that faith is not private, but ecclesial; not self-made, but received.

In our age of dislocation and rootlessness, this tradition speaks volumes. We are not souls adrift. We are children, begotten by grace, raised by discipline, and fed by the mystery of the altar. The recovery of local, incarnate piety—returning not only to our spiritual roots but to the sacred geography of our baptism—is no sentimentalism, but the path of sanctity.

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V. The Fourth Sunday in Lent: A Turning Point of Grace

The simplest of its names is also the most sobering: the Fourth Sunday in Lent. It marks the threshold of Passiontide. From here, the shadow of the Cross looms larger. The Church, having fed and consoled her children, now leads them up to Jerusalem.

St. Leo again exhorts: “Let the hearts of the faithful be stirred up to a holy joy, that those who are weary with fasting and prayer may be refreshed with spiritual consolations.” (Sermo 47)

This Sunday is a pivot, a moment for recollection. Lent is not about perfect execution of disciplines, but transformation of the heart. Have we truly embraced the Cross? Or merely carried it grudgingly? Have we surrendered more of ourselves each day? Or are we clinging still to our idols?

The Church offers no condemnation today—only the strong encouragement of a mother. She reminds us that there is still time. The Bridegroom has not yet arrived, but the cry has gone out. Trim your lamps. Rise from sleep. Gird your loins for the final ascent.

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CONCLUSION

Laetare Sunday is a liturgical jewel set in the stern gold of Lent. It is the smile of the Church—tender but unwavering—as she leads her children through sorrow to glory, through fasting to the feast, through the tomb to the throne.

To speak of Laetare is to speak of the Church who gives us birth, of Mary who shows us the way, of Christ who is our food, our hope, and our joy. The five names for this day are five notes in a single canticle: the Church, maternal and majestic, sings to her children—Rejoice, O Jerusalem, and come together, all you that love her…

Let us receive this Sunday not as an interruption but as an intensification—a moment where beauty and doctrine, memory and mission, converge to restore our focus on Christ crucified and risen. Let us rejoice because we have been claimed, formed, and sent by a Church who knows the weakness of her children and yet never ceases to nourish them with divine strength.

May this Sunday of joy steel our wills for the sorrow of the Passion, and temper our sorrow with the radiant hope of the Resurrection. For the joy of Laetare is not escapism—it is prophecy. It proclaims, in the midst of sacrifice, that love shall triumph, that death shall be undone, and that the children of the Church shall one day enter the New Jerusalem, rejoicing.

Laetare, anima mea. Rejoice, O my soul—for your Mother goes before you, and your Lord awaits you.

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Lent Conferences 2025

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Desire, Disorder, and the Call to Spiritual Maturity
By ✠Jerome OSJV, Primus of the Old Roman Apostolate

Introduction: The Struggle of Desire and the Path to Spiritual Maturity

When God created man, He made him in His image and likeness (Gen. 1:26-27). This divine imprint signifies that man was made for truth, goodness, and beauty—ultimately for communion with God. Everything God created, He declared to be good (Gen. 1:31), including human desires and the objects of human longing. However, after the Fall, man’s nature was wounded. The harmony that once existed between his reason, will, and passions was disrupted. As a result, his desires became disordered, and his will, instead of being directed toward God, began to turn inward, seeking self-gratification rather than self-gift.

You see, it’s not that you were made bad, nor even that the things you long for, the temptations you face, or the tendencies you struggle with are inherently evil. They are not. Everything that exists, every created good, is fashioned by God and, in its proper order, serves a purpose in His divine plan. The problem is not in the objects of our desire—whether personal happiness, material wealth, pleasure, skill, or talent—but in our will’s inclination to grasp at them for ourselves, to manipulate, possess, and control them rather than receive and steward them rightly.

The real battleground is not outside of us but within. Our desires, left unchecked, become tyrants. They lead us not to fulfillment but to slavery—slavery to self-indulgence, to ambition, to the fleeting approval of others. This is why the path to spiritual maturity, and indeed to true manhood, requires more than external discipline; it demands an internal transformation. It is not enough to suppress desire—we must reorder it. The very things that tempt us can, if properly directed, become instruments of grace rather than occasions of sin.

To grow in holiness, to become the men God calls us to be, we must learn to master our will rather than be mastered by it. We must learn to direct our desires not toward selfish ends, but toward the highest good—the perfection of our own souls and the good of others. Only in this can we find true peace, true purpose, and true freedom.

I. The Root of the Problem: Not the Object, but the Will

Many people misunderstand the nature of temptation and sin. It is not that we were created bad, nor that the things we desire—pleasure, success, security, companionship, recognition—are inherently evil. Indeed, God made all things good (Gen. 1:31), and our natural inclinations reflect aspects of the divine order. The problem is not what we desire but how we desire it.

Sin does not reside in the objects of our longing but in our will’s perversion of them. Take material wealth as an example: money itself is neither good nor evil, but our attachment to it, our greed, our willingness to sacrifice moral integrity to obtain it—these are the evils. A man who seeks financial stability so he can provide for his family and support charitable works has ordered his wealth properly. But a man who amasses riches to serve his ego, gain control over others, or indulge his appetites corrupts the gift of prosperity.

Similarly, personal happiness is not wrong in itself, but if a man seeks it above virtue—if he avoids responsibility, ignores truth, or compromises his conscience in pursuit of comfort—then his will has become disordered. It is not the object of desire that is at fault, but the heart that seeks to manipulate, possess, and dominate.

Saint Augustine explains this distinction in The City of God: “Two loves have made two cities: the love of self to the contempt of God, and the love of God to the contempt of self.” (City of God, XIV.28)

The difference is not in the things we desire but in whether our love is ordered to God or to self.

At the core of fallen human nature is the desire to possess and control. This was the temptation in Eden: “You will be like God, knowing good and evil.” (Gen. 3:5)

Rather than trust in God’s providence, Adam and Eve sought to take for themselves what was not theirs to grasp. This fundamental pride is echoed in every form of sin—when we seek to control rather than surrender, to use rather than to love, to dominate rather than to serve.

