February 10, 2026 // FEATURE

The Climb to Ash Wednesday

Father Patrick Briscoe

Being from northern Indiana, I’ve never lived on a hill. In fact, when I was younger, I often wondered why people bothered to build houses on hills. There were, after all, plenty of flat places that seemed to my 6- or 7-year-old mind much more amenable to construction.

When I first began ministry, I lived on a hill in Providence, Rhode Island. Truth be told, I didn’t think much of it, because as a parish priest I had a car.

But now I live on a hill in Rome, and I’m keenly aware of it. I strategically plan every outing, because to leave the Dominican community where I live and go anywhere in the city means I must walk down our hill. And even if the walk down isn’t bad, I’ll have to walk back up our hill to return home!

The Aventine Hill is one of Rome’s famous seven hills. It’s located on the Tiber River and boasts spectacular views of the Eternal City. In the ancient myths of the founding of Rome, the Aventine is the hill on which Remus, brother of Romulus, offered his sacrifice to his pagan gods. Long before the coming of Christ, there were temples to other gods here and many houses belonging to Rome’s wealthy merchant class.

One of those ancient Roman noblewomen, according to the Church’s venerable tradition, was Sabina. She attributed her conversion to Christianity to the witness of her slave, Serapia, who was from Antioch.

When Serapia was denounced as a Christian and martyred, Sabina buried her in her family’s own tomb. Rather than retreat in fear, Sabina claimed her servant’s relics, buried them honorably, and openly professed her new faith. For this, she too was denounced, tried, and beheaded under Emperor Hadrian around the year A.D. 126.

Centuries later, a priest from Illyria (today’s Balkan peninsula) would build, at great expense, a marvelous basilica on the Aventine Hill in St. Sabina’s honor. Dedicated in A.D. 422, the basilica is graced with magnificent Corinthian columns, topped with marble inlay depictions of the banner of the Legion of Rome. But the Christians made one change to banners: they added crosses.

In fact, Santa Sabina is home to the oldest-known public depiction of Jesus Christ crucified. The basilica’s grand antique carved cypress doors date to A.D. 432. And in the upper left corner, on a small panel measuring 16 inches wide and 12 inches high, hangs Our Lord between two thieves.

Seminarians from the Pontifical North American College attend an early morning Ash Wednesday Mass at the Basilica of Santa Sabina in Rome in Rome Feb. 17. (CNS photo/Paul Haring) (Feb. 17, 2010) See STATION-CHURCHES Feb. 17, 2010.

I love the basilica, and not just because it’s been a major center for the Dominican Order since it was given to us in 1220.

I love the basilica because of her story.

Some scholars think her marvelous columns were reused from a nearby pagan temple. Other elements of our medieval Dominican cloister were certainly recovered from nearby sites and recycled. In her stones down to her very foundation, Santa Sabina captures the moment when Christianity began to transform the old-world order – adapting its architectural forms and repurposing its materials. The basilica is an intersection, a monument to the change the Gospel makes in a place.

I often marvel at the fact that there aren’t other older public depictions of the crucifixion. Surely there were some, long since lost to the memory of time. But it could be that it simply took hundreds of years for Christians to begin to understand the power of the cross. To recognize that the key to Christ’s triumph isn’t in worldly power or conquest. Christ came to build a different empire, to make us citizens of a different kingdom.

That’s why Santa Sabina is an ideal starting place for Lent. Each year, the pope comes to our basilica on Ash Wednesday, following a venerable tradition, to receive ashes and impose them on the cardinals present.

The climb to Santa Sabina itself mirrors the spiritual ascent inaugurated in our 40 days of fasting and prayer. From the foot of the Aventine, pilgrims must make their way upward, an effort that symbolizes our Lenten journey. Through penance, prayer, and self-denial, we ascend, leaving behind those things that hinder and impede.

It’s that journey that carves the cross in us, that leaves the mark of Christ on our hearts. Just like the love of Christ changed Sabina’s life nearly 2,000 years ago, the love of Christ can change our lives, too.

We may be hesitant at first. I still thoroughly assess whether or not I really want to make the climb every time I step out the door. But now I’m in much better shape after a few months of living on the hill. It’s changing me, and I can feel it. It’s the promise of Lent, the promise of the Gospel. The promise of life lived with Christ.

Father Patrick Briscoe, a Fort Wayne native, is a Dominican priest and the order’s general promoter for social communication.