healing

Transformed or Transmitted?

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

This post appeared in the Sunday, July 21, 2024, edition of the St. Michael Catholic Church bulletin.

A couple weeks ago, I shared a short reflection on the Healing the Whole Person study I was blessed to be a part of in June. (Another one is starting up next week; see the bulletin or Father’s weekly email for details.) The gist of that column was the freedom I received to look squarely at my past and admit that everything wasn’t sunshine and daisies, then to seek the Lord’s healing for even the little ways in which I have been wounded.

Healing is not only important for our own sake. The Lord desires joy, not just for us, but for all those we encounter—and as the old saying goes, “Hurt people hurt people.”

Throughout the study, Dr. Bob Schuchts and Sister Miriam James Heidland, SOLT, reiterate that suffering that is not transformed is transmitted. The desire to avoid suffering ourselves is so strong that, when we encounter past or present pain, we instinctively pass it on—through blame and bitterness, anger and control, habitual sin, you name it.

But, if we are thoughtful and intentional, we can learn to confront pain and choose to bring it to the Lord instead of dumping it on our spouses or kids, family or friends. This is redemptive suffering—suffering in the right way, self-sacrificially, like Jesus.

I have long understood redemptive suffering in concept, but, to be honest, that understanding didn’t seem to help much:

  • St. Paul tells us, “Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the church” (Colossians 1:24).
  • What is lacking in the suffering of Jesus? Nothing, of course—His sacrifice was complete and perfect, once for all.
  • Jesus does not need our help, but He desires our cooperation. As St. John Paul II wrote, “Those who share in the sufferings of Christ preserve in their own sufferings a very special particle of the infinite treasure of the world’s Redemption, and can share this treasure with others” (Salvifici Doloris, 27).
  • This is a beautiful idea, but suffering well is hard work, and, really, I’d rather not.

But the idea of not passing my suffering on to those I love really struck me. Hard work is easier to do when you understand the why of it. Here’s how I break it down:

  • Suffering is a result of sin and the Fall. Jesus redeems us by taking the sins and suffering of the world, past, present, and future. His sacrifice lacks nothing, and through it, God’s perfect love and perfect justice are both sustained.
  • If Jesus takes on all the sin and suffering, then he takes on my sin and suffering, as well as that of my bride. Nothing I can do can add to or subtract from His saving act. And yet…
  • If I choose to avoid suffering and pass it on to Jodi, she suffers. In a sense, I haven’t increased the suffering in the world—I’ve just passed it on. But in another sense, I have increased the suffering, at least, for Jodi.
  • Jesus has already handled all of it—praise God! But I can also choose to say, “My suffering ends with me.” I can resist the urge to avoid the pain and pass it on. I can, like Jesus, carry my own cross and love sacrificially so Jodi (or my kids, neighbors, or enemies) don’t suffer in my stead. Now redemptive suffering makes sense!

I shared this line of thinking with my confessor, and he added an important caveat: Jesus didn’t bear His burden alone. He offered His sacrifice to His heavenly Father, leaning on the Father for strength and guidance. If we say, “My suffering stops with me,” but then hold on to it and let it accumulate, sooner or later it will become too much to bear.

Redemptive suffering, it seems to me, is suffering transformed by love—the loving act each of us performs by not passing our pain on to others and the healing love of God who turns every sacrifice to grace, joy, and peace. Let us pray, today and always, to carry our own crosses with God’s help, so that those we love may know His sacrificial love through us. Amen.

Handled or Healed?

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

This spring I shared about a homily we heard from Father Columba Jordan, CFR, while visiting Gabe and his fellow postulants in Harlem. Father Columba asked if we were handing our problems over to the Lord or squeezing Him like a stress ball while we tried to handle them ourselves. Surrender is more than admitting we need help or even asking for help—it means relinquishing control and receiving His help, in whatever form it comes.

Fast-forward to this month: After years of talking about it, Jodi and I decided to work on our marriage together by participating in the Healing the Whole Person study at the church this summer. By most measures, our marriage is healthy and strong, but anyone who has spent decades living with the same person can point to areas in need of healing: issues that consistently cause anxiety or anger, conversations that invariably go sideways, little things that drive us crazy in disproportionately big ways. And we don’t want to settle for that.