Consider the temptations of Christ in the desert (Matt. 4:1-11). The devil tempts Jesus with three things: material provision (bread), power (dominion over the kingdoms), and spectacle (testing God’s protection). 

Each temptation mirrors the way human desire can be corrupted:

1. Materialism – seeking comfort, wealth, and security at the expense of virtue.
2. Power and Dominion – seeking to rule rather than to serve.
3. Glory and Vanity – seeking recognition and admiration rather than humility.

Jesus, however, resists each temptation by subordinating desire to the will of the Father. He teaches us that true strength lies not in grasping for control but in surrendering to divine providence.

II. The Consequence of Disordered Desire: A Life of Restlessness

When our will seeks to control rather than to receive, when we chase possession rather than stewardship, we inevitably suffer. Disordered desire leads to slavery—slavery to passions, to ambition, to addiction. The man who lives for pleasure is never satisfied, for each indulgence only creates a greater hunger. The man obsessed with power or recognition will never feel secure, for the praise of the world is fleeting.

This restlessness of the human heart is not in itself evil. It is a sign that we were made for something greater than the passing pleasures of this world. The problem is not that we desire, but that we desire improperly, turning away from God to finite things, treating them as ends rather than means. This is what St. Paul warns about in Romans:

“For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.” (Rom. 7:19)

This inner struggle—between our higher calling and our fallen inclinations—is at the heart of spiritual growth.

Scripture warns of this restless pursuit: “He who loves money will not be satisfied with money, nor he who loves wealth with his income; this also is vanity.” (Eccl. 5:10)

And Christ Himself tells us plainly: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?” (Mark 8:36)

Here lies the tragedy of the disordered will: the very things we seek to control end up controlling us. A man who pursues pleasure without moderation becomes enslaved by his cravings. A man who hoards power out of fear becomes paranoid and insecure. A man who chases approval from others becomes a prisoner of their opinions.

Saint John of the Cross, in his Ascent of Mount Carmel, describes this condition: “The soul that is attached to anything, however much good there may be in it, will not arrive at the liberty of divine union.”

The more we clutch at finite things, the more we lose sight of the infinite.

we must recognize that temptation is not the sin itself, but an opportunity either to fall into disorder or to reorder our desires toward the good. The difference between virtue and vice lies in whether we master our desires or they master us.

Saint Thomas Aquinas, in the Summa Theologica, distinguishes between lawful and unlawful desires. He explains that: “The sin of lust consists in seeking venereal pleasure not in accordance with right reason.” (ST, II-II, q. 153, a. 2)

The same principle applies to all other human desires—whether for wealth, power, or even personal fulfillment. It is not the object that is evil, but the disorder in how we seek it.

This is why the Church warns against materialism, hedonism, and the idolatry of success. The problem is not wealth itself but attachment to wealth; not pleasure itself but enslavement to pleasure. The saints show us that sanctity does not require rejecting all earthly goods but using them rightly.

III. The Path to Spiritual Maturity: Overcoming and Ordering Desire

To grow spiritually and mature as a man is to overcome disordered desire—not by suppressing it, but by transforming it. The solution is not Stoicism, which denies emotion and passion, but rather the Christian path of rightly ordering them.

I. Recognizing the Purpose of Desire

Desire itself is not the enemy. Properly directed, it is a gift from God, meant to lead us beyond ourselves toward higher goods. Saint Thomas Aquinas, in the Summa Theologica, affirms:

“Happiness is the natural desire of man; but man does not naturally know wherein happiness consists, and must therefore be led to it.” (ST I-II, q. 1, a. 7)

The problem is not that we desire but that we misidentify the object of our fulfillment. Instead of recognizing that our deepest hunger is for God, we seek satisfaction in transient things—wealth, status, pleasure. The first step toward spiritual maturity is realizing that these are shadows of the true good, not ends in themselves.

To overcome disordered desires, man must engage in ascesis, the discipline of self-denial for the sake of a higher good. This is not merely about self-control, but about reorienting the will toward God.

II. Training the Will Through Self-Mastery

Because our nature is wounded by sin, our desires often conflict with our highest good. The solution is discipline—training the will to govern desire rather than be governed by it. This is the role of the virtue of temperance, which allows us to enjoy created goods without becoming enslaved by them.

Saint Paul exhorts us: “Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one.” (1 Cor. 9:25)

The virtue of temperance helps us moderate our desires and use created goods rightly. As St. Thomas Aquinas teaches: “Temperance withdraws man from things which seduce the appetite from obeying reason.” (ST, II-II, q. 141, a. 2)

This means learning to use material things without becoming attached to them. Wealth should serve charity, pleasure should be ordered to love, and power should be exercised as service.

Discipline in small things—fasting, silence, self-denial—trains the soul for greater battles. If a man cannot master his appetite for food, how will he resist lust? If he cannot control his tongue in small disputes, how will he govern his anger in serious matters?

Saint Benedict, in his Rule, speaks of this gradual formation:

“The life of a monk ought to be a continuous Lent.” (Rule of St. Benedict, Ch. 49)

While not all are called to monastic life, the principle applies universally: self-denial is the path to self-possession.

III. Redirecting Desire Toward the Common Good

At the root of spiritual maturity is the realization that everything must be directed toward the summum bonum—the highest good, which is God Himself. St. Ignatius of Loyola encapsulates this in his Principle and Foundation:

“Man is created to praise, reverence, and serve God our Lord, and by this means to save his soul. The other things on the face of the earth are created for man to help him in attaining the end for which he is created.” (Spiritual Exercises, 23)

Thus, everything—our work, our relationships, our talents—must be ordered toward our eternal destiny. When we seek first the kingdom of God (Matt. 6:33), all other things fall into their proper place.

To overcome selfishness, we must learn to order our desires toward the good of others. Love properly understood is not about taking but giving. True love – that is the nature of God Who is Love – is by its very nature and being self-sacrificial.

