THE LAW DOES NOT MAKE GOODNESS; GOODNESS MAKES THE LAW

 THE ORDER THAT LOVES

There is a music that was never written, yet it resounds in every star. A melody older than time, firmer than stone, and subtler than the wind. That music is divine order.

And the first thing that must be said—with the solemnity of a bell at dawn—is that this order is not imposition, but love. It is not the tyranny of cold logic, but the perfect outpouring of a wisdom that loves what it creates and creates what it loves. God does not command because He desires to be obeyed, but because everything that exists has a place, a form, and a purpose. Because every thing must be what it is, and not something else.

GOODNESS IS THE SOURCE, NOT THE RESULT

That is why goodness is not born of commandment. It is the commandment that is born of goodness. The law is not a hammer but a tuned string. God does not arbitrarily decree what is right; He reveals it. He reveals it as the law of gravity reveals itself to the one who falls, or the law of fire to the one who touches the flame. Only this fire does not destroy—it purifies.

God, who is eternal order, does not command out of will to power, but out of perfection of being. And the law—the true law, which burns like a fixed star in the vault of the soul—is simply the radiance of that order reflected in the intelligence of man. It is not a rule that restricts; it is a form that reveals. Not a chain that binds, but a map that guides.

THE ORDERED NATURE OF MAN

And here is where sin shows itself for what it is. Not a mere act of disobedience, as if God were irritated by an administrative oversight. But something far deeper and more tragic: a voluntary act of disorder, a rejection of intelligible good, a betrayal of the very nature of man. For man was made for something. He has a purpose. He is not a leaf blown by chance, but a rational creature oriented toward the Good, made in the image of Wisdom.

To sin, then, is not merely to transgress an instruction, but to deviate from the end. It is, as Aquinas said, aversio a Deo et conversio ad creaturam. And not by accident, but by a twisted choice of the soul, which—though it could follow the light—chooses the shadow.

God does not impose this end. He impresses it. Like a sculptor who does not force the stone, but frees it. Like a musician who does not dominate the notes, but gives them their place. Such is divine order: not tyrannical, but generous. It does not constrain—it defines. It does not reduce—it elevates.

FREEDOM ACCORDING TO PURPOSE

Our age—so proud of its freedom and so confused about its meaning—has inverted everything. It thinks the law is a limit imposed from without, rather than the expression of what we are within. It believes that obeying a law is the abdication of freedom, when in fact it is its very condition. For only he is free who is free for the good, just as only the train that follows the rails is fast.

Sin, on the other hand, promises freedom but gives vertigo. It promises flight but lets go of the wings. It is, in essence, an act against being. Against one’s own being. It is to choose not to be what we were called to be. It is to betray the secret architecture of the soul, which was made to love, to know, to adore.

That is why every true law is not an invention, but a window. It shows us the world as it was meant to be. And every true morality is not a list of duties, but an echo of the primal Good that gives form to all that lives.

CONCLUSION: TO SIN IS TO LOSE THE MUSIC

The law does not make goodness. Goodness makes the law. And not by human logic, but by divine radiance. The law is not the beginning; it is the consequence. The root is Love, and the branch is order. God does not command good things—things are good because they flow from Him.

And the sinner does not simply break a rule. He breaks the bond with his end, the thread that tied him to his fullness. He strays from his true form, like an abandoned temple, like a song that drifts from its key.

The most tragic thing about sin is not that it offends God like a subject offends a king. The most tragic thing is that it rejects the God who wanted us to be happy by being what we are.

And the most glorious thing about the divine law is not that it punishes, but that it points the way to perfection.

SAINT JOSEPH, THE JUST MAN

 

In the quiet of the house, where the adobe whispers,

rested the man of wood and palm,

his face serene beneath the infinite gaze

of the Son who once gave him life.

His soul ascended,

like fragrant incense,

and the peace within him echoed eternity.

His hands, worn by the weight of time,

were entwined in silent prayer,

like roots seeking the deep earth,

close to the dream of eternal love.

