MSI Press Blog

  Walk into a parish hall on a Lenten Friday and you’ll often find the same scene: steaming pots of soup, simple bread, people chatting softly, kids running underfoot, and a sense of gentle community. But why soup? And why Fridays? The answer is beautifully simple—and deeply rooted in the spirit of Lent. 1. Fridays are days of communal sacrifice During Lent, Catholics abstain from meat on Fridays as a small act of solidarity with Christ’s sacrifice. It’s not about dieting; it’s about choosing simplicity so the heart can pay attention to what matters most. Soup—humble, nourishing, and meatless—fits the day perfectly. It’s a meal that reflects the Church’s call to detachment and simplicity during this season . 2. Soup suppers turn fasting into fellowship Lent can be a solitary journey, but it was never meant to be lonely. Parish soup dinners transform a day of penance into a moment of community: sharing a simple meal supporting one another in the Lenten journey creating s...

If you walk into a Catholic church during Lent, you’ll often see people quietly moving from station to station, pausing before small images on the wall. This ancient practice—the Stations of the Cross —is one of the most beloved Lenten devotions in the Church. But what exactly is it, and why do Catholics do it? 1. A pilgrimage without leaving your parish The Stations of the Cross are 14 moments from Jesus’ Passion , beginning with His condemnation by Pilate and ending with His burial. Early Christians in Jerusalem walked the actual path Jesus took to Calvary. Over time, as travel became impossible for most people, the Church brought the pilgrimage home. Parishes installed “stations” so the faithful could walk with Christ spiritually, even if they could never set foot in the Holy Land. It’s a pilgrimage of the heart. 2. A way of slowing down the Passion The Gospels tell the story of Good Friday with stark simplicity. The Stations invite us to linger —to notice the falls, the face...

  I’ve stopped straightening the pictures on my walls. I used to try. Every few days I’d walk through the house, nudging frames back into alignment, restoring some sense of order. But living at the intersection of three faults means the earth has its own opinions. With nearly a small earthquake every day, the walls shift, the nails tilt, and the pictures lean again — each at its own angle, as if hung by a distracted curator. Eventually I surrendered. My walls are a gallery of slightly crooked memories, always in motion. On Sunday I noticed the same thing at the Mission. The Stations of the Cross — high up, heavy, and reverent — are also hanging at their own quiet angles. Not wildly askew, just… unsettled. A degree here, a tilt there. The kind of thing you only notice if you’ve lived long enough in a place where the ground never fully rests. No one bothers to straighten them. Why would they? The next tremor will undo the effort. The earth will have the last word. And somehow, t...