When a man turns his desires outward—seeking not his own fulfillment but the flourishing of those around him—his soul expands. The father who sacrifices his own ease for his family, the leader who uses power to serve rather than dominate, the friend who rejoices in another’s success rather than envying it—these are signs of true spiritual maturity.

This is the example of Christ Himself, who: “Did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.” (Phil. 2:6-7)

IV. The Highest Desire: Union With God

If all other goods are only partial reflections of the highest good, then true fulfillment is found not in them but in God Himself. The ultimate purpose of overcoming disordered desire is not mere moral improvement but divine union.

Saint Augustine expresses this longing: “Late have I loved You, Beauty so ancient and so new! Late have I loved You! You were within me, but I was outside, and there I sought You.” (Confessions, X.27)

What, then, does it mean to reorder all desire toward God?

• It means seeking not personal success but holiness.
• It means learning to receive rather than to grasp.
• It means trusting in divine providence rather than forcing one’s own will.

This is not passivity but active surrender—choosing to love as Christ loves, to serve as He serves, to embrace the will of the Father as He did.

Saint Ignatius of Loyola, in his Suscipe Prayer, encapsulates this abandonment: “Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will… Give me only Your love and Your grace; that is enough for me.”

When a man reaches this state—where all his desires are ordered toward the supreme good—he finds peace. He no longer clings to possessions, to control, to worldly success, because he has already found the one thing necessary.

Conclusion: The Freedom of the Ordered Will

To grow spiritually and to mature as a man is to master desire, not be ruled by it. This does not mean eradicating desire but elevating it. The will must be purified, not crushed; the heart must be disciplined, not deadened.

The world tells us that happiness lies in acquiring and controlling, but Christ tells us that true freedom lies in surrender and love. By grace, we can overcome the desire for possession and control and instead learn to receive and steward all things rightly.

As St. John of the Cross teaches: “In the evening of life, we will be judged on love alone.” (Dichos de Luz y Amor, 64)

If we purify our desires, seek God first, and love rightly, we will not only find happiness in this life but eternal joy in the life to come. Let us, then, reorder our hearts toward the supreme good, so that all things may lead us to Him who alone satisfies the longing of the human soul.

To overcome disordered desire is to gain freedom—freedom from compulsion, from anxiety, from the endless hunger for more. A man who has mastered his will possesses himself fully and is therefore capable of true love, true service, and true joy.

This is what it means to mature spiritually—not to extinguish desire, but to elevate it. Not to reject the good things of this world, but to use them as God intended. Not to live for self, but to live for the highest good.

When we learn to desire rightly, we do not lose happiness—we find it. And in finding it, we find God Himself.

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Lent Conferences 2025

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The Battle Within: Overcoming the False Self and Living in the Grace of God
By +Jerome OSJV, Primus of the Old Roman Apostolate

Introduction: The Need for Interior Combat

My dear faithful, as we move deeper into this sacred season of Lent, we find that the journey is not simply one of exterior observance, but of interior transformation. In the first week, we reflected on self-knowledge—the necessity of seeing ourselves as we truly are before God. But today, we must address the next and even more difficult stage of Lent: the battle to overcome ourselves.

For once we begin to see our faults and weaknesses, we are faced with a choice—either to accept them as inevitable, resigning ourselves to mediocrity, or to engage in spiritual combat, striving with the grace of God to overcome the false self that clings to us so persistently.

Make no mistake: Lent is not merely a season of reflection; it is a season of warfare. We do not pass through these forty days unchallenged. The world, the flesh, and the devil all conspire to keep us as we are, to lull us into complacency, or to convince us that real change is impossible. But Holy Mother Church, in her wisdom, calls us to arms, providing us with the weapons of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, guiding us through the sacred liturgy, and urging us onward to the foot of the Cross.

We must understand, therefore, that Lent is not primarily about external penances, but about who we are becoming. If we do not emerge from Lent changed, then we have wasted the season. If we do not strive to put to death the old man within us, then Easter will come, and we will remain as we were—unmoved, untransformed, and unprepared to rejoice in the Resurrection.

Let us, then, take up this second stage of our journey with seriousness. If we have seen ourselves for what we are, we must now fight to become what God calls us to be.

I. The False Self: The Greatest Obstacle to Holiness

The greatest obstacle to holiness is not external persecution, nor even the devil’s direct temptations, but the subtle resistance of the false self—that part of us which stubbornly resists grace, clings to pride, and refuses to submit fully to God.

The false self is not merely our sinful tendencies; it is a distorted way of seeing ourselves. It is the illusion of self-sufficiency, the belief that we can define ourselves, that we can follow Christ while still holding on to our own will, our own plans, and our own attachments. It is the self that whispers, “I will obey God, but only on my terms.”

This false self takes many forms, and if we are not vigilant, we will fail to recognize it in ourselves. 

Many souls spend their lives saying, “I know I need to change,” yet they never take up the battle. They make peace with their weaknesses, rather than striving to overcome them.

But to tolerate the false self is to reject the call to sanctity. Our Lord does not ask us for half-measures. He tells us plainly: “Whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever shall lose his life for My sake shall find it” (Matt. 16:25).

To become who we truly are, we must die to who we think we are.

The false self does not always manifest in obvious rebellion against God. More often, it is subtle, appearing under the disguise of virtues or common sense, deceiving us into complacency. It convinces us that we are justified in resisting grace, that our hesitations are reasonable, even necessary. This deception allows us to remain attached to our weaknesses while persuading ourselves that we are not rejecting God outright.

Three of the most insidious disguises of the false self are pride masked as independence, laziness disguised as prudence, and fear masquerading as humility.

1. Pride Disguised as Independence

A refusal to surrender completely to God, excusing it as “just the way I am.”

Pride is the original sin—the sin of Lucifer, the sin of Adam and Eve, the sin that lies at the root of every other vice. But most souls do not fall into pride by openly declaring themselves independent of God. Instead, pride worms its way into the spiritual life under the appearance of self-reliance, personal autonomy, or simply “being realistic.”

