A Reflection for Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Lent
Find today’s readings here.
A clean heart create for me, O God;
Give me back the joy of your salvation. (Ps 52:12, 14a.)
As I write this, I fear that I am in the midst of a spiritual slump.
It feels a bit absurd to even write; I work at a Catholic magazine and I write about my faith quite often. I go to Mass, I pray regularly, and I have friends with whom I can talk about spirituality. I live a very spiritually nourishing life.
So then why is it that when I pray, is it so often silent? For the past few weeks, I’ve felt like I am searching for words that I cannot find. When I do find some insight from prayer, I sometimes worry that I’ve just made it up. I do feel connected to God, but I can’t help but compare this period to times in my life when prayer felt like a conversation. I miss those talks we once had. I trust that I am always in God’s loving presence, but I’m getting sick of the sound of my own voice.
I wrote in my journal this weekend that it feels like I’m treading water spiritually. So when I opened these readings and found images of water in almost all of them, I saw it as a nudge, like God insisting, “I’m still here.”
In the first reading, the prophet Ezekiel is guided by an angel to an ankle-deep stream outside of the temple gates. The angel measures off 1,000 cubits (about a quarter mile), then has Ezekiel wade through the water as it rises. They do this again twice, and he wades through knee-high then waist-deep water, becoming more familiar until finally, “the water had risen so high it had become a river that could not be crossed except by swimming.” So Ezekiel swims.
Finally, the angel brings him to the banks to show him something: “Have you seen this, Son of Man?” It is only then that Ezekiel can lift his head and see the abundant life that now surrounds them: the trees that have sprouted around the banks, the fish swimming in the river. “Wherever the river flows, every sort of living creature that can multiply shall live…for wherever this water comes the sea shall be made fresh.”
Water, like faith, is at once both healing and dangerous. It can refresh our spirits, restore us, wipe us clean, give us life. But God and the sea have wills of their own, and their currents sometimes pull us into uncharted territory. In these moments, we can only put our heads down and swim, continuing in our faith, trusting that we will soon see the shore.
In this spirit, I went to Mass yesterday, hoping that it might make me feel fresh on a day when my nerves were frayed. As I bowed my head to pray after receiving the Eucharist, a thought entered my brain: “I am trying to be good. Please, God, help me to be good.” Silence again. So I continued to pray as the body of Christ dissolved on the roof of my mouth. At the Prayer after Communion, I opened my eyes. The colors in the chapel seemed brighter, and I felt a persistent nudge insisting that I pray to a God who hears. So long as I keep swimming, the shoreline will soon be in sight, replete with life abundant.
