Reawaken Hope
THE SEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY
Last Sunday, I began with an obvious but profound statement: "the spiritual life of the Christian is inconvenient." Allow me to add another pearl of wisdom and insight: "The spiritual life can become exhausting." Let's be honest; life is exhausting! As finite beings, we have limitations. We can only run hard for so long before we hit the proverbial wall. Imperfection- and we are imperfect- renders us both physically and mentally vulnerable to weariness and fatigue.
In addition, as we explored a few weeks ago, we are prone to succumb to the sin of accidie, which in modern times became associated with the sin of sloth which is more associated nowadays with laziness. But accidie is far more dangerous because its truer identity is the sin of dejection, which breeds a spiritual loathing and inner emptiness within the soul.
The dejected soul bereft of hope is completely resigned to hopelessness and gives up on self, others, and in the end, on God. It indignantly obeys the Divine command to "let down the nets into the deep waters. "What's the point?" We've been fishing all night without catching a single fish!" Dejection is resigned to failure. It hates life; it hates self; and, all too often, ends up hating God. If not repented of, accidie will most certainly kill the spiritual life, for it is a sin unto death.
Today's Gospel presents another challenge to living out our baptismal vows: falling into spiritual despondency. Despondency is a temptation residing within the emotions or passions. Like accidie, it breeds hopelessness, utter hopelessness overtaking the soul, and loses faith in God, thus becoming opposed to his law and all the good He offers. Where accidie loathes despondency retreats from every good thing.
Is despondency a sin? Well, exhaustion certainly isn't, or a sinner like me would be exhausted from the amount of time spent kneeling before my priest seeking God's forgiveness and absolution! This is a good question and necessary as we explore spiritual despondency. Let me just say, "the answer isn't black and white."
We all encounter low times when our spirits are down: this is true for the spiritual life and life in general. This is also natural for fallen creatures to succumb to; we conceive of hope mainly because we experience and know hopelessness. Just as we can imagine and conceive of the perfect from all that is imperfect.
This, of which I speak, isn't sin but a reality of the human condition; it doesn't make it virtuous or good, but neither is it sin. But there is a temptation to succumb to a despondency that leads one into isolation, hopelessness, disobedience, and finally disbelief. This is a sin should one remain in such as sorry state of affairs.
Now, you may be asking, "what does exhaustion have to do with spiritual despondency and how, Fr. Michael, are you making a connection to this in today's Gospel?" (Which I might add is the most well know of all Jesus' miracles; it's the only miracle, by the way, recorded in all four Gospels).
Let me begin at the beginning of this miracle as recorded by St. Mark, who writes, "In those days the multitude being very great, and having nothing to eat, Jesus called his disciples unto him, and saith unto them, I have compassion on the multitude, because they have now been with me three days, and have nothing to eat."
Now, let's find the spiritual lesson within the historic narrative. A great crowd has gathered around Jesus in the wilderness to listen to an itinerant preacher who is giving a sermon like none they've ever heard before, and certainly, longer than any they've sat under; lasting now for three days! (And you think I can get long-winded!). The multitude are tired, exhausted, and they are hungry.
Like them, many of us, since our baptism, have been journeying with Jesus for a long time. As was his journey, so is ours; we too live the Christian life in the wilderness. And we know that the wilderness poses many challenges, exposing travelers to various elements and being devoid of shelter. Food is scarce: there are many stones but not much bread. Like the multitude following Christ in the wilderness, we inevitably experience seasons of spiritual weariness, hunger, and exhaustion. And, when spiritual exhaustion overtakes us, Christian zeal can languish. In this state, we are susceptible to spiritual despondency.
And because we are susceptible, we will or have experienced despondency from time to time. This happens to those who, having traveled far on the path toward Christ, the path of renouncing the temptations of the world, become discouraged in tiredness; spirits run low; we become disheartened and lose hope. Spiritual doubt, doubts about the faith, and the truth of who we are in Christ all come crashing in.
And what severe judges of self we are! Especially when scrutinizing and evaluating our spiritual performance: Why am I not praying? Why do I desire everything except to be with Christ? And yet, I do nothing about it? Why is dust accumulating on my Bible? Why do I feel like giving up? Through some or all of these, a dangerous and deadly despondency can creep in.
At these times, how near to our lips is the psalmists cry, "My flesh and my heart may fail." In speaking of "my flesh," the psalmist identifies a physical component to despondency. Our bodies weaken, and extreme fatigue breeds a sense of listlessness and sluggishness. "And my heart" speaks to the emotional and spiritual dimension of despondency.
