40 Days (After)

40 Days (Before) 

https://www.facebook.com/friarsoftherenewal/posts/1558695520844491

After forty days of solitude and silence, I was convinced I would leave my hermitage a new man.  What exactly I would look like I wasn’t sure, but at the very least I imagined myself a stronger, wiser and more loving person.  I pictured myself returning home to my community, eager to serve the other brothers, willing to listen to everyone who sought my attention and no longer getting frustrated and annoyed when things did not go my way.   After all, I had just done something I once thought was impossible: I spent forty days alone in a hermitage in the middle of the woods.

     

On a surface level, my days in hermitage were dreadfully boring.  There were no news flashes, text messages or phone calls bombarding me every minute.  Whether I was eating, praying or walking, I tried to surrender each moment to God by simply saying, “Here I am” (Genesis 22:1, Exodus, 3:4, 1 Samuel 3:4).  Whatever occurred next, whether it was a group of deer running through the woods, a fresh snowfall, or a sensible experience of God’s presence, I was learning a key lesson that solitude teaches: God is always near, but we are far away.

   

 Providentially, my retreat coincided with Holy Week and Easter, leaving me an ample amount of nourishment in the Liturgy and the Scriptures.  After the beautiful yet somber liturgies of Holy Thursday and Good Friday, I spent almost all of Holy Saturday sitting by a lake, allowing these mysteries to sink more deeply into my heart and mind.  As I was preparing to celebrate the Easter Vigil that night, I wanted to send a text message to the entire world reminding them that “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son” (John 3:16) or run through the nearest town screaming, “This is how much God loves you.”  Fortunately, I didn’t do either, but another important lesson was given to me: life with God is never boring.

Perhaps my most cherished moments of retreat were the hours I was able to spend in silent prayer.  Each day I would spend, on average, three hours in this contemplative posture before God, not speaking to him in words or even using my mind to reflect on him, but just resting in his presence.  Occasionally, when I experienced a brief pause from the thinking, analyzing and worrying that my mind is usually occupied with, there was a profound stillness waiting for me on the other side.

This stillness of course was not just the result of a quieted mind, but an encounter with a presence whose warmth and gentleness no words or thoughts could contain.  If I was ever experiencing any loneliness or fear, these precious hours of prayer had a mysterious way of reminding me that I was not crazy for wanting to make this retreat, as some believed, but that God had led me here.  Hence, another important lesson was given to me: prayer reveals to us, not our desire for God, but God’s desire for us.

     

Despite the abundant grace that was poured upon me during this time of retreat, I, for the most part, am still the same person.  I remain, at times, selfish, stubborn and lazy.  Even though I have experienced God’s love on such an intimate level, I am still tempted to look elsewhere for consolation, whether through worldly means, human praise or even spiritual applause.  While spending hours in silence and prayer brought deep peace and joy to my soul, it did not remove the wounds, hurts and pains that have accumulated in my heart during the course of my life.  Regardless of my wants, solitude did not eliminate my humanity and my need for redemption.  Oddly enough, it only affirmed its necessity.

   

Unconsciously, I had hoped this retreat would get rid of all this human stuff, so that I could move on to more “spiritual” things.  Hence, I was caught off guard, when after the retreat was over I felt, not saintly or angelic, but utterly human.  As I was driving home a part of me was tempted to view this retreat as a disappointment, since this retreat had appeared to produce no immediate changes within me.  I had forgotten, rather quickly, another spiritual lesson this retreat revealed to me:  God’s grace at work in a soul is often imperceptible to our human senses.  Therefore, we must always be slow in judging and evaluating God’s work in others and ourselves.

 It would be wrong, of course, to claim that after forty days of solitude and silence nothing has changed.  Transformation has occurred, just not the way I expected it.  I have noticed, since I left the hermitage, that my heart has become more open, less afraid, and more willing to engage the uncomfortable moments of life I once used to flee from.  I am able, thanks to the deepening encounter with God’s love I experienced in solitude, to accept more readily the poverty of my own humanity, which, in turn, helps me to accept more easily the poverty of others.  Finally, I am becoming more aware of God’s presence, not only in the more “spiritual” moments of my life, but in the ordinary, mundane and trivial moments of life in which we all find ourselves.

