faith

Thomas and Me

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: What follows is as close as I’ve come to a mystical experience. Because of this, I don’t doubt the charismatic side of our faith as much as some — but also, I recognize more fully that it is extremely hard to know what’s going on in another’s mind, heart, and soul. I wrote this back in 2003, shortly after moving to Minnesota and relatively early in my return to the Church– before my conversion, in many ways. As such, it is a glimpse into an immature prayer life that was blessed with a brief but up-close encounter with God’s love. I’ve made two small edits for clarity’s sake. I would write this differently today, but it is as accurate as it can be. 

Thomas was a lucky man.

Imagine sharing your life with Christ, in the flesh. Experiencing the gospels firsthand. Hearing the people talk of the healer, the prophet, the man who overturned tables in the temple — your friend. Imagine seeing miracles not just happen, but be performed by someone you broke bread with.

Thomas was lucky — not only to have known Jesus personally, but also to have missed His first appearance to the disciples. Imagine — Thomas comes back from wherever he’s been, and his friends are grabbing his robes, spinning him around, each trying to explain over the others that Jesus, three days dead, had come to see them. Had breathed on them. Now, Thomas is no fool — he knows his Lord was flesh and blood, and saw Him crucified. He knows that, despite Christ’s miraculous powers, he didn’t make it off that tree alive, and he can see nine ways to Sunday how somebody pretending to be a risen Christ could really mess things up good for the disciples, for the Jews, for the Romans, everybody.

So he puts up both hands, looks at his brothers and says, “I’ll believe it when I see it. No — as a matter of fact, I’ll believe it when I can examine the holes in His holy hands and feet. When I can stick my hand in His side.”

Imagine the audacity! The disciples are staring at Thomas in open-mouthed disbelief: After all you’ve seen, and all we’ve told you — after all we’ve been through together — you won’t believe until you’ve pierced Him again with your own hands?

Thomas glares resolutely around the room, then stalks out again.

Thomas is lucky, because his Lord wants to give the people every chance to believe and be saved. Christ could have come back the second time and scolded Thomas for his lack of faith in God and his fellow disciples. Instead, he smiles at Thomas and tells him to go ahead and touch the wounds. Put your hand in my side, my friend, and believe!

Thomas immediately falls to his knees and proclaims Jesus his Lord. As a result, we learn two things about our God — He’ll bend over backwards to save us, and being in His presence requires no further explanation.

With 2,000 years of faith, tradition and perspective behind us, it’s easy to fault Thomas for his doubt. But remember, Thomas and the disciples were a newly formed minority, out of favor with the Jewish leadership, and now leaderless. In times like these, it pays to be a skeptic, if only to protect yourself.

Thomas wanted what we all long for — certainty. Faith is fine, but how many times have we all asked for something more?

“Just give me a sign, Lord. Give me something to believe in.”

The signs are all around us, of course — we only need to open up to them. What follows is a true account of what can happen if you do.

*****

Jodi and I were youth leaders for three years before moving to Minnesota. We were volunteers — actually, we had volunteered to help with the high-school youth group, and were quite excited when, the next Sunday, Fr. Bill told the flock he had two new youth leaders.

We couldn’t wait to find out who.

Let me say right off that I’m no saint. Nothing in this world can make you more acutely aware of your own weaknesses than preaching the gospel to young people, or having their parents tell you what a wonderful, positive influence you’ve been in their children’s lives. As youth ministers, were we still sinners? Yes. Did we feel worse than ever about it? Oh, yeah.

Jodi and I did a lot with the group. We made pancake breakfasts for the parish. We sang Christmas carols for the locals. We saw the Pope in Toronto. And often, we just hung out.

The high point of the high-school youth group experience, however, is the yearly trip to Steubenville, Ohio, for Franciscan University’s famous Catholic youth conferences. Thousands of young Catholics, countless deacons, nuns, youth ministers and volunteer chaperones, and the widest assortment of priests you can imagine — biker priests, rapping priests, priests who speak in tongues, wizened old men and young fellows fresh from ordination — all spending the weekend together, singing and praying, laughing and crying. And on Saturday night, calling Christ to earth to walk among the masses.

