It would already be appropriate, I believe, to say that these past few months of mine and my family’s life have been a multitude of challenges stacked back-to-back. Without going into too much detail, multiple hospitalizations, turbulent family experiences, bittersweet trips to new and exciting places, old chapters closed and new ones opened have been part of the reason I have not been writing as consistently as I wish to.
The only way to more appropriately contextualize this period of life is by specifying that the entirety of this Lent has been quite a difficult time.
In last year’s Easter-time piece Reflections on an Afternoon in Jerusalem, which is to this day, still one of my favorite pieces of mine, I told the story of a painful conversation that I mistakenly instigated with a loved one that ended “with my interlocutor boldly declaring ‘I will NEVER become religious!’” Since that Palm Sunday, I have been beyond cautious not to take the pursuit of Truth into my hands and out of God’s, as that was the main lesson I learned during that Lent.
This year, my caution, it felt, still went unrecognized and unrewarded as a similar conversation occurred with the same person and even more emotion. Again, I tried to explain to them why I get so upset when they, as opposed to anyone else, remind me so passionately of their utter disdain for a god they aren’t even sure exists. “F*** God!” they declared, as I tried to explain to them, that my desire for their salvation stemmed not from selfishness, but from the same love that makes a parent prohibit their child from smoking, and the same love that leaves them empty when they hear that their child is sick for insisting on doing so anyway. “If God was as great as people claim He is, why doesn’t He do me a solid and fix [X, Y, and Z] for me?” they asked, out of despair in their life situation.
I knew it wasn’t the time to launch into a theological dissertation on the nature of evil in a fallen world. At this point, I could only ride out the emotions I was hearing and assure them of my unyielding love. Sitting there, through more tears and “repeated utterance[s] of the Ave Maria,” I managed to think only one thought: “ Why, God, is this happening again? Why, God, during my favorite season of Lent, must you remind me of the pain that grips the world?”
Lent is my favorite season. It was the lesson I learned last year of giving everything up to God that made me come to realize the unmatched beauty of the season. This time around, I felt as if God had handed the burden back to me, almost as if to say “This person is too much for even Me, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, to deal with!” I know this is not true. I know that God is omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent. But I still begged the question, telling myself I had no expectation of His response.
This year, I couldn’t think of anything in particular to give up. Instead, my Lenten commitment became learning the rosary in Latin and reciting it every day. That night, sitting in the silence of my room, reading off of the handwritten prayer I copied into my notebook to memorize it, I picked up my rosary and prayed the Our Father in Latin, . … Pater noster, qui es in caelis… I repeated my questions as I prayed, not expecting much to come of them …sanctificaeter nomen tuum…, for I asked simply out of prayer and a vague sense of longing …adveniat regnum tuum…
Not long after that episode, I learned that the breadth of the attacks was much wider than I anticipated. When various new chapters began during this season, the attacks only accelerated. The visit to my future school was put in immediate jeopardy by the injury of my grandmother, who was to accompany my sister while the rest of my family and I were in Michigan. The night we scrambled to find out what to do in response to the tragedy, I went on air with my co-host to film our first episode of our new podcast, Founding the Future, as well as make an appearance on another show to discuss our debut. As if the day wasn’t eventful enough, I overheard one of the greatest attacks on my Catholic faith. “These Catholics,” I remember her saying with such conviction, “they’re worshipping Mary, giving no time for God Himself!” Just as I wondered if she had met a Catholic in her life, she offered something to the extent of “I know Catholics, I have Catholic friends, but my gosh! They really don’t have anything right!” I took that to be the Protestant equivalent to the “ethos” that Catholic critics use whenever they’re annoyed with Rome: “I went to Catholic school for 13 years! So I know what I’m talking about when I say (insert criticism here)”
I was eventually looped into the conversation, as the lady she was talking to knew I, standing right next to them, was a Catholic and heard everything that was said. The woman doubled down, changing only the tone with which she demeaned the religion she shares 95% of her beliefs with. The last thing she said to me is one of the most offensive things I have ever heard regarding my religion: “That Pope stuff? Now that’s just demonic!” At the moment, I played it off quite smoothly, remembering the “fast from words” Pope Leo told us all to abide by during this season, and only wished her a Happy Lent as I headed for the door, but the last comment is something I still regularly contemplate. Given the gravity of her accusations, I believe it would be logical to conclude that she believes that I am not a Christian.