This false self says:

• “This is just who I am—I can’t change.”
• “God wouldn’t ask me to do something that isn’t natural to me.”
• “I know myself better than anyone else, so I will decide what works best for me spiritually.”

Here, pride does not outright reject God’s authority; it simply resists transformation. It acknowledges the call to holiness but insists on dictating the terms. It tells God, “I will follow You, but on my own terms.”

This disguised pride leads many souls to settle for a lower spiritual life than the one to which they are called. Instead of striving for perfection, they excuse their faults, insisting that certain weaknesses are simply “part of their personality.” Instead of asking for grace to change, they say:

“God made me this way.”

But this is not humility; it is pride refusing correction. God did make us, but sin has wounded us. He calls us not to remain as we are, but to be transformed. True humility does not resist grace—it welcomes it.

If we excuse our weaknesses as “just the way I am,” we close ourselves off to the work of God. But holiness is not found in self-reliance. It is found in surrender.

2. Laziness Disguised as Prudence

A reluctance to commit to a serious spiritual life, claiming that one must not “overdo it.”

The false self is not always arrogant; sometimes it is slothful. But even spiritual laziness does not usually present itself as laziness. It often comes disguised as prudence, balance, or moderation.

This false self says:

• “I don’t want to be too extreme in my spiritual life.”
• “I need to be reasonable—I can’t spend too much time on prayer.”
• “God does not expect so much effort from me.”

Here, the soul deceives itself into thinking that it is avoiding spiritual excess, when in fact, it is avoiding spiritual discipline. The world has conditioned us to believe that holiness should be comfortable, that one can advance in virtue without real sacrifice, that a moderate commitment is all God requires.

But Our Lord did not preach moderation in love. He said:

• “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind.” (Luke 10:27)
• “If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me.” (Luke 9:23)

Where, in these words, do we find half-measures?

The saints understood this. St. Francis of Assisi, St. Teresa of Avila, and St. John Vianney were not “moderate” in their pursuit of holiness—they were radical in their love for God. This did not mean they were imprudent, but they understood that lukewarmness is the greatest danger to the soul.

If we hesitate to fully commit, we must ask ourselves: Is this prudence, or is it fear? Am I being careful to avoid error, or am I simply avoiding effort? The false self resists discipline, but the path of sanctity requires effort and sacrifice.

3. Fear Disguised as Humility

A shrinking back from holiness, not out of true humility, but out of cowardice, fearing the cost of full surrender to God.

Some souls do not resist holiness out of pride or laziness, but out of fear. They recognize their unworthiness and their limitations. They see the saints and think:

• “I am too weak to be a saint.”
• “Holiness is for priests and nuns, not for someone like me.”
• “God cannot expect so much from an ordinary soul.”

At first, this seems like humility. But true humility never refuses God’s invitation. False humility is merely fear dressed up in pious language.

This fear is often rooted in a misunderstanding of holiness. Some believe that becoming a saint requires extraordinary abilities—visions, miracles, heroic deeds. But sanctity is not about doing great things; it is about doing small things with great love. St. Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower, taught that holiness is not reserved for the strong, but is open to every soul who trusts completely in God’s mercy.

What is truly behind this fear? Often, it is fear of suffering—fear that holiness will require sacrifices we do not want to make, that God will ask too much of us.

We see this in the rich young man of the Gospel. He approached Jesus sincerely, asking:

“Good Master, what shall I do that I may receive life everlasting?” (Mark 10:17) Jesus responded: “Go, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor… and come, follow Me.” But what happened? “He went away sad.” Why? Because he feared the cost of full surrender. He wanted holiness without sacrifice. And so, he lost the greatest invitation of his life.

How many souls today are like him? How many receive the invitation to a deeper spiritual life, but hesitate, calculating the cost? They tell themselves, “I am too weak,” but what they really mean is, “I am too afraid.”

But Christ does not ask us to be strong—He asks us to be willing.

• St. Peter was weak, yet Christ made him the rock of the Church.
• St. Paul was once a persecutor, yet Christ turned him into the greatest missionary.
• St. Augustine was a slave to sin, yet Christ made him a doctor of grace.

God does not choose the strong—He strengthens those He chooses.

If we shrink back from holiness, we must ask ourselves: Is this humility, or is it fear? If it is fear, then we must remember the words of Christ:

“Fear not, for I am with thee.” (Isaiah 41:10)

Conclusion: The False Self Must Die

These are the disguises of the false self:

• Pride, which refuses to change.
• Laziness, which resists effort.
• Fear, which shrinks back from God’s call.

If we are to rise with Christ at Easter, we must first die with Him. This means rejecting every excuse, every attachment, every hesitation that keeps us from full surrender to God.

Holiness is not for the few—it is for all who are willing. If we let go of our false selves, if we surrender in trust, then grace will do what we could never do alone.

II. The Enemy Within: The Flesh in Rebellion

Many souls labor under the misconception that the greatest threats to their spiritual life come from the world or from the devil. They imagine that if they could only remove external temptations—secular influences, occasions of sin, or even the direct attacks of Satan himself—they would be secure on the path to holiness.

But this is an illusion. The most dangerous enemy is not outside of us; it is within. It is our own fallen nature—the rebellion of the flesh against the spirit.

The world and the devil indeed pose real dangers, but they would hold little sway over us if not for the traitor within. The world entices us with vanities, but it is our own fallen appetites that crave them. The devil tempts, but it is our weakened will that consents. Sin is not something merely imposed upon us; it is something that arises from within. This is why St. Paul speaks not of an external enemy, but of an interior war:

“For I do not that good which I will; but the evil which I hate, that I do.” (Rom. 7:19)

This is the struggle of every Christian—the knowledge of what is right, the desire to do it, yet the resistance from within, the constant pull toward self-indulgence, distraction, or compromise. It is a battle that must be fought daily, for as long as we live.

This battle manifests in three ways: in the mind, in the senses, and in the will.