Saturday night at Steubie is like nothing else. When the Eucharist passes through a gymnasium full of spiritually famished teens, “adoration” doesn’t do justice to the experience. Christ makes His presence known — not at the altar, not on the stage at all, but out among the hungry souls, the Bread of Life, meeting the young people where they are and taking them where they need to be. Their personal God and savior.

I’ve heard from teens who claim to have seen Jesus, talked to Him, held His hand. I’ve heard from people who have been held by Jesus, rocked, soothed. A friend of mine made peace with a relative long dead. Another heard, saw and felt his sins enumerated, forgiven and fall away like so many dry leaves. Kids shriek, laugh uncontrollably, sob, shout. Some stand upright, speaking aloud with God. Some fall flat to the floor, dead to the world around them. Some are prayed over, or escorted out. It quickly becomes apparent that the adults are no longer running the show.

Even so, group leaders are encouraged to devote themselves to staying alert and keeping their young people focused and safe. And the first Saturday night I spent at Steubenville, I wanted nothing more. It was unnerving to close your eyes for too long.

This past July, however, was different. Jodi and I had already relocated to the Twin Cities, and were coming back for one last Steubie trip with “our older kids.” I wanted to soak it up — all the energy, enthusiasm and love that they could give. We arrived at the St. Mike’s church parking lot at 5:30 a.m., and a number of the kids were there already, shivering, sleep still in their eyes. I was bouncing in place. My knees were shaking. It felt electric.

The trip was great — bittersweet, of course, with constant reminders that this was it, the last hurrah. That first night we circled up on the lawn after the evening session, and I told them how wonderful it felt to be there with them. I told them I felt like a live wire, feeding off their energy. I told them I thought the weekend was going to be amazing.

Saturday dawned early and rushed headlong toward adoration. So much going on, but the constant background buzz was tonight, tonight, tonight. The Steubie newbies didn’t know what to expect, and spoke in hushed tones, equal parts excitement and anxiety. The veterans exchanged knowing smiles.

And then we were there – a thousand voices singing softly, countless palms outstretched. The Eucharist appeared, raised high, glowing from within as the spotlight followed it on its slow procession. And the tears came. The laughter, the shouts, and the cries. Our kids were swept with the Holy Spirit, and Christ was there — you could see it in their eyes. I looked from one face to the next, and oh, how I wanted to see what they were seeing.

Gimme a sign, Lord, I thought. Just a touch, a taste.

I could hear the priest’s voice ringing in my head, advising the chaperones: “Remember, this is for the kids.”

But your will, not mine, I added.

*****

That night we sat in a wide circle on the grass. One by one the kids and the adults shared how Christ had manifested Himself, speaking their language, sharing with them exactly what they needed. When my turn came, I told them I’d felt jealous.

“I know I shouldn’t have felt that way, but I so badly wanted to experience what you were,” I said. “Finally I made my peace with the fact that this wasn’t my time — after that, it was just a joy to be with you all.”

And I told them I loved them.

On the bus home Sunday evening, we’re called to the mic at the front of the bus to share our final thoughts on the trip. I don’t know what I’ll say when my turn comes — I want badly to be light and funny, but leaving the youth group is weighing heavily on me.

“Tell us a college story!” someone shouts, and everyone laughs. I have a well-documented tendency to fall back on those stories — and to run long in the telling.

“No college stories,” I say. “What I want to tell you is something you’ve all heard before from me, lots of times. But I want you to really listen this time. I love you guys –”

“We love ya, too, Jim!” the girls in the back shout.

I stop a moment, shake my head: “Thanks, but guys, listen…”

I wait. The chorus of “love yas” slowly quiets.

“Listen to me. We have a tendency to say these things in a casual, off-hand manner like that, but I mean it. I love you. All of you. So much.”

The bus is quiet now.