If someone would have told me forty days ago that this would be the fruit of my time in hermitage, most likely, I would not have been impressed.  These fruits, I would have thought, appear so minor compared to the change I believed I needed.            

As I was walking to my car on the last day of the retreat, I did not feel like a spiritual giant, but more like a spiritual beginner.  Instead of feeling holy and spiritually rejuvenated, I felt weak and vulnerable.  Ironically, this weakness and vulnerability didn’t leave me sad or afraid.  Rather, this realization contained a degree of purity and freshness to them, the way a home appears after it has been thoroughly cleaned.  Perhaps during these forty days of retreat, God’s desire was not necessarily to build a new house, but merely to clean the one he had already built.  

+ Fr. Jeremiah, CFR

http://franciscanfriars.com/donate/

Outcasts the Movie

LIMITED RELEASE RENTAL!

https://vimeo.com/ondemand/outcasts/292824727

For over ten years the legendary filmmakers at Grassroots Films followed the friars and filmed our work with the poor in England, Ireland, Central America, and New York. Now, for the first time, their award winning documentary, OUTCASTS, is available for a limited time On Demand. Click the link to rent and stream the film.

WARNING. Grassroots Films desired to bring to their audience an unsanitized encounter with the real effects of evil and injustice in the world. Due to the graphic nature of the film, it is NOT SUITABLE for children and may be too extreme for some adults as well. Please be prudent in choosing to watch this film.

Authenticity

Over the years, I have spoken to many people about their relationship with God. Everyone, on some level, desires to know the secret of holiness, even if they don’t use those words. If they are young, they often imagine that holiness involves some magnificent feat of strength or courage, perhaps engaging in disciplined asceticism or undergoing some form of persecution. If they are older, they think that holiness involves hours of undistracted prayer, followed by self-sacrifice devoid of anger or resentment. If the person is a priest or a religious, their standard of holiness is often measured by fidelity to their vocation. If one is faithful to their vows and fulfilling perfectly the rules and norms of their vocation, then holiness is a natural consequence.

After each person has defended his view with sound reasoning, orthodox theology and examples from the lives of the saints, I feel the need to interject.
“Everything you said is true,” I reply, “but you are missing an important point. If you really want to be holy all of the things you mentioned can be helpful, but…they must be authentic. Most importantly, you must be authentic.”

A mixture of surprise and confusion usually begins to appear on their face as they stare at the ground for a few moments.

“What does authenticity have to do with holiness?” they ask sincerely.

“Everything!” I almost shout back at them.

Asceticism, deep prayer and fidelity to one’s vocation are all necessary means to holiness, yet before these aspects of our spiritual life begin, they must be born from an authentic place. Authenticity means, first and foremost, being the person God has created you to be. In order for that to happen, we must always return to the foundational question: who am I before God? In other words, we must consider things like our personality, cultural background, and talents as we attempt to respond to Jesus’ call to discipleship. The reason for this is simple. It is through our own humanity, never somebody else’s, that we will encounter God and be able to respond to him appropriately.

For example, Jesus recommends “prayer and fasting” (Mk 9:29) as a necessary component of our spiritual lives. However, the prayer and fasting of a 20 -year-old is going to look very different from that of a 70-year-old. Likewise, the prayer and fasting of someone who is sick will look different than that of one who is healthy. Which person is praying and faster better? The one who is responding most fully to the grace God is giving him. In other words, the one who is most authentic.

The best examples of authentic holiness can be found, unsurprisingly, in the lives of the saints. Despite the many differences of age, culture, social status, etc. we find in the lives of the saints one common thread: each one of them became the person God intended him to be. St. John Bosco educated and cared for the youth, while St. Benedict become a hermit, and then become the founder of monastic life. St. Teresa of Calcutta served the poorest of the poor in India, while St. Theresa of Lisieux lived a hidden life of silence, solitude and penance in a Carmelite monastery. Because they were authentic, God’s light was able to shine uniquely through each one of them, revealing to the world in greater color the brightness of God’s glory.

Imitating the saints does not mean adopting their way of speaking, thinking or even praying. Nor does it mean going back in history to the time period in which they lived in the hopes of walking in the same footsteps of the saint we admire. Imitating the saints is something much more profound. It means being inspired and enlivened in the way a particular saint has lived his life and using those qualities in our own life to follow Jesus more closely.