1. The Battle of the Mind: The War for Clarity and Focus

The mind is the gateway to the soul. If it is not disciplined, it becomes a breeding ground for doubt, distraction, and disorder. The devil knows this well, which is why he wages war against the clarity of our intellect and the firmness of our convictions.

Distraction in prayer

How often do we attempt to pray, only to find ourselves bombarded by wandering thoughts? The moment we kneel before God, countless trivial concerns flood our minds—duties left undone, conversations to be remembered, fears about the future. The world has conditioned us to seek constant stimulation, so when we attempt to quiet the soul before God, the mind resists.

But distraction is not always involuntary. Many avoid true interior prayer because they fear what they will find. Silence forces us to confront our sins, our weaknesses, and our need for God. It is easier to fill our minds with noise than to face the reality of our spiritual condition.

Temptation to doubt

The mind is also the battleground where the devil plants the seeds of doubt:

• “Does God really hear my prayers?”
• “Have I truly been forgiven?”
• “What if this is all for nothing?”

Even faithful souls experience these temptations. Doubt is not the same as disbelief, but if entertained, it weakens our trust in God and saps the strength of our faith.

Unwillingness to meditate on spiritual truths

Many souls avoid serious meditation on the things of God, preferring instead to dwell on worldly concerns. They do not ponder the Four Last Things—Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell—because such meditations disturb their comfortable lives. They do not dwell on the Passion of Christ, because it calls them to sacrifice. Instead of confronting the truth, they remain in a fog of vague piety, where God is distant enough not to disrupt their way of life.

But a soul that does not master its own thoughts will remain enslaved to confusion and distraction, incapable of the focused love that God desires.

2. The Battle of the Senses: The War Against Comfort and Indulgence

The second battle is the battle of the body—the rebellion of the flesh against the spirit. The body is not evil, but because of original sin, it no longer submits naturally to the soul. It seeks pleasure, ease, gratification. It resists discipline, avoids suffering, and recoils from anything that demands effort.

Resistance to fasting and mortification

The simplest denial of food or comfort becomes a great trial. How many excuses do we make for breaking our Lenten fasts? The Church prescribes so little, yet we convince ourselves that even small sacrifices are unreasonable.

Why is fasting so difficult? Because it directly confronts our attachment to the material. It reminds us that we are not sustained by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God. If we cannot deny ourselves in little things, how will we deny ourselves in great trials?

Seeking constant pleasure and entertainment

The modern world is built upon distraction. Everywhere, people seek entertainment—endless scrolling on screens, background noise at all times, a constant hunger for new experiences. This addiction to distraction makes spiritual depth nearly impossible.

But the greatest souls have always sought silence. St. John of the Cross wrote: “The Father spoke one Word, which was His Son, and this Word He speaks always in eternal silence, and in silence must It be heard by the soul.”

If we cannot detach ourselves from sensory indulgence, we will never hear the voice of God.

Avoidance of penance and discipline

Any inconvenience, any hardship, any deprivation is seen as an evil to be removed rather than an opportunity for purification. The modern world tells us that suffering is meaningless, that comfort is the highest good. But Christ tells us:

“If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me.” (Luke 9:23)

Discipline is not an optional part of the Christian life—it is essential. Without it, the flesh remains untamed, and the soul remains enslaved to the body’s demands.

3. The Battle of the Will: The War for Total Surrender

Even when we have mastered our thoughts and disciplined our bodies, there remains the deepest and most painful struggle—the struggle to yield fully to the will of God.

Many souls resist this battle, preferring instead to bargain with God. They will serve Him, but only on their terms. They will give up serious sin, but they will not embrace heroic virtue. They will obey His commandments, but they will not surrender their entire lives. This manifests in three ways:

Clinging to personal attachments

A soul may have given up mortal sin, but still clings to something: a comfort, a habit, a relationship, a hidden pride. These attachments, however small, keep the soul from full union with God.

Constant bargaining with God

Instead of saying, “Lord, let Thy will be done,” the soul says, “Lord, I will follow Thee, but first let me…” This is the rich young man in the Gospel, who wanted to follow Christ but was unwilling to part with his wealth. He went away sad—not because Christ rejected him, but because he was not willing to let go.

Fear of abandonment to Divine Providence

A reluctance to trust that if one surrenders everything to God, He will provide. This fear keeps many souls in a state of half-hearted devotion. They want to trust God, but they hesitate, clinging to their own plans and securities.

But Christ tells us plainly:

“Seek ye therefore first the kingdom of God, and His justice, and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33)

Conclusion: Master Yourself, or Be Mastered

This is why Our Lord, at the very outset of His public ministry, withdrew into the desert and fasted for forty days. He did not need purification, but He willed to show us that victory begins with the subjugation of the flesh.

If we do not master ourselves, we will be ruled by our lower nature. If we do not discipline our bodies and minds, they will dictate our lives.

The man who cannot say no to himself will not be able to say yes to God.

“Since happiness is nothing else than the enjoyment of the supreme good, and the supreme good is above us, no one can enjoy happiness unless he rises above himself.”—Saint Bonaventure’s profound statement encapsulates the entire challenge of the spiritual life.

Modern man searches for happiness in himself, in self-fulfillment, in the satisfaction of personal desires, and in worldly achievements. Yet true happiness is not found in the self; it is found above the self. The supreme good—God Himself—dwells beyond the limitations of human nature, beyond earthly pleasures, beyond the fleeting joys of material success.

Thus, to attain happiness, man must rise above himself. He must transcend his lower nature, his selfish inclinations, his pride, and his attachment to passing things. This is the essence of the spiritual life: the soul must die to itself in order to live in God.

This is why self-mastery, self-denial, and self-abandonment are necessary. Happiness does not come through self-indulgence but through self-surrender. As Our Lord Himself teaches, “He that shall lose his life for My sake shall find it” (Matt. 16:25).

