“Are You There, God? It’s Me, Caitlin” by Cait Seymour, Fiat Ventures
Third Sunday of Lent
I’ve been having trouble in my prayer life recently. I’m frustrated to be experiencing a dry spell during one of my favorite liturgical seasons. I love Lent. It is a time for sacrifice, intentional spiritual growth, and leaning intently into my relationship with Christ. Lent for me is a time of focused effort and (usually) great demonstrable payoff. Every year, I try to discern how God wants me to grow, and I get to work.
This year, I am focusing on the biggest challenge I could find in the book of Psalms: “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps 46:10). My daily Lenten practice is to sit alone in an empty church for a half hour each day. No rosary. No litanies. Just me… and Jesus… and silence. Thirty minutes may not seem like a long time to some, but let me be clear: This. Is. Hard. For me, at least. When I began this practice, I hoped I would discover the magic I hear others speak of when they do this sort of thing. The opposite has been true… especially during Eucharistic Adoration.
Every time I go to Adoration (one of my absolute favorite things in the world), I expect to feel God’s peace flow through me. Instead, this Lent, I’ve felt attacked. One time, the church suddenly became so cold that my bones felt like ice. It was physically painful. How did no one else seem to notice?! I couldn’t focus. I got angry. Another time, a man in the back whispered his prayers so intrusively that my brain felt like exploding. It was the loudest nails-on-a-chalkboard sound I’d ever heard in my life. Why did everyone else seem warmed by his presence?! I couldn’t focus. I got angry.
I started asking the age-old question – God, why? Why did You call me to sit with You in silence just to have me leave in tears? Are you trying kill my spirit? Make me feel like a failure, like a broken soul who will never find peace? Why would You call me to You, and then let the Devil chase me away with bombardments of terrible thoughts and erupting anger?
That sounds a lot like the Israelites lamenting to Moses in today’s first reading. I find myself echoing their sentiments. “Is the Lord in my midst or not? Am I sitting among His protective angels, or have they abandoned me? If all I feel is torment, this Lenten practice isn’t worth it. Forget it. I’m giving up.” In a moment of great spiritual weakness and fear, I “quit” Lent.
Two days later, I took a group of 100 teenagers to Adoration as part of a retreat. As expected, the moment the Blessed Eucharist was exposed, my head exploded with calamitous noise. I was distracted, angry, distant, and miserable. And I felt like a fraud bringing the teens there. Halfway through our allotted time, suddenly I felt fine. Tears of pent-up frustration welled in my eyes, and I let them dribble out of my body effortlessly. I wasn’t overwhelmed by peace and joy, but I was fine. Wow. Okay. I’ll take it!
I realized quitting Lent was foolish. God knows what He’s doing with me. Why do I doubt His presence, His plan? I felt terrible that I had given in and given up. I suppose God recognized that I needed to know that He would break through the noise in my head when the time was right. I don’t need Him to do it all the time now, but I needed it then. Now, I can go, sit in silence, feel angry and frustrated and sad, and then leave the church and still be okay. I can persevere. I can push on. After all, isn’t Lent all about sacrifice? When I don’t feel the rewards from something I do, that’s a truer sacrifice than something that makes me feel good. Maybe that’s an even purer Lenten spirit.
I needed the small consolation of quiet that He gave me, in order for me to push on spiritually. Is it right? No. Am I embarrassed by my own weakness in asking “Is the Lord in my midst or not”? Absolutely. But then I remember that my weakness pushes me towards Christ. Perhaps I should use my weakness and spiritual failures to remind me that God is in control. Maybe that’s the lesson I will learn this Lent. We’ll see. I still have a few more 30-minute sessions left.