When I first discovered St. Francis as a teenager I knew he was the saint for me. Like him, I was restless and eager to experience more from life, yet it wasn’t until my eyes were opened to the beauty of the Gospel that I realized that Jesus was the more I was desiring. Never doing anything in half-measures, I, like St. Francis, threw myself into prayer, work with the poor, preaching and anything else that could further my relationship with Christ. Like St. Francis I wanted to live a deeply contemplative life, yet I also wanted to live and work among the poor. When I discovered the Franciscan way of life a sense of relief overwhelmed me, because I realized that what I desired and felt attracted to already existed. I didn’t have to create something new.

What attracted me to St. Francis was the spirit in which he responded to the Gospel. But I also know that I am not St. Francis, and I cannot and should not imitate all aspects of his personality and temperament. What the Church and the world needs from Franciscans is not another St. Francis, but men and women who, following the path of St. Francis, respond to the promptings of the Holy Spirit in their own humanity.

The ultimate question each one of us needs to ask is, “What does Jesus Christ look like in me?” Obviously, the answer to that question is going to look different in each person. Whether you are a doctor, a sales clerk, or a student is, in many respects, irrelevant. Being authentic means becoming the person God is calling you to be, not what he called someone else to be. God already has a Francis, a Benedict, and a Teresa. Now he’s waiting for you.

+ Fr. Jeremiah, CFR

http://franciscanfriars.com/donate/

Surprised By Grace

As soon as the phone rang my heart began to race.  Something told me this would not be a regular phone call.  

“Hello,” I said, hesitantly.  

“Father,” a woman began to speak, “this is a miracle.  My cousin wants to see a priest,” she exclaimed.  “I have been praying for this day for years.  Can you visit him?”  

“Ok,” I said, somewhat cautiously.  “What kind of visit is he looking for?  Does he want to go to confession, is he sick, or does he just want to speak with a priest?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” she said.  “But this is a miracle.”  

“Well then, I would be happy to visit him,” I said, “Where does your cousin live?”           

“Well,” she said, followed by a brief pause, “he is in prison.”

As a priest, I thought, I have seen and heard it all.  After hearing thousands of confessions and spending many hours in spiritual direction with people, I find it difficult to be shocked or surprised by what anyone says or does.  I had recently told a friend, that for me, as a priest, there are no more surprises.  Yet after I hung up the phone with this woman, I began to realize that perhaps I was wrong. 

It is not uncommon of course for a priest to visit people in prison.   However, in my years as a priest, prison had been one of the places I have never been sent before.  Perhaps like most people, I had an image in my mind, not only what prison was like, but what the prisoners themselves were like.  Unfortunately, I imagined prison to be a place filled with hardened criminals who had no concern for people.  I supposed that the majority of the people in prison had little if any faith in God and most, I believed, were not interested in the spiritual life.  There was a part of me, I am ashamed to admit, that was wondering if I was wasting my time by making this visit.     

As I arrived at the prison, I stood outside of my car and stared in wonder at what looked like a giant fortress.   After spending almost thirty minutes trying to find the entrance, I entered the visitor’s section only to spend another thirty minutes going through security.  Finally, I was allowed to enter a large room, which looked like a dining hall, where several other inmates were visiting with their own guests.  At each corner of the room stood several armed guards, surveying the room and checking to see if each visitor was wearing the proper pass that allowed him into the designated area.  

I sat down at the table assigned to me by the guard and waited.  After a long wait, the man I was asked to visit appeared and sat down at my table.  He was not anything like I expected.  Rather than shaking my hand, he immediately hugged me and expressed how grateful he was that I would take the time to visit him.  As he began to speak, I was shocked at his demeanor.  Instead of being angry, rude and tough like I expected, he was quiet, calm and polite. 

“Father,” he said, with a tear beginning to form in his eye, “in prison I met Jesus Christ.”  

He paused, while waiting for me to respond.  “I wasn’t expecting that to be your opening line,” I said, while smiling at him.  We both laughed so hard that we caught the attention of the guards who looked at us with suspicion.  After regaining our composure he spent the next few moments sharing with me how he ended up in prison and all that had occurred to him during his time there.  As he finished, he looked down at the ground for a few seconds and appeared lost in deep thought.  

