When the Path Divides: Contrasting Spiritual Journeys During Lent
Some people desire simplicity.
I decided to join a Lenten mission at my church. For those who don’t know what that is, it’s like the Catholic version of a Christian Revival. My church called it a Lenten Journey, which sounds more appealing than a “mission.”
We’re reading a book that reflects on St. Alphonsus Ligouri’s Uniformity with God’s Will. My heart leaped when I read the book’s description on Amazon. I couldn’t wait to break open and discuss the book with my fellow Catholics.
When I read through the first chapter, there were some thorny points I had to address. I had some serious questions. I asked myself, Why does this stir this irritation? I considered the Jungian approach, which says that your irritation often points to that same quality within yourself. Although I recognized how some of my irritation had to do with my own faults, I sensed something bigger.
Last week’s Zoom meeting with the group was less than stellar. Half of the meeting pertained to technical difficulties, but I also smelled some of my own pride in one of the deacons. Of course, I was assigned to him in my small group, which shows that he will be my guru and mirror. We didn’t really get much into the book, so the professor in me said, Eh, this isn’t very organized. I would have done this better. Nobody is perfect, including me.
Because I have to take care of my mother this week, I went to the in-person session yesterday. I figured the in-person meeting would get more to the point. The room was packed with retirees, which is to be expected since it was on a late Monday morning.
The woman who sat next to me told me how her husband was dying of pancreatic cancer. It was clear to me that she wanted someone to talk to, so I let her tell me her story. She and her husband have both made peace with her husband going to the Lord within a few months. I wished my mom could have heard her faith.
She then proceeded to pull out several cards with prayers on them. I scanned a few of them because you never know when someone else’s prayers can assist you.
When the deacons began, I was eager to talk about the book. I had written about 700 words criticizing chapter 1, and I had prayed that I wouldn’t sound so cynical. The deacons took turns essentially preaching about God’s will, giving us a few moments to reflect on the questions on the handout that somewhat pertained to the book. I held my nose when one of the deacons said how smart the author was and how it was one of the most important books he’d read.
As the deacons talked about how we need to read the Bible, the woman pulled out a mini-Bible. One deacon mentioned reading the Gospels and Acts, and she brought out another Bible that just had those books. She pulled out her rosary and several other prayers and laid them all neatly in front of her. I was reminded of Hermione Granger’s bag.
We were then asked to reflect upon the question, “How can I come to know and love God and thus honor him with my life?” I found the question to be somewhat obtuse, considering most of us in the room were there for that very purpose. We were then told to share with the person next to us.
The woman told me her story about working for the University of Maryland and how her husband used to be Presbyterian. I just listened because I felt she wanted to be heard.
My answer? “Simplicity.”
The word came to me as I watched her pull all of her prayers and books out. I imagined how the Desert Fathers and Mothers prayed. They didn’t have books or prayer cards. Neither did Jesus when he went to the desert for 40 days.
As I sat patiently waiting for us to discuss the books, I began to notice it was almost time for me to leave for work. I began to get antsy wondering if I would get my chance to speak about this sham of a book and author. I realized I had to let go of that, recognizing that there would be a more appropriate time and audience to listen.
Because I was sitting in the front of the room and far away from the exit, I couldn’t slip out unnoticed. I liked hearing from the deacon, but I also felt like the Lenten Journey was more of a class than a faith-sharing. I yearned for the many groups I had joined over the years but had to accept where I was at the present moment—trapped.
During my evening examen, I considered the wealth of emotions I felt yesterday morning. I asked God to shape these emotions so I could better understand where God was leading me.
It wasn’t until I woke up this morning that I realized this—I don’t belong there. That Lenten Journey is too restrictive for me. Perhaps 25 years ago it might have been nurturing, but this book, this “journey,” points to a more conservative destination than where I am right now.
The irony is that the author says that the mission of his company is to help others develop their contemplative life. I thought that was my mission.
We might start on the same contemplative path if we come from a similar religious background. But there comes a time when the paths diverge. I arrived at those crossroads about 20 years ago. The destination might be the same, but the paths are much different.
My path is simplicity. I want to walk on my spiritual journey and breathe in the smell of pine. I want the breeze to tickle my ears. I want to connect with the fox and the deer I meet along the path. I’d miss that if the path was so complicated that I’m always looking at the map. I’d also miss it if my eyes were too fixed on the leaders who are talking so much that I never experienced the beauty of the path itself.