MSI Press Blog

  Catholics venerate the Cross because, in Catholic dogma, the Cross is not merely the instrument of Christ’s death but the place where the entire mystery of salvation is accomplished. Veneration is not worship of an object; it is reverence for what God did through it. The Cross as the Center of Salvation Catholic teaching holds that Christ’s Passion is the decisive act by which humanity is redeemed. The Cross is therefore: the altar of the New Covenant, where Christ offers Himself to the Father the instrument of victory, where sin, death, and the devil are defeated the revelation of divine love, where God shows the full extent of His mercy This is why St. Paul can say, “We preach Christ crucified” and “May I never boast except in the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.” The Cross is not an unfortunate detail in the story of Jesus; it is the hinge of the entire Christian faith. Why Catholics Venerate (Not Worship) the Cross Catholic dogma makes a clear distinction: Worship (latria)...

  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...

  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...