“Father, I have accepted God’s mercy and I believe in his love for me despite the terrible things I have done.  I am hungry Father and I want to know more.  How do I pray?  Can you teach me about the Bible?  Why are the Sacraments important?  I looked at him in amazement.  Immediately I thought of Jesus’ words to the centurion, “Not even in Israel have I found such faith” (Mt 8:19).  

I spent the next hour attempting to answer his questions.  As I spoke he stared at me in awe, as if his life made sense for the first time.  Occasionally, a tear rolled down his face, forcing me to fight back my own.  Suddenly I realized that the man before me was not the person I had imagined him to be.  Yes, he had done some horrible things and he deserved to be in prison.  But now he was different.  The power of God’s mercy had transformed this man into someone new, someone his friends, and especially those whom he hurt, probably would not recognize.  

As I drove home that afternoon, I reflected on my conversation with this man and thought to myself, “This is what redemption looks like.”  Redemption, after all, is not something we can do.  Despite our good intentions and best efforts we always remain in need of a Savior.  St. Paul reminds us, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God…but “they are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus” (Romans 3:23-24).  

That man I met in prison is proof that redemption is possible.  For years he had followed his own way, without any regard for a higher law.  Rather than bring him the freedom he desired, his selfishness imprisoned him.  Ironically, it was there, amid such darkness and pain, that the light of God’s mercy opened his eyes, removed his chains, and set him free.

+ Fr. Jeremiah, CFR

Monticello, NY

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A Different Journey

I awoke each morning to the sound of nature. Birds were singing in unison throughout the valley, while squirrels, scurrying through leaves and sticks, chased each other up and down trees. Each morning, elk would visit the river located about five hundred feet from our campsite, while eagles glided overhead.

I was surrounded as far as I could see by enormous snow-capped mountains. Trees, rivers and giant boulders filled the countryside. There was not a trace of civilization anywhere. At times I had to pinch myself to make sure this wasn’t a dream. It was, without a doubt, the most spectacular scenery I had ever witnessed.

We began each day promptly at 7am. The day’s activities included mountain biking, hiking, fishing, rafting, and swimming. If we were lucky, and our guide had the proper equipment, he we would take us rock climbing for a few hours in the late afternoon. Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, we returned to our camp exhausted, only to find a feast prepared over an open fire waiting for us.

A few months earlier, some friends of mine, realizing I needed a break from the city, graciously paid for me to spend a week with them on vacation in Colorado. “It would be rejuvenating,” my friend Mike said, “and refreshing. Besides, I can’t imagine a more beautiful place to spend a week of vacation.” He was right. It was the perfect scenario in the perfect location and yet I was miserable.

Even though I love spending time outdoors and spent many hours mountain biking and swimming, there was something different about this adventure. The difference, I discovered, was me. As a teenager, I would go hiking and camping in the woods because I was naturally attracted to the quiet beauty of nature. Yet on a deeper level, I went to the woods in search of its source. Nature, for me, was a sign pointing beyond itself. Rather than stop at the sign, my entire being yearned for that Reality to which the sign was pointing. If I followed the sign frequently, I reasoned, I would eventually go beyond it.

Once I consciously made the decision to follow Jesus and returned wholeheartedly to the Church, my focus shifted from a purely exterior journey to the discovery of an interior one. Even though I still visited beautiful sites and had fun with friends, I began to spend more time alone in my room, a church, or some other quiet place where I could read, pray and spend time in silence. Suddenly, without going anywhere, I was traveling to much deeper places than I ever thought imaginable.

When I began this vacation in Colorado I had been a Franciscan for twelve years and a priest for three. I was accustomed to several hours of prayer and silence each day. My friends, who had only good intentions, believed I would have more fun if I did more activities. Hence, I had no time, and ironically no space, for prayer. Every morning I celebrated Mass and had about ten minutes of prayer afterwards before the events of the day began.

By late morning, after already hiking and swimming for several hours, all I desired was a few moments of stillness. My heart and my mind were touched deeply by the wonder that surrounded me, yet it wasn’t enough. In order to truly appreciate and experience the beauty of this place, I had to move beyond its signs to its source. Without this deeper contact, the joy that was available in this moment became threatened. Unfortunately, there was no time. The next event was waiting for us.