In them, the sweat of truth;

in his fingers, the pulse of a God made flesh.

His eyes, two gentle flames,

bore witness to a boundless love.

In his chest beat the peace

that flowed from the breath of creation.

And in his gaze rested the echo

of all the centuries to come.

He, the just man, the guardian of the Word,

under the humble roof of Nazareth.

Beside him, the Virgin,

who guarded each step with tenderness,

her hands full of life’s sweetness,

her soul a fulfilled promise.

The Son, the Savior,

rested in her embrace,

while Joseph, in silence,

knew that the weight of the world

had rested upon his shoulders.

Remember, Joseph, the roads of old,

the journey to Bethlehem, the guiding star,

and the flight in the shadows,

where dreams became voices that saved.

The tent of linen, the humble poverty,

the angel whispering in the silent night.

A simple man,

his heart filled with faith,

yet his eyes open to the divine mystery

that dwelled within his home.

And in the workshop, the hammer rang,

the crackling fire sang its hymn—

the hymn of sacrifice,

of a life lived for another,

of a soul that chose the shadows

in service of the Light.

The bed grew heavier,

Joseph’s breath slowed,

and the angels, unable to hold back their joy,

gathered at the threshold,

almost touching his soul.

The Virgin looked upon her husband with infinite tenderness,

the Lamb lifted His gaze,

and in that moment,

the glory long awaited by Heaven

became tangible.

—“My father,”— spoke the Son,

“your justice has paved my path,

your faith has upheld the very foundation of the earth.”

And Joseph, his voice trembling,

answered the Son of the Promise:

—“My Son, my glory is your gaze,

my life has been a witness to your light.

I am but dust,

yet in You, I found my everything.

You have been my purpose,

and my offering is your will.”

Joseph looked, one last time,

at the light streaming through the window.

The sun rose in its strength,

and a deep peace covered the room.

The heavens opened,

the radiance of the Holy Spirit filled the chamber,

and a choir of angels sang in his honor.

Joseph, the foster father,

the man made great in his humility,

fell into the sleep of the just.

And as his soul ascended to the Throne of the Lamb,

glory wrapped around him like a resplendent mantle,

and all of Heaven, in its magnificence,

proclaimed him the protector of the Holy Family.

Saint Joseph, now glorified,

was seated at the right hand of the King,

on an eternal throne,

greater than any crown,

whose brilliance shone beyond the sun,

and whose name was spoken with reverence

by every angel and saint in heaven.

OMO

PRAYER TO SAINT JOSEPH

Glorious Patriarch Saint Joseph, whose power makes impossible things possible, come to my aid in these moments of anguish and difficulty. Take under your protection the grave and difficult situations I entrust to you, so that they may have a good solution. My beloved Father, all my trust is in you. Let it not be said that I have called upon you in vain, and, as you can do all things with Jesus and Mary, show me that your goodness is as great as your power. Amen.

THE WOMAN

 

THE HOLY LENT: A TIME TO WAKE UP

THE CHURCH’S CALL TO CONVERSION AND TRUE FREEDOM

We live in an age that prides itself on being constantly informed but cannot bear to be reminded of the simplest truth of all: that man has a soul and that, sooner or later, he will have to account for it.

Modern society is like a man walking down a dark road, refusing to admit that he cannot see. Instead of stopping, lighting a lamp, and finding his bearings, he decides to keep walking blindly, trusting that, somehow, he will not fall into the abyss. And if someone tries to warn him, he gets angry and replies that there is no abyss, that the only thing that exists is the ground beneath his feet, and that worrying about what cannot be seen is the business of old-fashioned people.

But the truth does not disappear just because one refuses to see it. The Church, with the wisdom of one who has witnessed centuries of human folly, never tires of reminding us. And it does so with a persistence that is nothing less than a mother’s love: calling us to conversion, reflection, and repentance.

Because Lent is not merely a tradition, a liturgical season, or a custom we maintain out of habit. It is a call to wake up.