Lent, then, is the school of true happiness, for it is the season in which we learn to rise above ourselves. We fast, not merely to deny the body, but to free the soul from the tyranny of the flesh. We pray, not as an intellectual exercise, but to lift the heart beyond earthly distractions. We give alms, not merely to help others, but to loosen the grip of selfishness that chains us to this world.

If we remain bound to ourselves, we remain bound to misery. But if we rise above ourselves, if we detach from the false self and seek God alone, we will begin to taste the joy of the supreme good, even in this life.

This is why the saints, who suffered most in this world, were the most truly happy. They no longer sought happiness in themselves, but in God. They had risen above themselves—and in doing so, they had already begun to enjoy eternal happiness.

May we, through this Lenten journey, rise above ourselves and seek the supreme good, that we too may know the happiness for which we were created.

III. The Role of Grace: We Do Not Fight Alone

At this point, we must remember: we do not conquer ourselves by sheer willpower.

A. Two Errors in the Spiritual Battle

1. The Error of Despair: “I cannot be holy.”
2. The Error of Self-Reliance: “I must make myself holy.”

Both are wrong. We do not win by effort alone, nor do we remain in sin out of weakness. Instead, we rely on grace.

B. How to Rely on Grace

1. Prayer – Without daily prayer, the battle is already lost.
2. The Sacraments – Confession cleanses; the Eucharist strengthens.
3. Devotion to Our Lady – She who was never conquered by sin is the surest refuge in battle.

C. The Key to Victory: Surrender, Not Self-Sufficiency

There is a paradox at the heart of the Christian life: strength is found in surrender.

The saints did not achieve holiness through sheer determination. They achieved it through complete surrender to God’s grace.

• St. Augustine did not overcome his sins by effort alone—he surrendered to the love of Christ.
• St. Francis of Assisi did not become holy by his own will—he abandoned everything for God.
• St. Thérèse of Lisieux did not attain sanctity through great works—she entrusted herself entirely to divine mercy.

If we try to make ourselves saints, we will fail.

But if we let God do it—if we surrender completely, trusting in His grace, allowing Him to strip away everything that is not of Him—then sanctity will come, not by our own doing, but by His.

Through prayer, fasting, and self-denial, may we ascend beyond our fallen nature and seek our happiness in the Supreme Good—God Himself. For only when we abandon ourselves do we truly find ourselves; only when we lose our lives for Christ do we truly live.

Per Mariam ad Jesum!
May the Blessed Virgin Mary, the model of perfect surrender, guide us on this path to holiness, so that we may rise with Christ at Easter, ready to glorify God in all things.

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Lent Conferences 2025

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LENT: A TIME TO KNOW OURSELVES AND OUR NEED FOR REDEMPTION
By +Jerome, Primus of the Old Roman Apostolate

Introduction: The Inconvenient Truth of Lent

Modern man is a master of evasion. If there is one thing he cannot bear, it is silence. He must always have something—music, screens, chatter, distractions—to drown out the voice of conscience. He rushes about in a flurry of activity, as if by perpetual motion he could avoid that most dreadful of encounters: the confrontation with himself. He is like a man standing before a mirror but constantly adjusting the light so that he never quite sees the reflection staring back at him.

The modern world does not want you to know yourself. It would rather you lose yourself in an endless pursuit of trivialities. It tells you to indulge your every desire, to affirm yourself without question, to construct an identity based on fleeting emotions rather than immutable truth. The idea that man is a fallen creature, in desperate need of salvation, is simply intolerable to the progressive mind.

But this is nothing new. Fallen man has always sought to avoid the truth about himself. From the moment Adam hid in the garden, the human race has tried to escape self-knowledge. The world offers endless diversions, but at the end of the day, as every person facing death without faith discovers, the soul is still left alone with itself.

So how do we achieve this self-knowledge? How do we come to see what we truly are? Holy Mother Church, with a wisdom far surpassing the feeble intellects of our age, forces us—once a year—to stop, to strip away illusions, and to stand naked before the reality of what and who we are. That is what Lent is for. It is the season when we are called to abandon the artificial comforts that cushion our pride and to descend into the depths of our own souls. For unless we know ourselves, we cannot know our need for redemption. And unless we know our need for redemption, we cannot improve ourselves and we cannot weep on Good Friday nor rejoice on Easter Sunday.

The Church, in her collective wisdom gained through centuries of experience, provides the answer: through discipline, through suffering, through the stripping away of self-deception. Prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are not mere pious customs; they are weapons against the greatest enemy we will ever face—ourselves.

This is why Lent is so necessary. It is a time when we must take up the ancient weapons of the saints and do battle against the false self—the self that is proud, self-indulgent, and blind to its own misery.

True Self-Knowledge: Knowing Ourselves as Children of God

To know our true self is not merely to have an awareness of our strengths and weaknesses, nor is it simply to acknowledge our sins and failings. True self-knowledge is to know who and what we are as a child of God—to see ourselves as He sees us, as He created us, as He calls us to be.

The modern world teaches self-knowledge as a form of self-exploration, self-invention, or self-affirmation. We are told that identity is something we create, that truth is subjective, that we can be whatever we choose to be. But this is an illusion. The true self is not something we construct; it is something we receive. It is a gift, given by God.

A. Created by God, Called by God

From the very beginning, our identity has been given by God Himself. “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness” (Gen 1:26). This is the foundation of who we are—not autonomous individuals, not self-sufficient beings, but creatures formed by the very hands of God, stamped with His divine image, created for communion with Him.

But this is precisely what sin destroyed. Adam and Eve, in their pride, rejected their God-given identity. They desired to be as gods, determining for themselves what is good and evil, seeking self-sufficiency apart from their Creator. And ever since, mankind has been plagued by this same temptation—the temptation to define ourselves apart from God, to fashion our own image instead of conforming to His.

Yet even in our fallen state, God does not abandon us. He calls us back. He calls us to be who He created us to be, to reclaim our true identity as His children. And this is where true self-knowledge begins—not in introspection alone, but in relationship with Him.

