Commemorating 150 Years of Catholic Schools from Ogden to Provo

This morning, something timeless stirs along the Wasatch Front.

From  Ogden’s morning mist to Draper’s golden foothills, the Catholic schools of the Salt Lake Diocese pause their daily rhythms. Hallways quiet. Classrooms empty. Students and teachers step out of routine and into reverence.

Sanctuaries are set. Choirs warm their voices. And in each of these sacred spaces — whether our great Cathedral of the Madeline or the gymnasium at Juan Diego — the sacred mystery of the Eucharist begins the remembering of a legacy.

Today we are not simply holding a Mass.

We are gathering in gratitude for 150 years of Catholic education in Utah — a century and a half of courage, service, sacrifice, and faith that defied odds and built something holy.

From a Desert Beginning

It all began in 1875, when Mother August and Sister Raymond and two other Sisters of the Holy Cross stepped onto Utah soil at the request of Father Lawrence Scanlan. In a territory where Catholicism was still foreign, and where the land itself seemed inhospitable, they opened St. Mary’s Academy in Salt Lake City — and with it, the doors of possibility.

They taught with resolve and nursed with tenderness, establishing not only the first Catholic school, but a vision: that education, grounded in the Gospel, could change everything.

That vision caught fire.

Across the decades, parishes and religious orders planted schools in Park City, Ogden, Tooele, and later along the southern stretch of the Salt Lake Valley — each one a sanctuary for the children of immigrants, miners, laborers, and dreamers.

These schools didn’t emerge from power or wealth. They rose from faith and necessity — from the belief that every child deserves to know they are loved, to be taught not just facts, but dignity.

A Different Kind of Learning

From the beginning, Utah’s Catholic schools were not designed merely to compete academically, but to form souls.

Here, math is taught — but so is mercy.

Here, grammar is practiced — and so is grace.

Here, theology is studied — but more importantly, it is lived.

These schools invite students not simply to learn about Christ, but to encounter Him — in one another, in their doubts, in their service, and in the still, small whisper that says, “You are mine.” (Isaiah 43:1)

And what makes these schools different is not just their cross-lined logos or their prayers before lunch.

What makes them different is their spiritual memory — a way of seeing every child, every question, every failure, and every act of kindness as sacramental.

“The Kingdom of God is within you.” — Luke 17:21

What the Wasatch Has Witnessed

Over the past 150 years, these sixteen schools — strung like beads along the Wasatch Front — have held more than academics.

They have carried the grief of parents and the joy of graduations. They have welcomed refugees, buried saints, challenged injustice, and wrestled with change.

They have endured wars, depressions, cultural shifts, and most recently, a pandemic.

Yet still, the bell rings.

Still, the children come.

Still, the faith is passed on — not like a rulebook, but like a flame.

To the Students in the Pews Today

If you find yourself in a pew this morning, wondering what all this is for — know this:

You are part of a story older than your textbooks.

You are a living page in the Gospel.

You are why we teach.

You are why we pray.

You are why this mission endures.

No one expects perfection from you.

What we hope for — what we believe in — is your awakening.

Your quiet courage.

Your stubborn hope.

Your gentle heart.

You belong to a tradition that says your life matters — not for what you achieve, but because of who you already are:

a beloved child of God, made in His image, and called into His mystery.

“You are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus.” — Ephesians 2:10

What Still Grows

The schools that began with chalk and candles now thrive with smartboards and science labs — but their soul remains unchanged.

They are still places where faith is not enforced, but invited.

Where teachers are not gatekeepers, but guides.

Where the Mass is not a ritual to endure, but a mystery to enter.

And this morning, across sixteen campuses, we return to that mystery — not to impress, but to remember.

To gather what is broken and bless it.

To lift up what has been lost and let it teach us.

To offer thanks for what endures — not in structures, but in hearts.

And to say once more, as those Sisters did 150 years ago:

We are here for Christ.

We are here for the children.

We are here for love.

Amen.

Happy Anniversary, everyone!