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LENT AND SPIRITUAL AWAKENING

One of the great problems of modern man is not that he is a sinner (for he always has been) but that he has stopped believing in sin. It is not that he does wrong; it is that he no longer calls it wrong. He has changed the meaning of words, found excuses, and sought justifications.

But words do not change reality. One can call injustice an “error,” a vice a “distraction,” or slavery “freedom.” One can avoid pronouncing the word “sin,” but sin remains, with all its consequences.

That is why the Church insists on Lent: so that man remembers that his soul is not an ornament, but the most important part of himself.

The world gives us countless reasons to forget the essential. It distracts us with noise, entertains us with trivialities, and invites us to worry about everything except what truly matters. And in the midst of all this clamor, the Church speaks with the clear and firm voice of one who knows the truth:

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

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CONFESSION: RETURNING TO THE TRUTH

Waking up is only the first step. Because if a man opens his eyes and realizes he is covered in filth, he must cleanse himself. That is what confession is.

But here lies the great difficulty: modern man hates admitting that he is wrong. He prefers any explanation over accepting his guilt. He would rather say that “everyone does the same,” that “nobody is perfect,” or that “we shouldn’t judge.”

However, confession is not a humiliation but a liberation. It is the moment when we stop deceiving ourselves and face the truth with courage. It is the most honest act possible because, in it, a man stops justifying himself and acknowledges who he truly is.

There is no greater relief than that of a soul that has been forgiven. The man who carries his sins without confessing them is like one who bears an invisible weight on his shoulders—he cannot see it, but he feels it. And when he finally lays it down, he realizes how free he could have been all along.

The Church offers this gift generously, not as a punishment, but as an invitation to true peace.

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FASTING AND MORTIFICATION: DISCIPLINE FOR THE SOUL

The world tells us that the only thing that matters is pleasure, that life should be comfortable and easy, that depriving oneself of something is foolish. But the world does not understand the difference between comfort and freedom.

A man who cannot say “no” to himself is not free. He is a slave to his own impulses. He is a ship without a rudder, carried away by the winds of his desires.

Fasting and mortification are not the Church’s whims or senseless traditions. They are exercises for the soul, ways of learning to master oneself. Just as an athlete trains his body to make it stronger, the Christian trains his spirit to make it more resilient.

Fasting is not just about giving up meat or skipping a meal. It is about learning to renounce what is immediate in order to attain what is eternal. It is about remembering that the body does not rule over the soul but must serve it.

Modern society believes that true freedom is doing whatever one wants. The Church teaches us that true freedom is being the master of oneself.

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WHAT DO WE GAIN FROM LENT?

The world sees Lent as a time of deprivation, but in reality, it is a time of gain.

1. We gain clarity.

• We shake off spiritual laziness.

• We stop being distracted by meaningless things.

• We confront the reality of our soul.

2. We gain grace.

• We reconcile with God.

• We free ourselves from the burden of sin.

• We recover the inner peace that the world can never provide.

3. We gain true freedom.

• We learn to master our desires.

• We strengthen ourselves spiritually.

• We prepare for the joy of Easter.

Because that is the key to everything: Lent does not end in mortification but in resurrection. It is not a path that closes in penance, but one that opens to eternal life.

The world seeks happiness in a thousand directions, but the Church shows us the only sure path: to die with Christ so that we may rise with Him.

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CONCLUSION: THE CHURCH AND THE TRUTH THAT NEVER CHANGES

In a world that constantly changes its opinions, the Church remains. Not because it is stubborn, but because the truth does not change.

Every Lent, the Church reminds us of the same things it has told generations before us:

• That life is not just material, but spiritual.

• That death is not the end, but the beginning of eternity.

• That sin is real, but so is God’s mercy.

The world will try to convince us that all of this is exaggerated, that there is no need to think about it, that living with one’s eyes set on Heaven makes no sense. But the world is also full of men who, in the last moments of their lives, would have wished they had listened more attentively.