B. Self-Knowledge in the Light of God

The world tells us to “look within” to find ourselves – to be “mindful” of our thoughts and feelings. But this is not enough. To truly know oneself, one must look outside of oneself and up—to God. We cannot know who we are until we know whose we are – that is – to know to whom we belong, where we came from and why we are here, in other words our purpose, our raison d’être, our “reason for being.”

This is why self-knowledge – apart from God – always leads to either pride or despair. If we rely solely on our own understanding, we will either deceive ourselves into thinking we are better than we are, or we will fall into despair when we see our weakness, or nihilism at the seeming futility of our existence. But when we see ourselves in the light of God, we see the truth—not only of our nothingness, but of our dignity, our calling, our redemption in Christ.

Consider the example of St. Peter. When Christ performed the miraculous catch of fish, Peter did not respond with excitement or pride. He fell to his knees and said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord” (Lk 5:8). He saw himself clearly—not in the light of his own understanding, but in the presence of Christ. And yet, Christ did not reject him. He called him. He lifted him up. “Fear not; from henceforth thou shalt catch men” (Lk 5:10).

So it is with us. True self-knowledge does not leave us in despair, but in humility—a humility that allows us to receive God’s call and follow Him.

Knowing Ourselves in Relation to God

To know oneself is not simply to know one’s individual qualities, talents, or personality traits. It is to know oneself in relation to God. This means understanding three fundamental truths:

1. We are creatures, utterly dependent on God.
2. We are sinners, in need of His mercy.
3. We are called to be saints, destined for eternal communion with Him.

A. We Are Creatures: Humility Before Our Creator

The first truth of self-knowledge is that we did not create ourselves. We are not the source of our own existence. Every breath we take, every moment of life is a gift from God. The modern world rejects this truth, promoting the illusion of self-sufficiency, but the Church reminds us: “What hast thou that thou didst not receive?” (1 Cor 4:7).

This is why pride is so deadly. It blinds us to our dependence on God. The man who thinks he is self-made, who believes he is in control, who imagines that he owes nothing to his Creator—such a man does not know himself at all. He is living in a lie.

This is why Lent is so necessary. It strips us of illusions, forcing us to acknowledge our frailty. Fasting reminds us that we are not sustained by bread alone. The ashes of Ash Wednesday remind us that we are dust. Every mortification, every discipline is a reminder of who we are before God—weak, dependent, yet infinitely loved.

B. We Are Sinners: The Reality of Our Need for Redemption

The second truth is even more difficult to accept. Not only are we creatures, but we are fallen creatures. We are sinners.

The world today hates the word “sin.” It prefers to speak of mistakes, struggles, misunderstandings. But sin is real. And sin is not merely an abstract concept—it is the corruption of the soul, the image of God in us, the turning away from God, the refusal to be who He created us to be in His likeness.

To know oneself is to know one’s sin. This is why the saints, who were the holiest of men and women, were also the most conscious of their unworthiness. They knew that without grace, they were nothing. St. Philip Neri used to pray, “Lord, beware of Philip today, lest he betray Thee.” St. Augustine cried out, “Lord, make me chaste—but not yet.” They knew themselves. And because they knew themselves, they knew their need for God’s mercy.

Lent is a time to enter into this same knowledge. It is a time to stand before God, as the Prodigal Son stood before his father, and say, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee” (Lk 15:21). But just as the father in the parable ran to embrace his son, so too does God run to embrace us—if only we have the humility to return to Him.

C. We Are Called to Be Saints: The Destiny of the True Self

The final truth is the most glorious of all. We are not just creatures. We are not just sinners. We are called to be saints.

God did not create us for mediocrity. He created us for holiness. He created us to share in His divine life, to be transformed into His image, to dwell with Him forever ad share in His glory. The true self is not just the person we are now—it is the person God calls us to become.

This is why the Church gives us the disciplines of Lent. Not to punish us, not to burden us, but to free us. Free us from sin, from attachments, from all that keeps us from being who we were created to be. The world tells us that freedom is doing whatever we want. The Church tells us that freedom is becoming who we were made to be. And true freedom requires discipline, purification, and suffering.

This is the great paradox: To know ourselves, we must lose ourselves. To become who we are meant to be, we must die to who we think we are. As Our Lord said, “Whosoever shall lose his life for my sake, shall find it” (Mt 16:25).

The Three Pillars of Self-Knowledge: Prayer, Fasting, and Almsgiving

The Church, being a wise mother, does not merely tell us to “know ourselves” and leave us floundering. She gives us three practical means to achieve this: prayer, fasting, and almsgiving.

A. Prayer: Seeing Oneself in the Light of God

Prayer is not about “feeling good.” It is not about emotional experiences or warm sentiments. True prayer is the act of standing before God in all one’s wretchedness, in all one’s smallness, and acknowledging, “Lord, without Thee, I am nothing.”

The saints teach that prayer is a school of humility. The more one prays, the more one sees oneself clearly. This is why the proud do not pray—they cannot bear the sight of their own souls when illuminated by divine light. They would rather remain in darkness than admit their own poverty.

This is also why modern man has abandoned true prayer in favour of “spirituality” and vague sentimentalism. He does not want a God who judges, who commands, who calls him to repentance. He wants a God who affirms, who soothes, who makes no demands. But such a god is an illusion, a projection of the ego, and it has nothing to do with the living God of Scripture and Tradition.

Thus, in Lent, we must return to true prayer—prayer that strips us bare, that makes us see ourselves as we are, and that forces us to cry out, like the publican in the Gospel, “Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

B. Fasting: The Discipline of the Flesh

The modern world has forgotten the value of fasting because it has forgotten the value of suffering. In an age obsessed with comfort, the very notion of voluntarily embracing discomfort is regarded as insanity.

And yet, the Church commands it. Why? Because fasting does something profound to the soul. It weakens the flesh, it subdues the passions, it makes us aware of our dependence on God. The man who fasts learns self-mastery; the man who refuses to fast remains a slave to his appetites.

