“The road to Emmaus thus becomes a symbol of our journey of faith: the Scriptures and the Eucharist are the indispensable elements for encountering the Lord. We too often go to Sunday Mass with our worries, difficulties and disappointments…. Life sometimes wounds us and we go away feeling sad, towards our “Emmaus,” turning our backs on God’s plan. We distance ourselves from God. But the Liturgy of the Word welcomes us: Jesus explains the Scriptures to us and rekindles in our hearts the warmth of faith and hope, and in Communion he gives us strength.”—Pope Francis
The story of Emmaus carries a depth of feeling that resonates with us because we’ve all experienced some level of disappointed hopes and dreams in our lives. Dreams jobs turn to daily drudgery. Failed relationships leave us brokenhearted. Illness and injury break our bodies and sometimes our spirits. If we’re in the midst of such a time, the pope’s words can sound hollow to our ears. And yet, if we heed them, we will discover the deeper truth to which they point. The Word of God can speak a word of hope and promise to our despair. The Bread of Life can fill an emptiness, a hunger, that gnaws at us. Sometimes all we have to do is show up. We have to make that much of an effort. Often we go with no expectations, almost no hope. And God surprises us with the right word, the right thought, a much-needed smile or hug from someone. The message of Easter is that God shows up when we least expect it: a voice in the garden calling our name, a stranger on the road, a tap on the shoulder, breakfast on the beach or dinner after a long day at work. Sometimes the alleluias are quiet, but no less heartfelt for all that.
Am I going to waste life? It’s so easy to waste life. We don’t waste life a decade, a week, or a month at a time. We waste life in moments. We can get in a rut. It is healthy for us to stop and reflect. Is this the really the life God is calling you to live?
Humans are the only creatures who have knowledge of their own death. Its awareness creeps up on us as we get older. All other animals, plants, and the cycles of nature themselves seem to live out and surrender to the pattern of mortality. This places humans in a state of anxiety and insecurity from our early years. We know on some level that whatever this is that we are living will not last. This changes everything, probably more than we realize consciously.
So our little bit of consciousness makes us choose to be unconscious. It hurts too much to think about it. On this last Sunday before Palm Sunday, we dare to look at the “last enemy,” death. And the only way we can dare to part the curtain and view death is to be told about our resurrection from it! Yet, I assume we all know that Lazarus did eventually die. Maybe ten years later, maybe even twenty, but it did happen, we assume. What then is the point of this last dramatic “sign” before Jesus’ own journey toward death? An important clue is given right before the action, when the disciples try to discourage Jesus from going back to Judea where he is in danger. Jesus says calmly, “Are there not twelve hours in the day? When a person can walk without stumbling? When he sees the world bathed in light.”
Jesus refuses to fear darkness and death. Quickly he adds, “Our friend Lazarus is sleeping, I am going to wake him” (John 11:9–11). Those who draw upon the twelve hours, who see the world bathed in light now, have begun to see the pattern. As is often the case with wise people, they let “nature nurture them.” Yes, the other hours of darkness will come, a metaphor for death, but now we know that it will not last. It is only a part, but not the whole of life—just as the day itself is twelve hours and night is the other twelve, two sides of the one mystery of Life.
Jesus’ job is simply to “wake” us up to this, as he did Lazarus and the onlookers. We must now “see that the world is bathed in light” and allow others to enjoy the same seeing—through our lived life. The stone to be moved is always our fear of death, the finality of death, any blindness that keeps us from seeing that death is merely a part of the Larger Mystery called Life. It does not have the final word.
