The Long Lent of 2020

Catholics are giving up much more than they’d planned on this Lent. In order to slow the spread of this new coronavirus, extraordinary social distancing measures are being implemented. Schools, businesses, and restaurants are closing. Several states have issued mandatory orders to “shelter in place.” It’s now a misdemeanor to go out for something non-essential in California. These are strange and hard days. Catholics weren’t imagining they’d be giving up “other people” for Lent.

Hardest of all, though, is that many Catholics no longer have access to sacramental communion at Mass. This is true for us here in Vermont. Catholics fast during Lent. But nobody fasts from the Eucharist. 

This decision was necessary. But it’s also tragic and painful: “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood,” Jesus says, “you have no life in you” (Jn 6:53). I can’t smooth Jesus’s words into nothing and pretend our distance from Mass over the coming time will be painless. Neither can I assure you that TV Masses and spiritual communions will suffice. They won’t. But there are some things we can say about all this that might be helpful as we grind through the “Long Lent of 2020.”

A first point: Jesus says we’ll “have no life” unless we consume his flesh and blood. But he doesn’t say we need to consume him every week, or every day, or anything like that at all. And what’s interesting is that, in the grand scope of Catholic history, even if we've always attended Mass every week, receiving the Eucharist every week is actually very recent and exceptional. In the Middle Ages especially, there was limited reception of the Eucharist. The Poor Clares received only six times each year. Third Order Dominicans just four. Even some of the Church’s great saints, like Saint Louis, received just six times a year. Saint Elizabeth of Hungary just three. 

A second point: There’s a startling story from the fifth century about Saint Augustine. When it became clear to him that he was dying, he did something quite extraordinary and counterintuitive ― he began to fast from the Eucharist. You’d think that, in his moment of vulnerability and weakness, he would seek communion even more frequently. On the contrary, he said that, in this moment, he wanted to be among those who hunger and thirst for Jesus with the greatest possible acuteness. 

I’m not saying that, under normal circumstances, you should fast from the Eucharist. But I am saying that, under our current circumstances, yesterday’s saints might have something important to teach us: namely, that fasting increases our desire. And if it’s Jesus that we’re fasting from ― in this case, forced to fast from ― our best move is to allow this Long Lent to increase our desire for the Eucharist. It’s a chance to finally be numbered ― like Augustine, Louis, or Elizabeth ― among those who truly hunger and thirst with the greatest possible acuteness for Jesus.

There’s a third and final point to be made, and it’s one that we always forget. We need to remember that there’s a flip side to the Eucharist. When we receive communion, we not only receive Jesus; Jesus also receives us. But right now, he cannot receive you. And so his desire for you is increasing. [1] Do not think for a moment that he will be satisfied with spiritual communions and TV Masses. They are good, as far as they go. But he desires you way too much. You thought you were heartbroken about the cancellation of Mass? It does not compare.

The Old Testament Song of Solomon describes a lover who pines after her beloved: “I sought him whom my soul loves, but found him not; I called him, but he gave no answer” (Sg 3:1). This woman breaks into the streets and searches up and down the alleys in search of her beloved, wailing the whole way. Right now you might think you’re the lover, heartbroken and lost because Mass has been taken away from you. I assure you. You are the one being sought after. And when we’re through with this Long Lent ― when the Divine Lover gets you in his arms again — he’ll respond just as the lover from the Song of Solomon did: “when I found him whom my soul loves. I held him, and would not let him go!" I would not let him go!

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Endnotes:

[1] Father Justin DuVall, vice-rector at Bishop Simon Brute College Seminary made a similar point this week.

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~Anthony Rosselli (PhD cand., theology, University of Dayton) writes out of St. Luke and Ascension Parishes in Franklin County, Vermont. These columns are archived here.

