Out of the Shadows and into the Light

For some time, I called it "feeling lost" and then other times, I described it as "being in a dry desert." But neither really do justice to the inner spiritual warfare I have encountered for close to a year now. Since studying abroad, something within me felt changed. I struggled a lot with my personal relationship with God, but imagined it was just another phase of transition I was going through.

But my conversations with Christ dissipated and I overworked myself (spiritually) to the bone trying to solve the equation of why I still felt utterly lonely. Despite my efforts of confiding with my abroad roommates about my confusion with Christ, despite my attempts of getting myself to a church in Rome (which took 30+ minutes to reach), still nothing changed.

And what I once assumed was a period of desolation, turned into a phase of anger and confusion. Without realizing it of course, I filled the void of purpose by spending time with refugees and local Italians helping them learn English. Don't get me wrong, I felt alive when I traveled the world and met all kinds of people, but when I came back to my routine in Rome, that ever-looming frustration would surface again.

For the first time in my relationship with God, I admitted to "defeat" in trying to solve the strange disconnect with Him. So, I entered another phase: "I just don't care then, if it seems like God doesn't." Even though there were rare moments when I would pray and scream in the depths of my loneliness and confusion, the majority of my thoughts began to numb everything. And when you don't feel emotions like hurt or longing for an extended period of time, you forget what it once originally was like to feel such things. You forget what it felt like to truly breathe, to be, to live.

This following spring semester back at Xavier, unfortunately, hasn't "healed" me. In fact, it's given me clarity how far from alive I have felt. So, how does a 21 year old, both nostalgic of the places, the food, and the friendships established abroad cope with the monotonous, seemingly uneventful everyday life of Xavier classes, sleepless night and anxiety stricken outbreaks?

Well, the closest I have come to unravel this was actually from a homily given by Fr. B, amidst the Lenten season. He shared with us his thoughts from John 11:1-45, the story of the dead man Lazarus.

The story of Lazarus is a much more beautifully complicated and profound one than expected. Martha and Mary, sisters of Lazarus, called to Jesus in the depths of their distress when their brother fell ill. Interestingly enough, Jesus intentionally stays around an additional two days in the place where He was before reaching Lazarus. But the interesting part about why Jesus waited before reaching Lazarus, who was near to death, was precisely because "Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus" (John 11:5).

Sitting in mass today, it made sense to me to admit that perhaps I haven't been in a spiritual desert, nor was I numb, but rather, I've been dead inside. The life and light that would typically consume me, had been sucked out. It made sense to sit in that pew today, knowing that the feeling I have been trying to articulate has really been this lifelessness within me. I haven't been wandering off into dazes to escape the realities of my distresses, but like Lazarus, I too, have felt imprisoned to a tomb. And all I have been yearning for is the Lord to say to me what He said about Lazarus, "Our friend Lazarus is asleep, but I am going to awaken him" (John 11:11).

Oh how beautiful it is to replace Lazarus' name and insert mine there! What hope and light my lungs fill up with life to hear that Jesus has been waiting for me to rise up from this deadly, spiritual illness.

And, above all, Jesus arrives at the scene, with a Mary falling at his feet sobbing from the death of his brother, so full and raw with emotions. Four days had passed since Lazarus died and until Jesus came. When He did come, He saw pangs of despair.

"When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who had come with her weeping, he became perturbed and deeply troubled, and said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Sir, come and see." And Jesus wept" (John 11:33-35).

But, Jesus had promised an awakening. He had promised a revival. And like Mary, falling to the feet of Jesus, she devoted all her trust in that promise when she cried, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died" (John 11:32).

Fr. B in his homily today offered a unique perspective to Lazarus' story. Fr. B didn't highlight as much that we need to place full trust in God's timing to awaken us (although this bears fruit as well). Rather, Fr. B stressed the importance of friendship. As it is evident throughout the entirety of the Bible, we were not created to bear the pain and darknesses we have alone. Fr. B challenged us to consider those people in our lives that will know our hearts, our anxieties, our fears and challenges and help roll away that stone from the grave we have been in with us.

"So Jesus, perturbed again, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone lay across it. Jesus said, "Take away the stone." Martha, the dead man's sister, said to him, "Lord, by now there will be a stench; he has been dead for four days." Jesus said to her, "Did I not tell you that if you believe you will see the glory of God?" So they took away the stone" (John 11: 38-41).

We are called to friendships that will endure our trials with us. We are called to relationships that will help roll away the stone with us. The burden of carrying that cross is a burden too heavy for just ourselves. We are meant to handle these trials with care and with someone else so as to reveal the light that beams on the other side of the deadening cave we feel engulfed by. Like Jesus, we must value friendship above our prideful selves and whatever we might think we can endure on our own. Jesus, too, asked Mary to help roll that stone away with Him, despite how it might look on the other side.

It doesn't mean it is easy in the slightest to be vulnerable with that person to help roll away the stone with us. In fact, that in itself requires a discerning process, a prayerful journey.

This has been the place and home of a cave I had found for myself: to find a place of peace and restfulness all on my own. I never once, though, considered what it would look like to do it with someone else, someone to communally and mutually share in my sufferings with me. My loneliness was precisely a result of restricting myself to only relying on myself.

It has taken me time to understand these things after going on a retreat at Xavier to be reminded that there are many Mary's (and Jesus') in my life who weep for me, who hurt for me, who yearn light and life for me. It took me a weekend confined to being surrounded by other people 24/7 to realize that these moments of mutual self-giving and sharing are the kinds of moments that will re-center us and awaken our very core.

Even though I still find myself suffering at times and yearning to feel made new, I hold fast to the promises that Jesus makes about waking me from my sleep and resurrecting me into the fullness of life and light. I pray that you may find hope in the ways Jesus weeps for you and how He desires to bring you a resurrection too.

"May your life be my life, your agony be my agony, your death my death, your resurrection my resurrection." (Saint Vincent Pallotti)