There is a reason why the demons fear fasting. They know that a man who can say no to his stomach can also say no to sin. The saints tell us that fasting is a powerful means of conquering the passions. It exposes our attachments, reveals our weaknesses, and brings us face to face with the reality of our own limitations.

Thus, in Lent, fasting is not optional—it is essential. Without it, we will never learn self-control, and without self-control, we will never overcome ourselves.

C. Almsgiving: The Remedy for Selfishness

Finally, there is almsgiving—the forgotten virtue. In a world consumed by materialism, charity is seen as either a tax write-off or a sentimental act of self-congratulation. But true almsgiving is a death to self. It is an act of renunciation, a giving away of what we cling to, a breaking of the chains of selfishness.

Almsgiving is not just about money. It is about giving of oneself—one’s time, one’s patience, one’s kindness. It is about seeing Christ in one’s neighbour and acting accordingly. It is the final blow to the false self, the self that seeks only its own interests.

The Liturgy: The Great Teacher of Self-Knowledge

Lent is not merely a season of personal discipline; it is a journey through the Church’s liturgy. Each Mass, each reading, each chant is designed to lead us deeper into the mystery of our redemption.

On Ash Wednesday, the Church reminds us of our mortality: “Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.” These words are an antidote to pride, a stark reminder that all human glory is fleeting.

On the First Sunday of Lent, we see Christ in the desert, facing the temptations of the devil. He overcomes what Adam failed to overcome. This Gospel is a lesson in self-mastery, in obedience, in the necessity of resisting the deceits of the world.

As Lent progresses, the liturgy becomes more solemn. The statues are veiled, the chants become more sorrowful, the prayers more intense. The Church is preparing us for the great confrontation of Good Friday—the moment when we must stand before the Crucified Christ and ask ourselves: Do I truly know what He has done for me? Have I understood the price of my redemption?

Only the soul that has passed through the trials of Lent, that has confronted its own sinfulness, that has truly wept for its failings—only that soul will know the full joy of Easter morning.

The Cross and the Resurrection: The Ultimate Self-Revelation

The Christian life, my dear brethren, is not a philosophy or a moral system. It is not an ideology or a set of social teachings. It is, at its core, a participation in the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ. This means that Lent is not just about self-examination for its own sake—it is about preparing ourselves for the Cross, so that we might truly share in the Resurrection.

For modern man, suffering is something to be avoided at all costs. The world tells us to seek pleasure, comfort, and affirmation, and to reject anything that disturbs our sense of well-being. But the Church tells us something radically different. The Church tells us that suffering is necessary. Not because suffering is good in itself, but because through suffering, we are purified. Through suffering we come to recognize our helplessness and need for God. Through suffering, we come to know ourselves. Through suffering we come to know our strength. Through suffering, we are drawn out of our selfishness and into the mystery of Christ’s self-giving love. 

If we do not suffer with Christ, we cannot rise with Him. This is the lesson of the liturgy. The journey of Lent is a journey to Calvary, and there is no shortcut. Many souls want the joy of Easter without the agony of Good Friday, but that is not how Christianity works. To rise with Christ, we must first be crucified with Him.

The Hard Truth: We Are Either Saints or Slaves

Now, there is a very simple truth that many do not want to hear, but it must be said: You are either becoming a saint, or you are becoming a slave. There is no middle ground.

What do I mean by this? I mean that every choice we make is leading us in one of two directions: either toward God or away from Him. Every indulgence in sin, every act of self-deception, every compromise with the world makes us more enslaved to our body, the flesh, more enslaved to the devil, more enslaved to the illusions of our own self-sufficiency.

On the other hand, every act of discipline, every moment of self-denial, every sacrifice for the love of God makes us more free—free from the tyranny of our passions, free from the lies of the world, free from the chains of sin.

This is why the saints embraced suffering, not because they were masochists, but because they understood that the soul that refuses to suffer for Christ will inevitably suffer for the world. The man who refuses to fast for God – will become a slave to his stomach. The man who refuses to mortify his pride – will become a slave to the opinions of others. The man who refuses to give of himself in charity – will become a slave to his own greed and selfishness.

Lent is our opportunity to break free. It is our opportunity to make war against the false self, against the old Adam who clings to us like a corpse. And we make war not by our own strength, but by the grace of God, through the weapons of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving.

The Victory of the Resurrection: The Fruit of True Penance

Now, if we do this—if we truly embrace Lent as the Church intends—then when Easter morning comes, we will experience something that most of the world does not: true joy.

Not the fleeting, artificial happiness of the world, but the deep, unshakable joy that comes from having passed through death into life. This is what St. Paul means when he says, “If we suffer with Him, we shall also reign with Him” (2 Tim 2:12).

Easter is not just a day on the calendar. It is a reality in the soul. And only the soul that has suffered with Christ, that has confronted itself in Lent, that has wept at the foot of the Cross, will be able to stand before the empty tomb with a heart that is truly alive.

For those who have not lived Lent well, Easter will come and go as just another day. But for those who have fought the good fight, Easter will be an explosion of grace, a foretaste of the glory that awaits those who persevere to the end.

Conclusion: The Call to Choose—Now

So, my dear brethren, the choice is before us. Lent has begun. Will we use it? Will we take up our cross daily and follow Christ? Or will we pass through these forty days unchanged, as if they were nothing?

Make no mistake: how we live this Lent will determine how we experience Easter. If we do not mortify ourselves, if we do not fast, if we do not pray, if we do not give alms, if we do not make war on sin—then Good Friday will come, and we will not weep. Easter will come, and we will not rejoice.

But if we embrace this season with humility and courage—if we allow ourselves to be stripped, purified, and emptied—then, when the bells of Easter ring out and the Gloria resounds once more, we will know in our hearts that we have truly passed from death to life.

Let us then ask Our Blessed Mother, who stood at the foot of the Cross with perfect faith, to intercede for us. Let us ask her to help us know ourselves as we truly are, that we may know our need for her Son, and that we may one day share in His Resurrection.

In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

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Lent Conferences 2025

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