The heart becomes discouraged, dejected, gloomy, burned out. To be human is to be both spiritual and material creatures: we are embodied souls. And we have limitations. And when despondency sets in, we often make the mistake of taking it upon ourselves to determine what we will or will not do in response to this malady of the soul. We become misdiagnosing and self-medicating physicians.
Despondencies first prescribes isolation: the weary soul removes itself from others. It decides to shut others out, then it shuts down: the inward movement away from others, and God begins. Relationships suffer within the family, friendships, and the church. The Spiritual life suffers by removing oneself from the very thing that can heal: the truth, beauty, and goodness of Mother Church as found in her liturgies and sacraments; in the Word read and preached, in the Creeds and hymnody.
In times of suffering (whether from sins or sorrows), the first impulse is to pause our relationship with God and his church. This happens far too often, and I'm not exactly clear as to why these impulse swells within us when we're out of sorts, but it can, and it does. And yet, Christ calls all who are weary and burdened to come, "come to me and I will refresh you:" not "Physician heal thyself and return when you're good and healthy."
If my words seem uncaring or too harsh, then you misunderstand. This is not to condemn you for being human; neither is it a guilt trip to artificially inflate church attendance. But rather, the loving concern of a fellow weary traveler who has made this mistake once too often. How better can I love thee than to point you to health, to life, to Christ.
Removal from the healing presence of Christ and his church is the last thing any of us should do when suffering from despondency. For no one, not your spouse, your parents, your best friend, or your favorite rapper, or the person who paid it forward for you in line at Starbucks, not even your priest will ever love you more than Jesus Christ. Because He is God and we are not.
He loves you more than anyone ever will. He sees when you have fallen into the deepest pit of despondency. The divine gaze seeks and rests upon us, even when Love for Him is fading, when Christian zeal flags, prayer ceases, and Love fails to fight successfully against the world, the flesh, and the devil. Through every defect and in the midst of sorrows and hopelessness, Jesus sees the despondent soul and responds compassionately. He looks upon the weary and the hungry and feeds them: he refreshes the soul.
Looking upon the weary multitude, Jesus said to his disciples, And if I send them away fasting to their own houses, they will faint by the way: for divers of them came from far." See how the preacher is shepherd as well; he knows that any and all who follow after him will become weary after three days, three months, or thirty years. If they should leave his presence in search of refreshment, "they will faint, by the way." And so, with them, Christ cares for those who become despondent through weariness of soul; he doesn't condemn their frailty.
Remember, St. Mark points out that they were in the wilderness and "there was nothing to eat." Nothing. Empty. It's when we think we're too far gone or at the end of our rope that the Lord refreshes us. Divine miracles occur within just the right circumstances and always at the precise moment to produce the greatest display of God's glory. But we have to be in the right place to receive Divine grace.
Mark says that Jesus commanded the crowd to sit down, and they obeyed (not because they knew lunch was coming) but in obedience to this wise and godly preacher who they had come to trust. Then having obeyed for the sake of obeying (and not eating), Jesus performed a miracle and fed them. The spiritual implications for us are clear: when suffering from despondency, we must never allow ourselves to leave the presence of the Lord.
And we must remain faithful to do what he says, trusting Him though we don't understand or assume he's oblivious to our needs. Having sat at the Lord's commandment, Mark tells us the people ate and were filled. Filled! Then, after he saw their sad state and miraculously fed them, does Mark say Jesus sent them away. Every true encounter with the risen Christ will refresh even the weariest of souls, feeds despondency with hope, and lifts the countenance of the sorrowful.
Every Christian walks the path of Christ not through his own strength but by the grace of God. Grace lifts us up when we are down; it brushes us off; it feeds us with the spiritual bread of heaven. Divine grace refreshes the soul for the Lord Jesus Christ cares for you. He loves you with an unfathomable and incomprehensible love: he says, "Put your finger here and see my hands; put out your hand and place it in my side." (Jn 20:27). This is Love.
Apprehending the memory of God's Love and grasping it here in the present reawakens hope. Despondencies remedy is the memory of God's Love made present in your heart and mind. And one only experiences this profound mystery of this Love within the church and her sacraments; nothing else can heal.
It is more than merely bread and wine that we partake of each and every Sabbath, but the Lord Jesus himself: we feast on Love. The Lord feeds the weary and satisfies the sorrowful with himself, the Divine bread of life. Beloved, no matter where you find yourself today, no matter what is plaguing your soul: remember God's great love towards you and be refreshed: "This is my body, broken for you. This is my blood poured out for you." Amen.
