Adjusting to my Lenten schedule took a grudgingly long time. Lately, I’ve been even busier than usual—at work, after work, on weekends… sometimes, I forget to take a break. I get into bed without reading that six-minute daily study, and throw off the covers to find the little black book. Or I return home after another late rehearsal, forcing myself to stay awake to read a few pages of St. Teresa.
It would be easier not to bother: I’d get more sleep. There would be more time to practice music. I might actually finish a video game.
But yesterday, I stepped away to take that quiet hour in an empty church. It was a pain to find parking. I circled the block a couple times before a space emerged, tempted all the while to just go back to the office. But when I finally settled in a pew, and took the time to breathe… I remembered. I had a print-out of this week’s lectio divina. I read the Bible verses over and over again. Suddenly, Jesus wasn’t only speaking to the surrounding people in some distant past. He was speaking to me. He was chastising me for my sinfulness. But, as I sat beneath a larger-than-life-size crucifix, he loved me.
Sometimes, God is an abstract entity. It’s like reading a history book—logically, you know it’s real and it happened, but also can’t fathom events that occurred before your physical existence. God is similar. He’s there, and we try to connect, but His lack of physical presence makes it difficult. But the difference is, God isn’t past. He’s here, always, and there are snippets of time that we can latch onto Him. That’s why, even though I was sitting in a church in Princeton, New Jersey, I was standing on a mountain with Jesus in Galilee. I felt the warm breeze under a desert sun. And I could feel His presence as I stood close by, listening intently to His sermon.
I wonder sometimes why I don’t feel Him all the time. There are signs of Him everywhere, in the prayer card in my wallet or the cross I fiddle with around my neck. But when experiencing even a glimpse of His presence, I understand why I shouldn’t—it’s overwhelming. It’s an outpouring of emotion, an inability to focus on anything else. If God allowed that in all moments, we couldn’t handle it. Besides, those bursts of divine love wouldn’t be as special. God would become commonplace, which is the last thing He could ever be.
“Mental prayer in my opinion is nothing else than an intimate sharing between friends; it means taking time frequently to be alone with Him who we know loves us.”
—St. Teresa of Avila
No relationship is easy, and the relationship with the Divine Creator is the most difficult of them all. We’re flawed human beings, and have a hard time grasping at the intangible. But when we sit down and truly talk with Him, and listen, He becomes anything but intangible.
Then, I remember why I bother.