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"Let's Build Three Tents!" - 2nd Sunday of Lent

Matthew 17:1-9
Jesus took Peter, James, and John his brother,
and led them up a high mountain by themselves.
And he was transfigured before them;
his face shone like the sun
and his clothes became white as light.
And behold, Moses and Elijah appeared to them,
conversing with him.
Then Peter said to Jesus in reply,
“Lord, it is good that we are here.
If you wish, I will make three tents here,
one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
While he was still speaking, behold,
a bright cloud cast a shadow over them,
then from the cloud came a voice that said,
“This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased;
listen to him.”
When the disciples heard this, they fell prostrate
and were very much afraid.
But Jesus came and touched them, saying,
“Rise, and do not be afraid.”
And when the disciples raised their eyes,
they saw no one else but Jesus alone.
...

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Every teacher has ― at some point in their career ― stood silently before their students and, egging them on, hoped that someone would shout out a brilliant answer to their question. Every teacher has ― at some point in their career ― seen this go disastrously wrong. I taught religion: “Jesus!” some student inevitably shouts, certain that cannot be incorrect. “No,” I reply. … “Covenant!” shouts another, remembering something from last week. “No. You didn’t read for today, did you?” … “Wait is this that stuff about Napoleon?” “No, Garrett. You’re using the wrong notebook again. You’re in your religion course right now.”

I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this is sort of what Jesus experienced with Peter, James, and John when he brought them up the Mount of Transfiguration. Jesus ― the rabbi and teacher ― brings his students up to the mountain. We read that Jesus was “transfigured before them; his face shone like the sun and his clothes became white as light;” Moses and Elijah appeared alongside him (Mt 17:2). It’s at this moment that the attention shifts to Peter ― the attention shifts from the teacher to the student. And what does Peter blurt out? “Lord ... If you wish, I will make three tents! One for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” (Mt 17:4). 

This is ― to be honest ― a very silly suggestion. Peter is referring to a specific Jewish celebration ― the “Feast of Booths” (or Tents). This was a weeklong event where the Jews prayed in makeshift booths in order to commemorate the time that they wandered through the desert while living in tents. But here’s the thing: the Jews were not, at this moment, celebrating the Feast of Booths. So why in the world would Jesus want a tent made for him?

In Peter’s defense, it is worth pointing out that, when Mark records this same story in his Gospel, he explains that Peter “did not know what to say; for he was exceedingly afraid” (Mk 9:6). But, having been a teacher, I find it hilarious that the text says the voice from heaven interrupted Peter “while he was still speaking” (Mt 17:5). He was speaking nonsense; there was no need to hear more. But we should look closely at what that voice says when it cuts Peter off: “This is my beloved Son… listen to him.” In other words: stop talking, Peter, and listen.

We too often think of Lent as a time of “doing,” of piling up sacrifices for God. “What are you doing for Lent?” we always ask. Sacrifices are good, as far as they go. But the Church places the Transfiguration before us this week in order to recall that Lent is also a time of listening. Indeed, when Peter started blathering on about his project for Jesus ― “let’s build three tents!” ― God just cut him off: “Listen to him.” 

It is the same with us: “I am giving up chocolate; I am giving up coffee...” That’s all fine and good ― it’s much more intelligible than Peter’s suggestion. But don’t be surprised if God cuts you off and suggests you also simply “listen to him.” Indeed, perhaps the question we should be asking is not “what am I doing for Lent?” but “what is God trying to do in me for Lent?” That is what we should be listening for. 

Peter saw Jesus transfigured before him, and all he could talk about was building tents. What is it about your world right now, for better or worse, that is being transfigured before you? Is there something in your heart that is being reshaped, painful or pleasant as it may seem? Those are the ways in which God speaks to us. In what ways have we made Lent a time of listening to all that, of listening to what God is speaking to us, rather than — like Peter and my dear old students — a time of shouting out all the things we’re going to do, hoping it’s the correct answer?

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~Anthony Rosselli (PhD cand., theology, University of Dayton) writes out of St. Luke and Ascension Parishes in Franklin County, Vermont. These columns are archived here.