“We goof around with that phrase all the time — either we don’t say it because it’s sappy or we’re afraid people might think we mean something we don’t, or whatever. Other times we say it offhand, like it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just something we say, right? Let’s not do that. Tonight, let’s take a minute to look at each other, to recognize each other for what we are — flawed human beings, and children of God. Let’s tell each other how we feel and mean it tonight.”

By the time we get back to St. Mike’s, Jodi and I have visited with nearly everyone on the bus, one on one. Even the chaperones have taken my speech to heart, and the bus is warm with affection.

The bus pulls into the church parking lot. A few cars are waiting there already, and a small knot of parents stand in the evening cool, talking quietly. The kids pile out of the bus, a tumble of sweatshirts, pillows and duffle bags, raucous from lack of sleep. Some hug their parents; some, each other. A few hug Jodi and me.

I shout above the din for the group to circle up, and invite the parents and bus driver to join us in a closing prayer. We join hands, and begin in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

“Guys,” I say, “I’m shaking again.”

I don’t know where to begin. I tip my head back and stare up into the heavens’ blackness, past countless twinkling stars.

“My God,” I say. “Look up there!”

My legs are trembling.

I begin: “Dear Lord Jesus, thank you. Thank you for the love in this circle tonight. Thank you for the experience of this weekend, for your love, for being there with us. For being here with us. Thank you for joyous laughter and cleansing tears. Fill us with your Spirit, Lord, that we may carry this feeling forward with us, and share it with everyone we meet.”

I ask if anyone has petitions. I’m still looking to the heavens. Ron and Josh, the boys on either side of mean, are squeezing my hands, and my legs continue to shake. There are petitions — for safe travel home, for the youth who couldn’t go to Steubenville, for the church, for sick loved ones, and for all the young people touched by God over the weekend. When the circle is silent, I’m out of breath. “You guys, I can’t stop shaking,” I say. Then I begin the Lord’s Prayer.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

The circle picks up the prayer, but my voice falters. The trembling in my legs hits my chest and spreads rapidly toward my fingertips. My head is back; tears are streaming past my ears, and my mouth is open as if to shout, but I can’t speak.

“You okay?” Ron says. He’s squeezing my hand tighter now. So is Josh.

A feeling like strength and power and pure joy arcs through me in waves, and I feel like I’m rising. The Lord’s Prayer complete, kids begin to laugh, shout and sing. The circle remains intact, however, and I manage a groan: “Guys!”

No one hears me. I can’t stop shaking — don’t want to — this feeling — incredible! I don’t know if I’m standing on the pavement or floating above it.

“Guuuys!” I rasp. “Pray! Don’t stop — pray!”

The new youth minister, Mianne, starts a Hail Mary.* I can barely hear them — the feeling is deep and resounding and intense and glorious.

My body is dissolving, except my hands, and I grip Josh and Ron more tightly.

Jesus. Lord Jesus. My God.

Mianne leads a second Hail Mary, and I’m coming down now. I’m laughing and sobbing as they finish the prayer. The circle is intact.

“You know,” I say, gasping for breath. “Remember…I said…I was jealous?…I’m not…anymore…I just…got mine.”

“Praise God!” says Mianne, and the circle cheers. I collapse on Ron and Josh — they are hugging me, and I tell them to hang on to me; I’m not sure I can stand.

Ron whispers in my ear: “What was that?” I look at him and see a knowing smile. “I could feel it,” he says. “Coming out from you. Could you feel it, Josh?”

He could. Ron leans close again, and whispers, “Dude, it felt like you were gonna lift off. We had to hold you down to keep you here.”

*****

I don’t think most of the adults knew what was happening. The kids who were closest to me in the circle knew I’d felt something incredible — some of them had felt it, too — but Jodi, on the far side of the circle, had thought I was just “getting into it” a bit.

I pull her close and try to explain. As the kids begin to leave, we walk to a bench outside the church and pray together.

I pray for understanding. Already my skeptic’s brain is working — I’m exhausted, and have so much emotion invested in the group, etc., etc. Had to be adrenaline, or something.

No. You were touched. And another wave hits me — just one. I look at Jodi with tears in my eyes, smiling.