Let us take advantage of Lent. Not just as a liturgical season but as what it truly is: a golden opportunity to wake up, cleanse our souls, and prepare for the only thing that truly matters.

THE AWAKENING OF CECILIA: THE LEGACY OF A MATURE WOMAN

I. A CRISIS YEARS IN THE MAKING

Dr. Velazco’s office had the air of a place that had witnessed too many souls searching for answers. There were no framed motivational quotes, no soft music playing in the background—only a dark wooden bookshelf filled with worn-out books and a bronze crucifix dominating the room with its imposing presence.

Cecilia sat in the farthest chair, like someone who had arrived late to an appointment with herself. She dressed with the elegance of a woman who had never allowed her world to completely fall apart, yet her posture betrayed something—a weight invisible to the eye, the wear of years of unspoken words.

Dr. Velazco closed a notebook and observed her patiently.

—How can I help you, Cecilia?

She sighed, an exhausted exhalation that seemed to come from the deepest part of her being.

—I don’t know, Doctor. But something isn’t right.

Velazco nodded, as if he had heard that phrase too many times before.

—What do you feel?

Cecilia drummed her fingers on her purse before responding.

—I don’t feel anything. Or rather, I don’t feel what I should. I did everything right. I was a good wife, raised my children, kept the house, went to Mass on Sundays. But now, nothing makes sense.

The doctor intertwined his fingers.

—How long have you been feeling this way?

She looked at the ceiling, as if the answer were written among the beams.

—I don’t know… A year? Five? Maybe more. Sometimes I think it all started when I stopped being needed. My children are adults now, they have their own lives. Vicente and I… well, we’re together, but we could just as well not be, and nothing would change.

Velazco picked up his pen but didn’t write anything.

—Do you still love him?

Cecilia shifted in her seat.

—I think so. Or at least, I think I would if I knew how. But he’s not the same. We used to talk, argue, laugh. Now we just inform each other about things: ‘I bought bread,’ ‘I’ll be late,’ ‘We’re out of coffee.’ Is that all that remains after 30 years? A news bulletin?

The doctor smiled slightly.

—And what do you do to change it?

Cecilia frowned.

—Me? Nothing. Isn’t he supposed to do something too?

Velazco picked up a book by Saint Thomas Aquinas and opened it with studied calm.

—Cecilia, Saint Thomas says that love is an act of the will, not a fleeting emotion. Do you know what that means?

She shook her head.

—It means you’re waiting to feel before acting, when in reality, you must act in order to feel.

Cecilia scoffed.

—Are you saying I should pretend everything is fine until I believe it?

The doctor shook his head.

—No. I’m saying that love doesn’t die all at once. It falls asleep. And what falls asleep can be awakened. But someone has to do it first.

II. THE INVISIBLE CRISIS: WHEN A WOMAN QUESTIONS WHO SHE IS

Cecilia remained silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze and let out a confession she had never spoken aloud before:

—Doctor… what if this isn’t just about Vicente? What if the problem is me?

Dr. Velazco rested his elbows on the desk, attentive.

—Go on.

Cecilia felt a lump in her throat.

—I’m afraid. Afraid that I’ve lost something I don’t even know if I ever had.

—What do you mean?

—That… I don’t know who I am anymore. I spent years being a mother, a wife, a daughter… and now I’m none of those things in the same way. I feel invisible.

Velazco observed her calmly.

—Why invisible?

—Because I’m no longer at the center of anything. My children don’t need me like before. My husband feels like a stranger. I’m no longer young, no longer desirable, no longer essential to anyone.

The doctor picked up an old volume of Saint John Chrysostom and leafed through it unhurriedly.

—Cecilia, do you know what Saint John Chrysostom said about mature women?

She shook her head.

Velazco read aloud:

“The woman who has walked the path of motherhood and marriage does not become a soul in disuse, but the pillar that upholds the faith of generations. If she falters, everything falters. If she stands firm, everything stands firm.”

Cecilia shivered.

—Are you saying my role isn’t over?