As evening arrived, even though I was surrounded by friends who loved me, a deep feeling of loneliness overwhelmed me. At camp, my friends sang songs, told jokes and recounted childhood memories. I appreciated their presence and enjoyed listening to them, yet I felt a deep void in our group. Without prayer in my day, I felt alienated, not only from other people, but also from the beauty that surrounded me. Each one of my friends was a devout Christian, yet nobody appeared interested in making space for prayer. Was something wrong with me, I asked myself? Here I am in this beautiful place on a free vacation and I am not happy. Was I not grateful? Was I being selfish? Was I being too religious?

Despite my best efforts to alter my mood, I was unsuccessful. As the days progressed, my sadness only increased. The more activities we did, the worse I felt. On our last morning in Colorado one of my friends suggested we do another long hike before going to the airport. “Please,” I sighed, “I’ve had enough. Can we just go to the airport?”

My friends were shocked by my abrupt response. “Is everything ok?”

“Yes…, I’m sorry. I’m just tired and don’t want to miss my flight,” I said.

As I boarded the plane to fly home, I felt confused and frustrated. Providentially, I had the entire row on the plane to myself. Finally, I thought, space simply to be alone with God. I stared out the window and began to speak to God from the depths of my heart. As I began my evening prayer I felt a deep peace within my soul. “Only in God is my soul at rest” (Psalms 62:1). How often had I prayed those words, yet now they began to hold a deeper meaning for me.

I spent the rest of the flight in silence, reading Scripture, speaking to God and just listening. While we were beginning our descent into Newark airport, I felt a wave of consolation overwhelm me. I wasn’t being ungrateful, I realized, or selfish. I just desired a different journey, one that would take me deeper, to a place beyond this world, where my soul could find the space it needed and the rest it desired. 

+ Fr. Jeremiah, CFR

http://franciscanfriars.com/donate/  

NEW MUSIC Poco a Poco

Struggler music video: https://youtu.be/Xdm4MqvhMJs Brother Isaiah, of the CFRs, has been gifted with an amazing voice and talent. For the past year, he and his brother friars have been working on (and praying with) a musical album they are hoping will bring Catholics closer to God, and help support their mission serving the poor.

Music written to help Catholics pray

The Franciscan Friars spend hours each day in meditative prayer. They have drawn from the quiet depths of their daily prayer to write these songs which they hope will help Catholics maintain a prayerful state as they go through their lives. There are many ways to listen to the music. It can be purchased and listened to on iTunes, Spotify, Google Play, and Amazon. (Links below) Listen on iTunes Listen on Spotify Listen on Google Play Listen on Amazon

There are also a limited amount of CDs available! First come first served ... they're expected to go fast!

CD & merchandise:

https://shop.ascensionpress.com/collections/poco-a-poco

Beyond Death

I have lived almost my entire life in the Northeast. Every year a sublime mystery occurs. The leaves begin to sing. Up until now they have been quiet, simply blending in and clothing the trees in their simple attire. But now, in mid October, they are approaching the encore. For the next few weeks these woods will become a glorious spectacle of bright red and orange, yellow and brown. People will take pictures, hiking trails will fill up and artists will attempt to paint this majestic scene while it lasts. 

The season of fall provides us with a mirror in which we can contemplate something much deeper than the changing of seasons, namely the mystery of death. Throughout our lives we will experience many deaths. These deaths will be as unique as each person. For some they could come as an illness, a financial problem or the end of a relationship. It could be the death of a friend or parent, a dream that was shattered, or trying to move through a period of depression or loneliness. For others it could be an unappreciative boss or a prayer that God seems to be ignoring. Death, at least according to the rhythm of nature, is not an end but is always a necessary means to something greater. 

When my mother first became depressed life as I knew it had ended. A few months earlier, my grandmother passed away, and my mother never recovered. Almost immediately my family recognized a change in my mother. She had lost her joy and her enthusiasm for life. Instead of engaging the family in conversation I would often see her gazing out the window, bypassing our conversation and my need for affirmation. Most of all, my mother, who was always strong and confident in all of life’s details, had now become shattered and torn, unable to stand before the life she once loved. 

Before this occurred I was a happy, confident and enthusiastic 17 year old who, almost overnight, became sad, insecure and self-conscious. It was as if an earthquake had struck my family and now I was forced to find my way among the rubble without a guide. After the dust had begun to settle, I no longer recognized my family, my home or myself. My life, at least the way I knew it, had died and I was unable to see beyond the grave. 

