Don't ask me why, but sometimes I imagine myself in the Middle East—in somewhere like Erbil or Mosul—and I imagine getting kidnapped by terrorists. I imagine being held in some secret ISIS detention center, bound and malnourished, maybe bloodied by mistreatment, tortured, and awaiting certain death. I imagine the swell of emotions I would feel trying to steady my resolve in the face of imminent doom, dealing with regrets of things left undone, sadness at leaving those I love so prematurely, and preparing my soul for judgment. I imagine the simple but fervent prayers I would likely make in such a harrowing ordeal.
But then I imagine that through some stroke of providence I escape: perhaps my captors have passed out drunk, or they've left me unattended for too long while underestimating my resolve, enabling me to slip away from their custody. I don't know where I am, but anywhere is preferable to captivity, so I flee out into the trackless wastes of the desert. I wander hither and thither, across barren tablelands and desolate spaces scarcely changed by the hand of man since the dawn of history. My flesh is seared by the angry sun, my lips are cracked, and soon I give way to delirium. Time runs together, and I am no longer cognizant of how long I've been wandering. I draw on reserves of strength I scarcely knew existed; my body wastes away, eating its own mass in order to stay alive for a few more hours.
Finally, after an interminable amount of time, I stumble into some filthy village in Kurdistan, which is little more than a collection of mudbrick hovels hugging a stony hillside. My eyes light up; a glimmer of hope rises, and my body finds new strength as I force my legs to carry me into the village precincts. The populace make much ado about me; I am surrounded by villagers yammering to me in unknown tongues, and though I can't understand their words, I feel their excitement and compassion at the emergence from the desert of such a woeful specter such as myself. I am given water and fresh clothing.
To my shock and delight, this village has a small Christian community. Consisting of only a few families, they gather in a shabby structure at the edge of town that is basically large shed. I imagine how happy I would be to see the rough-hewn wooden cross announcing the presence of Christ in this impoverished place. I go into the church; the language barrier makes it difficult to tell what sort of Christians these people are, and the church furnishings are little help. It is sparse; I am honestly not sure if it is a poorly furnished Novus Ordo mission, or some kind of evangelical chapel, and the language barrier makes it impossible for me to inquire further. But in the moment, I am not particularly worried about it; I am simply happy to be under the sign of the cross and delivered from the sign of the crescent. I prostrate myself on the floor of the church, giving thanks to Christ for His mercy. In my emotion, I make all sorts of pious resolutions to do better, love stronger, try harder, and treat every day from here on out as a gift. I have a profound realization of my own poverty, and an even profounder awareness f the reality of grace. Here, in this distant place, I, a sojourner barely clinging to life after being rescued from a harrowing ordeal, experience what will undoubtedly be the turning point in my life and one of my most important moments of spiritual realization.
I've thought about this a lot, to be honest, and at times, I think, isn't this our condition all the time? We are always in the target of a brutal enemy seeking our annihilation. We are always wandering in a trackless wasteland, a vallis lacrimarum, full of shadow and danger. We are always impoverished, always straggling, always uncertain whether the next moment will be our last. We are always cast upon the beneficence of providence, always in need of God's mercy. The story I narrated above helps to illustrate our condition with a more striking clarity, but in reality, we are always in this condition to some degree.
If that is the case, I have wondered, would not the things we argue about as Trads seem petty and ridiculous? Had I really stumbled into this little impoverished church after such a harrowing ordeal, would I be particularly worked up about the latest Vatican scandal, or whether the pope appointed this or that bishop, or the deformations of the liturgy, or any of these things? Would I not simply be filled with gratitude for being home among brethren, living my faith in peace amongst people who aren't trying to butcher me and saw my head off?
I likely would feel that way. I would consider that all the things I used to trouble myself about were like so much chaff, which my desperate condition would make me recognize. And if that is truly our condition at all times—spiritually speaking—then it follows that I should consider the modern Church's issues in this same light, doesn't it?
The answer is no. Absolutely not.
Because I shouldn't have to fantastize about being kidnapped and tortured by ISIS before I can bring myself to drown out what's going on around me. I should not have to think, "Well, if I was about to have my head sawed off, I'm sure I wouldn't still be upset about Pachamama." I shouldn't have to mentally swap places with a terrorist victim in order to make the devastation around me seem less severe than it is. Think of that...having to fabricate something as large and horrific as a terrorist torture scenario before the Church crisis even begins to shrink in comparison! This is a striking demonstration of the magnitude of our peril.
Should I feel the kind of gratitude and tranquility described above? Yes. But, ideally, this should be enabled by the Church: it should be something nurtured by the clarity of the Church's teaching, the splendor of her liturgies, the undeniable moral character of her leaders. Throughout my years on this blog, I have frequently argued that we should not allow the discord around us to throw us off balance spiritually, something I firmly believe. Apropos of that, I have exerted considerable effort in finding little ways to be happy, maintain spiritual equilibrium, and, by God's grace, taste a little bit of heavenly wisdom now and then to help me see unfolding events through the lens of eternity, that I might maintain my composure. It should not be something I have to fight against the ecclesial culture to maintain. How tiring it is to have to wear armor to protect your mind and heart against things emanating from the place that is meant to be a source of spiritual solace!
And I shoudn't have to imagine such scenarios as described above in order to rationalize away problems that stare us in the face daily. By God's grace, I won't let these problems shake my resolve. By God's grace, I will remain faithful. By God's grace, I will abide in the peace which passeth all understanding. By God's grace I will keep my eye on the prize. But not by pretending our problems aren't problems; not by repeating platitudes intended to bleach away rational analysis. Not by listening to people give me the spiritual equivalent of "You should be happy for your shitty food because of the starving childen in Ethiopia." But by looking them straight in the eye, calling them for what they are, locking arms with them in combat, beholding them in all their grime, and nevertheless saying, "By God, you will not shake me."
Perhaps we all truly are desperate wandering through the desert of life, starving and alone. All of us poor, all of us a hair's breadth away from destruction. If that be the case, then the problems we face as a Church are thereby of greater magnitude, not less, for the children need bread and their spiritual fathers hand them scoprions. They take away our straw and say, "Make brick!" They hide deep from the Lord their counsel, they whose deeds are in the dark, and they say, “Who sees us? Who knows us?”
“And in that day, says the Lord,
I will answer the heavens
and they shall answer the earth;
and the earth shall answer the grain, the wine, and the oil,
and they shall answer Jezreel;
and I will sow him for myself in the land.
And I will have pity on Not pitied,
and I will say to Not my people, ‘You are my people’;
and he shall say, ‘Thou art my God.’” (Hos. 2:21-23)
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