Velazco nodded.

—Exactly. Until now, your life has been about building a family. Now your life is about sustaining it.

—But if my children are already grown…

—Now they need your guidance.

A heavy silence followed. Cecilia swallowed hard.

—I never thought of myself that way.

—Because modernity has made you believe that a woman’s worth is measured only by what she produces or how she looks. But your greatness lies in what you transmit, in what you protect, in what you leave behind.

—Then… what should I do?

Dr. Velazco looked at her firmly.

—First, recognize that your life is not over; it has entered its most important stage.

—Second, abandon the idea that your mission was only to raise children. Your mission now is to ensure that your home does not lose the faith.

—Third, embrace your role as the pillar of your family—the woman who will keep the light burning in times of darkness.

Cecilia felt the weight of truth pressing on her chest, but it was a different kind of weight—not the weight of anguish, but the weight of a mission.

—I had never seen it that way…

—Because no one had ever told you. But now you know. And now, you must act.

III. THE FIRST STEP

That night, Cecilia arrived home. Vicente was sitting on the couch, his gaze fixed on the television.

She stood in the doorway, looking at him with new eyes. He wasn’t a stranger. He was the man God had placed by her side to walk together until eternity.

She approached him slowly and sat beside him.

—Vicente.

He looked up, surprised.

—Yes?

Cecilia took a deep breath.

—I want us to start praying together for our family.

Vicente raised an eyebrow.

—Pray?

—Yes. It’s our turn to uphold our family.

He watched her in silence for a moment, then nodded.

That night, Cecilia ceased to be a woman in crisis and became the guardian of her home.

There was nothing left to wait for. It was her time to act.

OMO

THE LITTLE GIRL WHO INSPIRED THE CHANGE IN THE AGE FOR RECEIVING COMMUNION

Who helped inspire Pope Pius X to lower the age for First Communion?

Ellen Organ never reached the age of five, yet her love for the Blessed Sacrament elevated her to the heights of holiness.

Born in County Waterford, Ireland, in 1903, Ellen Organ—better known as Nellie—was the fourth child of poor but deeply devout Catholic parents. Her father, facing unemployment early in his marriage, chose to become a soldier in the British Army rather than emigrate. The family was stationed first in Waterford, then in Cork.

Nellie's mother, Mary, died of tuberculosis in early 1907, and William—faced with the reality that he could not work and care for his children—placed them in the care of religious communities. Nellie went to stay with the Good Shepherd Sisters, along with her sister Mary.

Here the "little violet of the Blessed Sacrament" spent the rest of her life, both in profound suffering and in holiness that seemed beyond her years. Her angelic disposition and Heaven-sent intuition about spiritual things endeared her to the sisters and convinced them that this was a very special child.

Nellie had a tender love for "Holy God," as she had always called Him. She was particularly drawn to the Blessed Sacrament and knew from the beginning exactly what—or rather, who—this Sacrament was. She loved seeing Our Lord enthroned in the monstrosity, and she longed to receive Him. She would ask those who had been at Mass to kiss her so that she could somehow participate in their Communions.

But Nellie suffered a serious spinal injury, caused by a fall as a baby. This injury would cause her terrible pain, yet she did not complain, enduring everything with fortitude even though she was unable to walk much of the time and had to be carried. A painful jaw disease and, eventually, tuberculosis would also bring her life to an early end.

In view of her probable death and her deep understanding of the sacraments and the truths of the faith, Nellie was able to receive her Confirmation, First Confession, and First Communion, even though she was far below the normal age. Her ecstasy upon receiving Our Lord for the first time and each time thereafter—32 times in total—was heavenly.

Little Nellie died in February 1908. Around this time, a white-robed man in Rome had been considering lowering the age for Holy Communion. According to a monsignor familiar with the matter, Pope Pius X heard about little Nellie and, turning to his cardinal secretary, said, "There! That's the sign I've been waiting for!"

Quam Singulari, the decree lowering the age for First Communion, was promulgated in 1910.