Ironically, it was this death that eventually led me to a recovery of faith. Since a vital figure in the foundation of my life had been uprooted, I was driven to seek another one, one that when “the rain fell and floods came and the winds blew and beat upon that house…it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock” (Matthew 7:25).

Encountering the fragility of life at such an intimate level, led me to pray in a way I never had before. Instead of just murmuring prayers I had learned as a child, I began to pray from the very depths of my pain and confusion. Sometimes I yelled at God, asking why he allowed this to happen. Sometimes I cried, begging God for help and strength, while other times I tried bargaining with God, promising to do something for him if he would heal my mother. Despite my persistent efforts to force God to act, her depression only got worse. God appeared, if not deaf, than at the very least, not interested in helping me.  

As the weeks and months passed, I began to notice a strange phenomenon occurring. I was beginning to experience a mysterious strength inside of me, one that enabled me to stand face to face with this suffering, instead of running from it as I usually did. In the midst of this heartache, instead of feeling alone and abandoned by God, I began to feel a presence accompanying me on this journey, consoling me and embracing my entire being. Instead of continually asking why, I began now to consider how I could help my mom and be with her in her suffering. Finally, after a long and dark winter, the first signs of spring were beginning to blossom in my soul. 

In many ways, I am reminded not only of this event, but also of the many “deaths” I have had to undergo in life each season of fall. Despite how difficult some of those “deaths” were, after each one I experienced in the depths of my soul a resurrection to something more profound than I could have ever imagined. If someone would have told me years ago that God would use my mother’s depression to bring about a deeper conversion in me I would have considered that person a fool. Yet now, many years later, I still remain in awe as I ponder the mystery of God’s ways. 

These beautiful leaves that surround me right now are in their glory, but they too must die only to be reborn once again with the passing of time. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24).

Perhaps what scares us most about death in general is that we can’t see beyond it. What will life look like if I lose my job? If I have cancer? If I can’t have the career I want? The truth is we don’t know. But as nature, and God himself have revealed, there is something much greater beyond what we can see and understand, if only we can trust in its rhythm and allow it to take us beyond ourselves.

+ Fr Jeremiah, CFR

Monticello, NY

http://franciscanfriars.com/donate/

Why Jesus Wants Us Poor

Homily at the Lourdes Grotto by Fr. Luke Fletcher, CFR.

Saints Francis, Therese and Bernadette all knew the spiritual secret of littleness and humility. Listen to learn more!

https://soundcloud.com/franciscan-friars/why-jesus-wants-us-poor

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CFR Sisters Update

The Franciscan Sisters of the Renewal are happy to announce that Sr. Clare Matthiass is the Sisters’ new Community Servant (Superior General) as of September 12, 2018, Feast of the Holy Name of Mary. She is now known as Mother Clare. The Community is tremendously grateful to Mother Lucille Cutrone for 23 years of dedicated leadership as Community Servant in the important first stages of the Community. Mother Lucille will continue to remain a member of the Sisters’ Community Council. Won’t you please keep the CFR Sisters in your kind prayers during this time of transition.

After Mother Clare's renewal of vows, all the professed sisters kneel and renew their vows to Mother Clare.

Mother Lucille receives Fr. Andrew's chalice from Fr. John Paul. Fr. Andrew left this chalice to the Sisters in his will, and it was presented to them on this special occasion.

As part of the ceremony, Mother Clare renews her vows in the hands of Mother Lucille.

Bringing It To Completion

Several weeks ago I received some of the happiest news of my life:  a publishing company contacted me and informed me of their interest in publishing a series of reflections I sent them three months earlier.  I was so shocked, I said, somewhat embarrassingly to the editor on the phone, “Are you serious…, really publish it…as a book?’  

Laughing, he said, “Yes I am serious, a real book.  We really like what you sent us.”  

He began to speak about some of the details of publishing, mentioning words like contracts, royalties, and deadlines.  As soon as he began speaking, I was swept away by a euphoric feeling of joy and gratitude.  “Maybe I wasn’t wasting my time writing these reflections,” I said to myself.  “I can’t believe this is happening.  Thank you Lord.” 

“There is only one problem,” he said.

Immediately, my daydream came to a screeching halt.  

