JOURNAL
(Photo to the right, taken by Aimee Zaring in Santorini)

ASHES TO ASHES
February 10, 2008

I was raised Roman Catholic, and from an early age I learned to appreciate the austerities of Lent, beginning with the imposition of ashes on the forehead on Ash Wednesday (“Remember, man, that dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return”: Genesis 3:19) and culminating with Mass on Good Friday, where I joined my fellow parishioners in playing the part of the mob at Jesus’ trial before Pontius Pilate, chanting at the appropriate times, “Crucify him!” (which always made me feel guilty, and perhaps that was the point. I understand now we all share responsibility in that death sentence.)

Though I’m no longer a practicing Catholic, Lent remains my favorite liturgical season. Once a Catholic always a Catholic, they say, and it’s true that it’s hard to shake some of the rituals, practices, and beliefs I learned growing up. Nor do I fully want to: Catholicism is my faith heritage. It is part of my spiritual DNA.

The mystic and poet William Blake, according to Thomas Merton in his autobiography The Seven Storey Mountain, believed Catholicism is the only religion that truly teaches the love of God. I’ve puzzled over this one. Maybe Blake was referring to the concentration Catholics have traditionally placed on the crucified Lord. (One of my sisters, a practicing Catholic who lives in the Deep South, once conducted a workshop on prayer for a group of Christian women. As she prepared, setting a table with candles and a crucifix, the woman sponsoring the workshop pulled her aside and whispered, “Would you happen to have another cross? A simple, plain one? This one, I’m afraid, might offend some of the ladies.”)

If Blake was, at least in part, referring to Catholics’ emphasis on the suffering Christ—the fact that there would be no Easter if not for the Passion—he might have been on to something, for I tend to believe that it is through our personal heartaches and sorrows that we are brought into a fuller knowledge of God’s redemptive love. (Of course, this belief could also stem from my faith heritage. When my grandfather turned ninety, I asked him why he thought God had kept him on this earth so long. “Oh, I don’t know, hon,” he said. “I guess to suffer.”)

Recently I went through a dark and lonely period of separation from God. During the worst of it, when I thought God had abandoned me for good, I kept praying, Come back to me, come back to me, and when I was finally quiet and still enough to listen to God’s reply, I heard those same words directed back at me. Come back to me. James tells us “Come near to God and he will come near to you” (4:8). Thomas Merton puts it another way:

“Our discovery of God is, in a way, God’s discovery of us. . . . We only know Him in so far as we are known by Him” (New Seeds of Contemplation).

I’m not suggesting that a “dark night of the soul” (Saint John of the Cross’ description of a period of intense spiritual suffering) is necessary for an intimate relationship with God. But I am suggesting it is often during these lonely desert experiences that we feel God’s healing love most profoundly. Henri Nouwen describes this paradox in Reaching Out:

The spiritual life is, first of all, a patient waiting, that is, a waiting in suffering (patior = to suffer), during which the many experiences of unfulfillment remind us of God’s absence. But it also is a waiting in expectation which allows us to recognize the first signs of the coming God in the center of our pains. The mystery of God’s presence, therefore, can be touched only by a deep awareness of his absence. It is in the center of our longing for the absent God that we discover his footprints, and realize that our desire to love God is born out of the love with which he has touched us. (128)

Time doesn’t heal all wounds, I learned on my wilderness journey. Love does. It was the undeniable, unfathomable, unwavering love I felt from God, the love I felt from others, and the love I gave in return, that helped see me through that difficult passage.

In Eastern Orthodox circles, the Lenten season is characterized as a time of “bright sadness.” I like this phrase. It hints of another one of the many paradoxes of my faith. I’m currently taking a Beth Moore study on the Psalms of Ascent (Psalms 120-134). Part of our daily assignment involves lying prostrate in prayer, or in some position of humble submission (which, by the way, is an incredibly hard thing for this stubborn girl)—the reason being, as Moore describes, “In God’s economy, the way up is down.”

Lent offers me the opportunity to stand on the threshold between desolation and jubilation. To experience “bright sadness.” To continue pondering the question, Without darkness, could we discern light?

Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord)
Johnny Cash and the Carter Family

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