“Jodi,” I say. “I think I felt God tonight.”

She smiles, and continues to pray with me.

When we arrive at my parents where we’ll spend the night, my mom is waiting up. She asks how the trip was, and we tell her it was great. I’ve a strange look on my face, and when she notices I tell her I had an experience I want to share with her, but I’m not sure how. I tell her I want to sleep on it.

In the morning it’ll be gone, my skeptic’s mind says. Instantly, I begin to tremble, ecstasy and tears rising to the surface.

That night I held my wife until she was sound asleep, for possibly the first time in nearly seven years of marriage. Always before I’d been too warm, too tired, too uncomfortable. Too selfish.

I woke wondering how to explain to my mother, only recently back to the church, and my father, who claims to be atheist, that I’d come heart to heart with Christ. I was afraid they would think I’d finally cracked — I’ve always been an emotional, and sometimes dramatic, child. I lay awake for a while and imagine what they might say to convince me otherwise. In my head their arguments made sense, but each time my heart would rise up and another wave would crash down on me — strength, power and joy. In the shower. Over breakfast. Each time I tried to deny what had happened, or call it something it wasn’t, I would be overcome.

When I finally explained to my parents, I was trembling again, not from fear, but from conviction. When I finished, they didn’t question me or laugh. When I finished, I knew the truth — I had been touched by God. And with the same certainty, I knew I wouldn’t get that feeling again.

*****

So far, I’ve been right. God doesn’t let us replace our faith with Truth, but fosters faith in Truth. My sign was mine alone, to believe or disbelieve, but as soon as I made my choice the sign itself was gone. I don’t tremble. I don’t float. I don’t spark anymore.

Only once in a while, I’ll brush up against it and get gooseflesh and tears — all that remains of that glorious feeling. The earthly things we enjoy — food, drink, sex — don’t come close. The greater joys — love for family and friends, spouse and children; memory; the beauty of life — these too fall short. All strength, all power and pure joy combined as…what?

Love. The love I’d preached to the youth group but never given before that night. A love without boundaries, infinite, founded on our deepest commonalities — we are alive, we are human and we need to love and be loved. A selfless, giving love that never ceases, and never dies.

Christ’s love.

I’d like to say I’m free now. I’d like to say that Christ touched my heart, and I sinned no more. But it hasn’t happened. Touching God didn’t make me perfect, any more than experiencing Truth means I don’t need faith. The good new is it’s harder now — harder to sin, and harder to bear it. The good news is I’m more aware now, and it matters to me. The good news is that love really is all we need.

The Good News is He is real, He is here, and He is love.

J. Thorp

29 Sept 03

*****

*Accounts differ from my own on this point. Mianne told me afterward that we didn’t pray a Hail Mary as a group and suggested that must have been between me and Our Blessed Mother. The teens couldn’t recall for sure.

The Flitter-Flutter of Tiny Wings

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment
“Geronimo!”

For the past several days, we’ve had just two kids at home, Trevor and Lily. The elder three were at Extreme Faith Camp, Brendan as a leader, Gabe as a member of the prayer team, and Rose as a camper. Their return, I think, was bittersweet for the younger ones — although bored and (allegedly) overworked at points, they enjoyed having Mom’s and Dad’s full attention. Lily got in trouble for interrupting far less, because there was far less to interrupt. And Trev got to go to Culver’s and Jurassic World with just Jodi and me.

We parents, on the other hand, missed our teens. It took only a day or so for me to stop and calculate that we are just six years from potentially being a permanent four-person household, and eight years from Lily being alone with us, At some point unmarked in the past, the pitter-patter of tiny feet was drowned out by the flitter-flutter of tiny wings as the fledglings prepare to leave the nest.

This, I’m discovering, is going to be harder for me than the fact that I, too, am aging and yet still feel like I have much to learn — in fact, my own feelings of inexperience in this world only magnify my anxiety for my offspring. Have a taught them what they need to know to survive? Will they thrive? Will they avoid the pitfalls and snares in which Jodi and I have become entangled over the years? Have the courage to be faithful in public? To remain Catholic, with all that entails?

