Earlier this week I was giving God the silent treatment. It’s not that I forgot to pray, but rather every time it occurred to me to pray, I remembered, “Oh yeah, I’m not talking to you right now. I’m mad at you. You’re always telling me what to do, and I never seem to get it right, so I’m ignoring you. Go away.” I’ve rarely felt irritated that I never have to be alone, but this week I was sure I wanted to be left alone, an order that God was categorically ignoring. You see, He’s everywhere. Bah humbug.
I’ve been told that sin weighs more heavily on a clean heart. I’ve been going to confession a lot lately; I feel great for about five minutes or half a day at best. For the first time in my life, I’ve had to go to “emergency confession.” For no apparent reason, I suddenly feel this overwhelming, panicky separation from God, and I need (NEED!) to go to confession IMMEDIATELY. My dear friend Chrissy says this is a good sign. She says I’m on the fast track to sainthood. I’m skeptical.
So there I was, mad I can’t seem to listen to God as well as I wish I could, sure the answer was to stop talking to Him in an effort to prove that my way works just as well. The only problem was that the harder I tried to prove to myself that everything was fine, the worse I felt. “I’m fine!” I barked through a gritted grin at least five or six times this week. A couple friends called me on the phone to check on me:
“You seem off… Is everything ok?”
“No, I’m fine! Everything is going great!” I wanted to believe it. I wanted to show that I don’t need to pray to God every single morning and throughout the day, that I don’t need to ask for His inspiration and guidance every time I’m not sure what to do next. I wanted to prove I could just stop praying and things would go just as well as before. Except that they weren’t at all.
“I’m not talking to you right now. Go away!” Never mind the fact that my whole life runs more smoothly when I listen, that faith holds me up and helps me believe that even if I fail out of school—which, admittedly, is far-fetched—and never get a bachelors degree, God is just clever enough that He will somehow manage to figure out a way for me to be useful anyway.
I knew that my week was going terribly. I didn’t want to sit still to study for my impending midterms. I felt exhausted and mad at no one and nothing in particular. The old refrain of “if only I had a boyfriend I wouldn’t feel so lonely” occurred to me. It was an act of sheer willpower to get out of bed for class instead of staying under the warm covers. On at least a couple occasions, I found myself thinking, “I want a Ben & Jerry’s more than I want to pray.” And most of all I wanted to prove that not consciously interacting with God was not problematic and that I can run my life just as well with or without Him. Sloth and despondency, wrath, lust, gluttony, pride: when it comes to sin, I was hitting some of the big ones in my own diminutive, I-need-to-study-for-midterms-but-I-don’t-want-to way.
And I knew with complete certainty that God could help me with all of this and bless me with the grace to live in His light and not in sin, but I didn’t want his help. Of that I was convinced.
Meanwhile, my pride was too big to admit I was wrong, and that I do need God. Who wants to admit that without God they are nothing but a bumbling, miserable fool? After all, while I was the President of the Christian Fellowship in high school, I did not have nearly as active a prayer life as I do now, but I managed to get into Harvard anyway. But in hindsight, while I got good grades and maintained a decent appearance most of the time, I’m quite sure life would have been much more serene with God in the center of the picture frame.
Fortunately, Lent started this week. Ash Wednesday means Mass, so I was forced to talk to God, to commune with Him, in fact. I had to get over myself and give up on giving Him the silent treatment. Standing in line to receive communion, I was tempted to go sit down again. I’ve never before experienced such an intense feeling of unworthiness before God. I found myself thinking, “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy. I’m uniquely, unforgivably bad, and I don’t deserve the gift of You.” I very nearly left the line and returned to the pew to sit miserably instead of accepting His gift.
I’ve prayed for God to see that rapists are sick and need healing, not punishment, and that child abusers are really abused children who need His Holy Spirit to inhabit their souls and help them learn patience and love and tolerance they never thought they were capable of embodying. And yet I somehow believed that my desire to not study for midterms, sleep all day, and eat ice cream instead of praying was unforgivable even by God.
Standing in line during Ash Wednesday Mass at St. Paul’s, I suddenly remembered that I was right: I’m not worthy. In fact, as part of the Mass everyone in the congregation had just said out loud only minutes earlier, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you under my roof, but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.” I remembered that my unworthiness is the point of the whole thing: Jesus came to save sinners. I’m not worthy, and Jesus came down to earth, died on a cross, rose from the dead, sent down His Holy Spirit, and shows up to Mass in the Eucharist every single day—even the days when I sleep in—not in spite of but because of the fact that I am not worthy of God’s forgiveness and love, especially when I am powered by my own best thinking rather than God’s grace and guidance.
Lent is a time of a penance, of coming back to God. I’ve fought with my mom before and knew she was right, but didn’t want to admit I was wrong. Yet when I finally got over my pride and made up with my mom, the effect was immediate and healing. This was a similar experience.
Finally I got to the front of the line: “The body of Christ,” said the Eucharistic minister.
“Amen,” I responded. Rarely have a felt such a shift in my mood as when I came back to God by receiving communion at Mass this Wednesday, and the urgency and implications are a million times those of making up with my mom or a friend after a fight. While my mom is great and my relationship with her is important, God is greater (sorry, Mom) and my relationship with Him is even more important. Yet never before had I felt the process of getting mad and then making up with God quite so palpably as this week. Maybe Chrissy is right; maybe this is a good sign. It’s widely accepted that if you spend enough time with someone, you’re going to fight occasionally. Of course, God doesn’t fight back; I’m always the one doing all the kicking and screaming, but maybe this just means that I’m starting to spend enough time with Him after all.