“Good God, the creator of light and darkness, You who move the sun and the stars, move us into the place of light, a light so large that it will absorb all the darkness”
“I would, then, that I could convince spiritual persons that this road to God consists not in a multiplicity of meditations nor in ways or methods of such, nor in consolations, although these things may in their own way be necessary to beginners; but that it consists only in the one thing that is needful, which is the ability to deny oneself truly, according to that which is without and to that which is within, giving oneself up to suffering for Christ’s sake . . . For progress comes not save through the imitation of Christ, Who is the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no man comes to the Father but by Him.”— St. John of the Cross, p. 91
“Happiness can only be achieved by looking inward and learning to enjoy whatever life has, and this requires transforming greed into gratitude.” — St. John Chrysostom
“O Sacred Heart of Jesus, fountain of eternal life, Your Heart is a glowing furnace of Love. You are my refuge and my sanctuary.” — St. Gertrude the Great
Ash Wednesday tends to get a bad rap. At first glance, the beginning of Lent each year doesn’t seem to have a very uplifting message. When we receive ashes on our foreheads, we are reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return. But “returning to dust” doesn’t sound all that positive, does it? Death isn’t something we like to think about, much less celebrate, in our liturgy and prayer.
If we take a closer look, though, we find that the message of Ash Wednesday has far more to do with life than with death. It’s much more about what it means to be human—on this side of death’s door, not only beyond. Being human means being both blessed and broken, and Ash Wednesday is a special invitation to look at our own brokenness in a way that can bring healing, strength, and courage.
Of course, brokenness is never the goal, even if we can encounter God through the process. We don’t set out to come up short, make mistakes, or feel “less than.” But we often do, a reality that is one mysterious thread within the intricate tapestry of human life. We have another word for this kind of brokenness, one that captures our essence as incomplete all on our own. That word is vulnerable.
Embracing Vulnerability
Vulnerability has become something of a buzzword in recent years. A simple online search of the word turns up countless videos, articles, and book titles. But what does it really mean?
To be vulnerable is to be exposed, to be open. Being vulnerable means that the parts of ourselves that are not strong and beautiful are visible to others. Brene Brown, research professor at the University of Houston and best-selling author, has become something of a cultural icon as a “vulnerability guru.” In her words, vulnerability is “having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome.”
Have you ever tried something new without being sure it would turn out OK? Then you have been vulnerable because you allowed failure to be a real possibility. Have you ever forgiven someone who betrayed you? Then you have been vulnerable because you opened yourself to being hurt again.
Have you ever asked for help? You have been vulnerable because you risked having your weaknesses exposed. Have you ever loved another person? You have been vulnerable because you took a chance on the other person not returning that love.
Life affords us many opportunities to choose to accept vulnerability. We can choose to share our feelings in a relationship without knowing how the other person will respond. We can choose to take a chance on a new career path, knowing that we may not succeed. But we aren’t always able to choose the kinds of vulnerability we experience. Life also forces us into brokenness entirely against our will.
We are thrown into a terrible, frightening vulnerability when our closest friend moves far away, when our kid drops out of school, when we learn about the affair, when the biopsy results come back positive. Never in a million years would we choose these or many other challenges thrust upon us.
Jesus had a lot to say about this kind of vulnerability. In fact, the beatitudes are the blueprint he laid out to help us honor our broken parts as a means of growth and transformation. He taught that being vulnerable—in other words, being poor or meek, feeling sorrowful or persecuted—is an opportunity to encounter the divine.
Suffering has a way of stripping us of our ego and false notions of self-sufficiency, which makes room for an experience of the divine. In accepting our faults, challenges, and pain, we create a space for God’s grace to work its inscrutable magic in our lives. Being vulnerable is the door through which we must travel to become the best, most authentic versions of ourselves.
Allowing ourselves to be vulnerable is how we accept our brokenness. The dust of Ash Wednesday is a powerful reminder of the vulnerability that is part of our spiritual DNA as human beings.
Rethinking Repentance
If Ash Wednesday today can remind us less about death and more about the mystery of vulnerability in life, then does the traditional focus on repentance still make sense? Absolutely! But it may call us to rethink its purpose.
John the Baptist preached repentance, saying, “The kingdom of heaven is near.” It’s easy to see his prophecy as an apocalyptic warning of imminent damnation if we don’t get our collective act together. But an interpretation of repentance that’s more consistent with the God of love and mercy is less about warning and more about promise. John’s message doesn’t have to be his way of threatening us into good behavior, a New Testament version of “Wait till your father gets home!” Instead, it can be an invitation to make room in our hearts and lives for a God who wants to fill up our empty spaces and doesn’t take no for an answer.