We see encouraging signs from each of them. Bren, now 17 and approaching his senior year, has changed his views on a military career, primarily due to moral concerns. He takes his faith very seriously: donates to Catholic causes, joins his friends for weekday Mass on Wednesdays, joins his girlfriend Olivia in the Adoration Chapel in our church. Gabe, nearly 15 and a coming sophomore, still has his eyes on the priesthood, joins his brother and friends at Wednesday Mass, and just last night asked where he could find the Divine Office that priests commit to praying daily — hinting that he’d like to take it up, but that he’d rather not do it alone. Thirteen-year-old Emma came home from having been deeply impacted by Eucharistic Adoration at camp, trembling with emotion before the Blessed Sacrament and alternating between sorrow and joy (ending on joy) as she prayed.

Yesterday I came home from the church for lunch, and popped in a DVD that would not play in my work computer. The video came up immediately, and featured Fr. Robert Barron tackling common Catholic apologetics questions in short video clips. I began cherry-picking a few that might be interesting, and Trev, who will be 11 in few days, sat down to watch. For more than an hour, we watched and discussed the rational foundations for our Catholic faith. It’s amazing to see what he absorbs in such a short time, and I pray the same has been true for the others.

Lily, of course, is only three. She knows Jesus by sight, likes to pray (the Angelus and petitions, in particular, and especially for her friends and for babies) most evenings, and is at home in our church, if not fully engaged by the Mass yet. As I continue in my job as faith formation director, planning the coming year’s program, I realize how much more we could be doing with our parish youth, and by extension, how much more I could have done with my own children. Lily will benefit from that realization — and yet when I look at her four older siblings, I wonder how much I should do differently. But how can I give anything less than my all for my family when the stakes are so high and the implications, eternal?

Are We There Yet?

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment
Gabe, napping in the minivan…

Back in my newspaper days, I wrote a column each Tuesday called “Almost There.” My bride and I were young parents of two preschool boys at that time, so “Almost there!” was a constant refrain wherever we went. But the name also captured the sense that we were on the verge of putting it all together—of making sense of marriage and family life, and of my newfound faith and fledgling career as a writer.

That was more than 15 years ago, and that sense has never left. The novelty of feeling so close to understanding wore off years ago, however—as a result, I am prone to asking our Lord like the spiritual child that I am: “Are we there yet?”

The answer, invariably, is no.

This world so loves achievement that we have turned even baseline accomplishments like participation and attendance into certificates and celebrations. In what other facet of life besides our faith do we commit ourselves to weekly participation, devotion, and study, year after year, and discover that we have done only what is expected of us?

We long for recognition of our efforts, and this longing even skews our perception of the sacraments. As children and as parents, we are pleased with having made it to Mass or Confession, but sometimes forget that these are not ends in themselves, but means by which we conform ourselves to Christ and reorient ourselves toward Heaven. We treat both Confirmation and Marriage as the culmination of work already done rather than the beginning of something new. The certificates we receive look for all the world like diplomas, when in fact they are birth certificates!

The path to Heaven leads out of this world, and among those born into humanity, only Jesus knows the path in its entirety—so we have no choice but to follow Him and go where He leads. Since we cannot know the path ourselves, the only way we can help others get to Heaven is to teach them to follow Christ who said, “I am the Way.”

Road trip!

How does one follow Christ? St. John of the Cross writes, “God carries each person along a different road, so that you will scarcely find two people following the same route in even half of their journey to God.” As a result, we need to teach others where to find God and how to engage Him—in the Church; through scripture, prayer, and the sacraments. And we need to do this as a community. Why? Since there are as many paths to sanctity as there are unique persons, each of us will resonate with others in ways that no one else can. Somewhere in this parish, someone needs your example!

Fr. Robert Barron shares a story of Jewish academic and Catholic convert Edith Stein, now St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, who before her conversion went into a cathedral to admire the architecture and saw a woman still laden from her day’s shopping, kneeling and rapt in silent prayer. This simple act of devotion struck the future saint profoundly, advancing her on the path toward holiness and heaven. Who knows what saints we will help to create simply by showing up each week to bend our knees in prayer and worship?