“Your manuscript is currently at 20,00 words.  We need it to be at 35,000-40,000 words before we can publish it.  So, keep writing.  We will set a deadline for six months.”

There was a long pause.

“Father,” he said, “are you there?

“Yes,” I said, hesitantly and feeling like I was just punched in the stomach, “I am here.”  

“Good.  Now, another editor will email you the contract in a few days.  Please read through it and sign it so we can begin the process.  In the meantime, keep writing.  I look forward to seeing how this project progresses.”

“Um, thank you. Me too.” 

I hung up the phone and began to experience a dramatic shift in my emotions. My joy and gratitude quickly turned into anxiety and fear.  

“How am I going to write 20,000 words in six months?” I said to myself.  “I am a priest with other responsibilities.  I have homilies and retreats to prepare, spiritual direction appointments to attend to, responsibilities from my own religious community to fulfill, etc.  I am not a full-time writer.  I can’t do this. Why did I ever start writing this book in the first place?  I should have known that I don’t have time for this.”             

Whenever I am given a task, regardless of its nature, there is a subtle voice that whispers inside of me, “You can’t do this.”  This voice has followed me for as long as I can remember.  After my “reversion” to Catholicism at age 18, a voice kept whispering to me, “You are going to lose all of your friends.  Everybody is going to laugh at you when they see you praying and going to church.  You will never be able to withstand it.  You care too much what people think.”  When I was discerning joining the Franciscans a voice kept telling me, “You can’t live in New York City.  You’re from the country.  It will be too much for you.”  A few years ago, when I began to spend extended periods of time in hermitage, a voice kept saying, “Who do you think you are spending all this time in solitude?  Look how weak and insecure you are, you will go crazy.  You can’t do it.”      

St. Ignatius of Loyola believes that each person must contend with three voices in their life: the voice of God, the voice of the devil and the voice of one’s own humanity/psychology.  Each voice, like each person, has a distinctive character to it.  The voice of God, generally, is uplifting, encouraging, and loving, lifting one’s heart and mind to higher things, while the voice of the devil is filled with discouragement, negativity and sadness, leaving a soul entirely earthbound in its pursuits, pleasures and vision.  The voice of one’s own humanity is not always so clear.  Perhaps it can be a mixture of both, depending on one’s own history and life decisions.  Regardless of which voice is speaking, St. Paul’s reminder to the Ephesians is an appropriate one:  “For we are not contending against flesh and blood” (Ephesians 6:12).  Hence, reality contains many other powers or forces that are always present, even though we don’t often perceive them.  

The real question is not, how will I finish this book, but which voices will I listen to?  I will finish this book the way I have accomplished everything in my life: with God’s grace.  If God wills something for us, his grace is never lacking.  Every time the voice of discouragement has appeared in my life it has always proven to be false.  I returned to the Church despite what my friends thought.  I spent many wonderful years living in New York City as a Franciscan, and despite my weaknesses and insecurity I have spent a significant amount of time in hermitage alone with God, and remain (at least somewhat!) mentally stable.    

What God asks of us at times can seem impossible.  How can I forgive that person who hurt me?  How can I face life with this disease, embarrassment, or failure that is always before me?  Instead of feeling strong and confident before God’s will we often feel inadequate and incompetent.  Abraham asks God, “Can a child be born to a man who is a hundred years old?” (Genesis 17:17) The prophet Amos, hoping to escape his vocation laments, “I was no prophet, nor have I belonged to a company of prophets; I was a shepherd and a dresser of sycamores” (Amos 7:14).  Zechariah asks the angel Gabriel, “How am I to know this?  I am an old man; my wife too is advanced in age?” (Luke 1:18)  In all of these examples, however, these instances are not the last chapter.

This voice that has been telling me “You can’t do this,” cannot be the voice of God.  Whether it is the voice of the devil, or my own humanity, or a mixture of both, the conclusion is evident: I must refuse to listen to that voice and persevere in this writing, while relying completely on God’s grace for inspiration and strength.  

The same is true for each one of us.  Wherever God’s will has us at this moment, we move forward not by asking why or how, but by sifting through the voices until we arrive at the voice of our Father, who loves us, encourages us and strengthens us for the journey ahead.  “I am sure of this much: that he who has begun the good work in you will carry it through to completion, right up to the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6).

+  Fr. Jeremiah, CFR

Monticello, NY