Repentance isn’t all about feeling guilt and shame for our shortcomings. The word’s Latin root, paenitentia, has several nuanced shades of meaning, but they all boil down to one thing—a sense of “lacking.” Repentance, then, is an acceptance of the fact that we do not hold all the cards, that we are not “enough” all on our own. Put another way, it’s a way of embracing our vulnerability and brokenness. The dust of Ash Wednesday reminds us that life is larger than our individual experiences of it. We are not in control.
A Focus on GivingImage
Being broken means that healing is needed, so the age-old Lenten practices of fasting, almsgiving, and prayer are not only relevant today but also perhaps more needed than ever. It’s in giving up our reliance on those things we don’t absolutely need, giving to those in greater need than ourselves, and giving in to God’s presence in our lives that we are able to look our own “lacking” straight in the eye. It’s how we become aware of both the blessing and the brokenness of our human condition.
Giving up: Fasting, a spiritual practice that has declined in popularity over the years, has made a comeback in a less-than-spiritual way. “Intermittent fasting” is all the rage lately on nutrition websites and in best-selling books. But when fasting is understood not as a weight-loss technique but as a way of letting go of our reliance on things we don’t actually need, it can be a powerful form of prayer. It’s fine to give up desserts for Lent if that helps us reflect on the things we can do without. Perhaps it can be more powerful, though, to “fast” from gossip or unnecessary spending or an insistence on having the last word. Fasting is a way to experience our own “lacking” in a transformative way.
Giving to: Almsgiving, which means the giving of money or food to those in need, is another traditional Lenten practice. This, too, is relevant for us today during Lent—and all year long—because it is how we recognize that we aren’t the only ones who are vulnerable. The world is full of others just like us in our lacking. They may be vulnerable in different ways than we are, but by reaching out to them in their need, we bear witness to their pain. By standing in solidarity with their brokenness, we take steps toward being healed of our own.
Giving in: Prayer as a spiritual practice never goes out of style. Not only during Lent but throughout the entire year, prayer is a powerful way of participating in divine community. By lifting our own broken pieces and those of others in prayer, we attest to—rather than run from—the vulnerable parts of our lives. Prayer connects us with each other and with God. This sacred unity connects our individual broken pieces with those of others, creating a beautiful new kind of wholeness.
Our Lenten Invitation
Too often, we approach Ash Wednesday with liturgical gloom and doom. It’s the “black sheep” of the family of dark solemnities in the liturgical calendar, failing even to garner status as a holy day of obligation. But when painted in this light, it’s easy to miss its beautiful invitation to claim our brokenness, embrace our vulnerability, and stand in solidarity with all those who do the same.
God is ready to heal our woundedness, to make us more whole than ever before. Ash Wednesday is our call to make room for the divine dance to work its sacred magic within us.
//St. Anthony Messenger, Mary Ann Steutermann, Feb 2021 Issue//
It seems that we need beginnings, or everything eventually devolves and declines into unnecessary and sad endings. You were made for so much more! So today you must pray for the desire to desire! Even if you do not feel it yet, ask for new and even unknown desires. For you will eventually get what you really desire! I promise you. It is the Holy Spirit doing the desiring at your deepest level. Therefore you will get nothing less than what you really desire, and almost surely much more.
You are the desiring of God. God desires through you and longs for Life and Love through you and in you. Allow it, speak it, and you will find your place in the universe of things. Now let me tell you something: You cannot begin to desire something if you have not already slightly tasted it. Now make that deep and hidden desire conscious, deliberate, and wholehearted. Make your desires good and far-reaching on this Ash Wednesday of new beginnings. You could not have such desires if God had not already desired them first—in you and for you and as you!
Remember finally, that the ashes on your forehead are created from the burnt palms of last Palm Sunday. New beginnings invariably come from old false things that are allowed to die.
An ego response is always an inadequate or even wrong response to the moment. It will not deepen or broaden life, love, or inner laughter. Your ego self is always attached to mere externals, since it has no inner substance itself. The ego defines itself by its attachments and revulsions. The soul does not attach nor does it hate; it desires and loves and lets go. Please think about that, it can change your very notion of religion.