Blogger’s Note: This article appears in the Sunday, June 14, church bulletin.

The Sacraments Keep Us Catholic

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

“At last the most wonderful day of my life arrived, and I can remember every tiny detail of those heavenly hours … How lovely it was, that first kiss of Jesus in my heart—it was truly a kiss of love.” – St. Therese of Lisieux, describing her first Holy Communion

Last month I was blessed to witness nearly 140 young people from our parish and school receiving their first Holy Communion. They were, by and large, reverent and excited—and those I spoke with personally understood at least in concept that they were receiving Jesus’s Body and Blood under the appearance of bread and wine. I hope at least a few of them remember the day with the same deep joy and devotion as St. Therese expresses above.  I’m almost certain, unfortunately, that a few have not been back.

Our approach to preparing children for First Confession and First Communion in recent years has increasingly fallen on their parents. In one sense, this is as it should be: the Catechism of the Catholic Church affirms that, through marriage, “parents receive the responsibility and privilege of evangelizing their children” and “should initiate their children at an early age into the mysteries of the faith.”

On the other hand, many parents do not feel equipped to share those mysteries, being uncertain themselves about the Church’s teachings on Reconciliation and the Eucharist. And while we provide families with workbooks to help them teach their children, these are poor substitutes for the level of love and support young Therese had in the months leading up to the sacraments. Her desire to make a good confession and to receive the gift of the Eucharist consumed her completely, and everyone in her family and community fueled her understanding and love for the Lord in whatever way they could.

As a parish, we can certainly do more. Beginning this fall, First Reconciliation and First Communion students will have an extra class or activity (in addition to LIFT) each month dedicated to sacramental preparation and a deeper understanding of the great gifts of Christ’s love and mercy we find on the altar and in the confessional. But this is no substitute for the evangelizing witness of parents leading a sacramental life in which their Catholic faith is a top family priority.

This is true for two reasons. The first is this: because children naturally observe and imitate their parents’ actions and interests, parents don’t have to have all the right answers, but it helps if you do the right things. Secondly, the sacraments are defined as outward signs instituted by Christ to give us grace—in particular, sacramental grace, which strengthens us to live according to our faith and state in life. The sacrament of Matrimony, for example, confers upon the spouses the graces needed to live in union as husband and wife, come what may.

The same applies to the sacraments of Confession and Communion. They strengthen us to resist temptation and seek communion with God, to forgive and seek forgiveness, to love sacrificially—in short, to be holy men and women of God. Each time we receive them, we are changed for the better. And when our children imitate us, so are they. What better way to ensure our kids remain Catholic?

Blogger’s Note: This article appears in the Sunday, May 24, church bulletin.

Confessions of a Fledgling Catholic: Mass Doesn’t Fulfill Me, Either

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

When he returned to his disciples he found them asleep. He said to Peter, “So you could not keep watch with me for one hour? Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”    – Matthew 26:40-41

I’ve had a version of the following conversation countless times, including twice in the last week: I don’t get anything out of Mass. I’ve heard it from parishioners and strangers: I’m not learning anything. I’m just going through the motions. I’ve heard it from family and friends: I don’t any feel joy or peace. I don’t feel fulfilled.

These conversations resonate with me because I’ve heard their echo over the years in the hollow around my own heart: I want to love the Mass, but I’m not like those people. I can’t pray like that.

It is a strange sort of pride that insists that our problems are not like anyone else’s—in this case, that we alone struggle with distraction, temptation, and doubt. We often cling to our weaknesses like a badge of honor, insisting, “For me, it’s different…you don’t understand.” I have come to believe that this is from the Enemy—his subtle deception to help us justify ourselves as the exception to the rule and lead us, degree by degree, away from God.  The Devil is cunning and loves distraction as much as we do, so when our minds wander, he seizes the opportunity to tell us we’re not worthy of our call or that we need something more.