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Christ in the Wilderness - 1st Sunday of Lent

Ivan Kramskoi's Christ in the Wilderness (1872)

Matthew 4:1-11
At that time Jesus was led by the Spirit into the desert
to be tempted by the devil.
He fasted for forty days and forty nights,
and afterwards he was hungry.
The tempter approached and said to him,
“If you are the Son of God,
command that these stones become loaves of bread.”
He said in reply,
“It is written:
One does not live on bread alone,
but on every word that comes forth
from the mouth of God.”
Then the devil took him to the holy city,
and made him stand on the parapet of the temple,
and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down.
For it is written:
He will command his angels concerning you
and with their hands they will support you,
lest you dash your foot against a stone.”
Jesus answered him,
“Again it is written,
You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test.”
Then the devil took him up to a very high mountain,
and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in their magnificence,
and he said to him, "All these I shall give to you,
if you will prostrate yourself and worship me.”
At this, Jesus said to him,
“Get away, Satan!
It is written:
The Lord, your God, shall you worship
and him alone shall you serve.”
Then the devil left him and, behold,
angels came and ministered to him.

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One of my favorite paintings is Ivan Kramskoi’s 1872 Christ in the Wilderness. It depicts Jesus sitting on a stone near the end of his forty days in the desert looking utterly broken and in misery. “There is nothing festive, heroic, or victorious” about that Jesus, one art critic wrote. It is hard to believe that “the future fate of the world and of all living things is concealed under the rags of that miserable, small being.” 

Our Gospel reading this week directs us to this Jesus who, tempted by Satan in the desert, is also sleepless, shivering, and hungry. “If you are the Son of God,” Satan challenges him, “command that these stones become loaves of bread” (Mt 4:3). The premise of Satan’s argument is especially potent: “if you are the Son of God...” Don’t we often use the same premise, not necessarily to tempt Jesus, but to plead with him? “If you are the Son of God, cure my migraines…” “If you are the Son of God, heal my father’s cancer…” “...dissolve my depression; stop the wars; contain the diseases.” “If you are the Son of God…” “Are you not the Son of God?” 

In the face of all this, it can be very confusing and painful to see Jesus just sitting there ― as he does in Kramskoi’s painting ― himself awash in the same pain and devastation. Somedays I want to shout into that painting what one of the criminals who was crucified with Jesus shouted at him: “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and save us!” (Lk 23:39)

So why doesn’t Jesus turn the stones into bread? Why doesn’t he dissolve all our troubles? Why is he just sitting there? 

When Kramskoi’s Christ in the Wilderness was first displayed in a public exhibition, many critics noticed that Jesus’ face was painted to look just like the face of the artist. It had the same sharp lines, the same angled cheekbones. It was Kramskoi. Some people were offended. But Kramskoi was not trying to elevate himself ― he was not trying to say that he was as righteous as Christ. He knew that was delusional. 

What he meant to convey, rather, was that Jesus is truly one of us, that Jesus desires to identify with our stories. Jesus has a human face that is like ours, a story like ours, agonies like ours. The larger point is this: the fact that Jesus is sitting on that stone at all ― the fact that God is, like us, a tired and broken human being ― is precisely his answer to all our pleading: he is in solidarity with our pain. The reason he won’t take any food is because he wants to be as broken and hurt as any human could be. God wants to place himself in the fray of human misery, not above it. It is true that God is not necessarily going to dissolve all your suffering, but he will experience it with you. This is what Kramskoi was able to depict so vividly: the migrainous, cancer-ridden, depressed Jesus ― the Jesus who looks exactly like you and me because he is racked with all the same miseries.

We often think of Lent as the time where we participate in Jesus’ suffering in the desert. But ― in light of all this ― it is much more important that we see Jesus’ forty days in the desert as his own exhausting effort to participate in our suffering. Lent is that time where we remind ourselves that Jesus decided to suffer alongside us. Lent is that time where we go back into the desert, not so we can grind it out and earn points before God. That’s delusional, offensive even. On the contrary, Lent is the time where we go back to the desert so that we can see and unite ourselves with the Jesus who is refusing food in order to be in solidarity with us, with all of us who are starving, cold, and hurting.

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~Anthony Rosselli (PhD cand., theology, University of Dayton) writes out of St. Luke and Ascension Parishes in Franklin County, Vermont. These columns are archived here.

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