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Book Break: Hind’s Feet on High Places

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Our second son, Gabriel, is discerning religious life with the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs) in New York City. Not long after he left for the friary, we were talking with him on the phone and asked what we could send that would be useful and received. The friars take their vow of poverty seriously, own very little, and share what they have with others and their Harlem neighbors, so sending a care package can be a challenge.

At the time, one of his brother postulants was looking for a particular spiritual book I didn’t know, called Hind’s Feet on High Places, by Hannah Hurnard. Since we have the luxury of the internet, I found it quickly on eBay and had it shipped to our home, intending to include it in our next package. By the time it arrived, however, we spoke with Gabe again and learned they had already obtained a copy. So I slipped it into our bedroom bookshelf, amongst other books I hoped to read soon.

I opened it late in my Lenten journey this spring and began the book with some trepidation. It is very much an allegory: The main character is named Much-Afraid, who lives with her relatives, the Fearings, in the Valley of Humiliation. She is lame and deformed and regards herself as unloved and even unlovable. She is betrothed to her cousin Craven Fear, a vicious bully—and the only bright spot in her life is that she works for the Shepherd, who is loved by all who follow him and feared and avoided by all who don’t. The shepherd promises Much-Afraid that, even in her lame state, he can give her hind’s (deer’s) feet and bring her to the high places where her relatives have no power over her. But the path seems impossible and contradictory at times.

See what I mean? Very much an allegory.

In the early pages, it felt like it would be too simple and childlike to hold my attention, but instead I found it to be a carefully observed account of the path to faith, conversion, surrender, and charity. I’ve not walked that path in its entirety, mind you—but the early stages of the journey were spot on. After only a couple of chapters, I found myself shuffling along in Much-Afraid’s shoes, then watching as she proceeded further that I have ever gone, and praying to God to bring me along, too.

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He’s Got His Little Ways

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Blogger’s Note: This is a strange column. It appeared in last weekend’s bulletin for St. Michael Catholic Church. I wrote it early last week, just before deadline. Reading it, I recognize it as mine, but it feels like someone else wrote it. I have received direct feedback thanking me for writing and sharing it, because someone needed to hear it. Holy Spirit moment, then?

This morning an old Dwight Yoakam tune popped into my head: *

You’ve got your little ways to hurt me
You know just how to tear me up
And leave me in small pieces on the ground

The context was not a bad breakup or a cruel mistress, but the realization that I am, in many ways, the same sinner I was before my conversion. I’m not struggling with big sins that kept me separated from the Lord. But the struggles and temptations are still there, and I am often seemingly helpless against them. I’m still tempted to seek physical pleasure—most often in the forms of food, drink, and rest—instead of spiritual goods. And I still turn to the internet when I’m stressed or desire distraction—only now its online TV series, silly YouTube videos, sports highlights, and political news.

These are not grave issues, and most of the time, I am not consciously choosing them in opposition to what God is asking of me. The reality is less serious, but much more insidious: I slip unconsciously, effortlessly, out of the present moment and away from my family and responsibilities. Often I don’t realize until much later how much time I’ve lost or what I’ve missed; when I do realize, the Accuser is there, reminding me how childish and helpless I still am.

That’s where I found myself this morning. Last evening, I spent the final three or four hours before sleep vegging in front of a screen. It started with a family movie, followed by a clean comedy video, but then devolved into satirical movie trailers and political pundits by myself, on my phone. When I was almost too tired to get ready for bed, I realized I hadn’t prayed a rosary yet, despite having friends who needed those prayers. I rushed it while shuffling about getting ready for bed—then rose this morning and immediately opened a browser on my phone.

Holiness indeed, whispered the Accuser in my ear. You have no self-control at all, do you?

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The Final Surrender

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

As some of you know, my father in Michigan is suffering from both Parkinson’s and dementia. He is still at home, and my mother is still able to care for him. He’s gentle and good-humored, and I’m grateful to be able to visit as often as I can.

But it’s terrible to watch his decline and the toll it has taken on both him and my mom. He was a machinist, a mechanic, and a builder, with a great engineering mind despite no formal education. Parkinson’s took his hands first, but dementia is worse—and as much as I would like all the time I can get with him, it’s hard to see him like this.

I’ve prayed for healing, and I know God could do it in an instant if He wants—but so far that’s not His plan. So what should I pray for?

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