Couple the Devil’s taste for stray minds (a fitting appetizer for an entrée of lost souls) with our own misperceptions of what the Mass is, and we are ripe for falling away from our “Sunday obligation.” If we see Mass simply as an obligation, it becomes dry and stale, just another item on the weekend’s long list of To-Dos. If we see Mass as all about us—as weekly affirmation, intellectual nourishment, a spiritual workout, or wholesome entertainment—we will eventually be left cold when it doesn’t leave us fat, flush, and smiling.

But the Mass is not these things—at least not primarily. The Mass is where we come, once a week at least, to give God his due: our love and praise for literally everything we have in this world. We are asked by His Church to do this each Sunday and a handful of special feast days throughout the year. We are asked to spend about an hour a week to thank God for life, family, friends, the beauty of the created world around us, good food and drink, a warm house on a cold night, the breaking dawn, our next breath…

So we come to His house; we sit, kneel, stand, and struggle to stay in the moment, to pray and praise and give thanks. We fight distraction, and occasionally we win. And then, at about the 45 minute mark, instead of simply receiving our praise as His due, God gives us His very substance, our Lord Jesus Christ, in the Eucharist—as if He hadn’t given us enough already!

This is how it occurs to me now: I struggle to spend an hour a week focused on giving thanks and praise to God for everything I have and will have in this world, and before I’m even finished, He pours His whole self out—again—for me.

If I leave this exchange feeling cheated, my heart is not yet in the right place.

The truth is that our hearts aren’t in the right place. They are fallen, fleshy things, slightly off-kilter and left of center, fluttering over temporary pleasure and not yet conformed to Christ. But that’s okay, because the sacraments, particularly, of Confession and Communion, give us the grace we need to continue to reshape ourselves as we were created, in the image of God. All we need is to persist.

I have said before that if people really understood Who was present on the altar and in the Confessional, in the monstrance or the tabernacle, nothing would keep them from coming to the church. I believe this, and yet I struggle to see Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, or in our holy priests, or in my neighbor. I may look like one of those devout souls who are in communion with the heavenly host, praising God during the liturgy each Sunday, but my thoughts turn to my kids and yours, the whispering teens, the appearance of others, Sunday brunch, the budget, the time.

And then I realize that Father has already said, “This is my body,” and my eyes open upon the elevated host. I hear the words of Jesus when He finds his disciples asleep in Gethsemane: “So you could not keep watch with me for one hour?”  And I feel unworthy of being His disciple—an uncomfortable feeling in the moments before Holy Communion. I gaze at the Eucharist in Father’s hands and pray, “Lord, I believe—help my unbelief.”

Alone in ourselves at the Mass, in the midst of so much quiet and so many distractions, it can be difficult to seek and to find God, even when He is so near at hand. As a friend and fellow parishioner puts it: “If you only knew the drama playing out, not only on the altar, but in your very heart and soul!  This is the moment you need God the most, in this insidious serenity of Mass, with your defenses lowered.”

And in this moment, He is closest at hand. St. John of the Cross writes, “If a person is seeking God, so much more is her Beloved seeking her.” Consider that for a moment. When we turn our gaze toward God, He is there, gazing upon us. When we seek Him, He finds us. And when we return our attention to Christ during the Mass, His response is not anger or jealousy, but the response of a bridegroom to His bride: “At last!”

What more could we ask for from the Mass?

And yet we still sometimes feel unfulfilled. One reason may be that we attend Mass, then think: Is that all there is? Of course it’s not. If we feast on the richest foods, then sit idly week after week, we grow comfortable, complacent, and ultimately, fat and unhealthy. The same is true spiritually: we cannot gorge ourselves on the love of God and then sit idly. We are not Christian only on the day of rest. The other six days we are called to work, to be fruitful. The Mass strengthens us to do God’s work in the world—to “go and make disciples of all nations,” as Jesus commissioned us.

But even when we do this work, we may still feel dissatisfied. St. Augustine says, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” We are made for God, and we long to be with Him. He gives us so much, but He promises so much more. May we persevere in faith and be made worthy of that promise!