Brief Background:

St. Scholastica (c. 480–547) was the twin sister of St. Benedict of Nursia, the father of Western monasticism. She consecrated her life to God and is regarded as the foundress of Benedictine women’s monasticism. Though little is recorded about her life, she is remembered for her deep prayer, wisdom, and spiritual authority.

One of the most famous stories about her tells of a final visit with her brother. Wanting to continue their spiritual conversation, Scholastica prayed that they might remain together longer. A sudden storm arose, preventing Benedict from leaving. Benedict later recognized that Scholastica’s request was granted because her prayer flowed from love—a love that trusted God completely. She died shortly thereafter, and Benedict saw her soul ascend to heaven in the form of a dove.

St. Scholastica is the patron saint of Benedictine nuns, education and learning (especially in Benedictine schools), and those seeking God through prayer and community

REFLECTION:

This past weekend, the news about St. Anthony School spread quickly: the high school will be closing, and the school will continue as a preschool through middle school. Almost immediately, social media filled with responses—sadness, confusion, questions, memories. Alumni wondered what would happen to their reunions and celebrations. Parents worried about what comes next. Others rushed to assumptions, and as always, some were quick to assign blame—to the Church, to administrators, to leadership.

That impulse to blame is human. When something we love feels like it’s being taken away, we look for someone to hold responsible. But that conversation is for another time.

What matters most right now is this: the sadness is real, and it deserves to be honored.

For me, this news is not abstract. I served at St. Anthony Church and School on Maui as a parochial vicar for four years. I walked those halls, prayed with that community, and had the privilege of teaching junior and senior religion classes. I sat with students as they asked real questions about faith, purpose, doubt, and hope. I watched young people grow—not just academically, but spiritually. So this loss is personal. It touches memory, ministry, and relationships that still matter deeply.

And that’s why it’s important to name what we’re really grieving.

When people grieve the closing of a school, they are rarely grieving bricks and buildings. They are grieving belonging. They are grieving friendships formed in hallways, teachers who believed in them, laughter on the field, prayers in the classroom, and moments when they discovered who they were becoming.

St. Anthony School was never just a place. It was a gathering point.

And that’s where Scripture quietly speaks into this moment. When Solomon dedicated the Temple, he made a stunning confession: God does not live in the Temple. Even the highest heavens cannot contain Him. God hears from heaven. The Temple is not a container for God—it is a meeting place. A space where people gather, where hearts turn toward God, where relationship is nurtured.

In the same way, a school—especially a Catholic school—is not holy because of its buildings. It is holy because of the people who passed through it, the relationships formed, the values planted, the faith awakened.

St. Anthony School still lives in its students, past and present. It lives in alumni wherever they now raise families, teach, serve, and lead. It lives in parents who carry its values into their homes. It lives in teachers whose lessons echo long after graduation. God’s presence was never confined to a campus on Maui. And neither is the spirit of this school.

This is the deeper truth of our faith: God’s presence is no longer tied to one place. Prayer becomes portable. Faith travels. Relationship matters more than location. What once gathered in one physical space is now scattered—not lost, but sent.

And perhaps this moment, painful as it is, invites us to trust that what was formed there was never meant to stay put. The meeting place may change, but the mission continues. The walls may close in one way, but the community does not disappear—it disperses, carrying with it the same heart, the same spirit, the same God who was never contained by walls in the first place.

Loss is real. Grief is real. But so is hope—because God has always met His people on the move. And He still does.