In those 24 hours, my grandmother’s foot had been run over, undergone surgery, my trip was in danger of cancellation only to be narrowly saved by a gracious aunt who took me to Michigan instead, and I was, essentially, publicly excommunicated from my own religion during the most holy season of the year. …Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra… Admittedly, though tired as I was, I prayed my rosary, adorned with an icon of the Virgin Mary, with extra fervor that night. …panem nostrum, quotidianum da nobis hodie… As I prayed, I still asked God why. “Why so much in a day, Lord?” “Why is it my faith that attracts the most scrutiny? “Why is it my father who must miss out on my first experience at my new home?” …et dimitte nobis debita nostra…
Undoubtedly, I went to bed with one vision at the forefront of my thoughts: I considered all the other students I would meet at the two-day event I was, by the grace of God, not going to miss. I pictured them all boarding their planes and hopping in their cars with smiles on their faces as my stomach sank. I knew I couldn't actually see how any of them left their homes, but it was difficult to imagine any of my future classmates in a worse place than I was at that moment. “Why, God?” I asked, “is my family the one that must struggle so hard with the balance between eternal hope and worldly despair?”
A few mornings later, I left for the airport with a bittersweet taste in my mouth, lamenting what I was leaving behind, but anticipating what lay ahead in Michigan at Hillsdale College. Once Hillsdale’s famous clock tower came into sight hours later that day, I reveled in the beauty and the grace of God that got me there. That night, camping in the dorm of some new friends after a night of games and greetings, …sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris… I returned to my rosary, and, lying on the air mattress, …et ne nos inducas in tentationem… counted my blessings.
Throughout the entirety of Lent, I am proud to say that despite all I have been through, I did not even consider losing my hope once. I came out of it tired, hungry, and sad (I always am as Good Friday approaches), but spiritually empowered. The dark forces had indeed reared their darkness, but they did not succeed in drowning out the light.
Slowly, but reliably, Holy Thursday, the last day of Lent, came.
My piece last year focused more on the fruits of Good Friday than the period of Lent itself (hence the title, Reflections on an Afternoon in Jerusalem), but when I sat down to reflect on this very eventful 40 days that I had, I decided to focus more on the 40 days that Jesus spent in the desert than the day of His sacrifice. “You couldn’t have made this past 43 days up if you were Stephen King,” I thought to myself, considering everything that had happened. Looking for inspiration, I decided to re-read Matthew’s account of the temptation in the wilderness out of my great-grandmother’s Jerusalem Bible, packed with footnotes and cross-references. I need not pass the seventh word to collect the answers to all my questions.
“Then Jesus was led by the Spirit-”
There is a footnote on the last word Spirit: “The Holy Spirit. The temptation was therefore willed by God.”
On the seventh word of the account of Jesus’ fast that the seven-word long footnote appeared. God once again held up the mirror to my imperfection. At this point I would have been remiss to ignore the symbolism that had been waiting for me at the end of the season all along.
I claimed I had asked “Why” without wanting an answer. Since last Lent, in which God used to teach me the power of the real Truth, my enthusiasm for the idea that I was to give up my imaginary burden to the Lord had not ceased, but I had not stayed true to that commission.
On Holy Saturday, having been through the past 47 days of exhaustion, hunger (I had just completed a 24-hour fast for Good Friday), and sorrow, I began to see life the way I believe God does. I had a much dreaded track meet from 7 AM to 4 PM that I certainly did not want to be at. Nonetheless, it gave me a perspective that I otherwise would not have taken if I had stayed home instead. Laying under the tent, I looked out at the mass of people in front of me. I gazed at the sky, Bach playing in my earbuds. The largesse of the entire universe seemed to hit me at once. The man standing in front of me seemed so small compared to the beautiful masses of clouds, trees, blue sky, and sun that lay beyond him. I had felt this simple appreciation for God’s creation many times before, especially approaching holy days, but considering what had led up to it, this one felt more spectacular.
When my bedside alarm struck 12:00 AM on Easter Sunday, I dropped to my knees to pray the Glorious Mysteries of the Latin Rosary. I no longer needed my notebook as the prayers came naturally. I reflected on all that this Lent had brought with it, realizing that the revelation had not been from one isolated incident, but a stream of events that had thrown my family and faith for a loop.
That Easter morning, I did not have an answer to all of my problems, yet I felt as if I didn’t need to. I came out of Lent with a weathered character, a stronger faith, and a greater longing for the God who endured far worse to save me.
That Easter morning, I thought to myself with the knowledge of divine completion and feeling of anticipation for all evil and good that I still had coming for me. Easter is seen as both an end and a beginning in the Christian faith, I realized. With both in sight, we are put in a position of heavenly protection for the future, and armed with the words of our Savior before his crucifixion.
Tears came rolling down my face as I uttered the last line of the Pater Noster …sed libera nos a malo, Amen… “...but deliver us from evil, Amen.”
And so He did.
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