Guest Author: Bridget Nohara

By now, we’ve heard it so many times that it’s begun to ring through our subconscious, “these are unprecedented, uncertain times”.

In a matter of days, our cozy (albeit sometimes wacko) world took a nosedive to a place we’ve never been, and frankly, didn’t want to go.

Kids home from school. Adults home from work. Panicked travel. Panicked shopping. Mass, canceled (what!?). Weddings, postponed. Small businesses fearing for their survival. PEOPLE fearing for their survival.

No doubt, things feel uncomfortable, unsettled, unsteady.

In the midst of this, speckled with my own moments of sheer anxiety, I am drawn to reflect on the timing of it all. Lent.

I can’t help but think of this as a way, however large or small, to unite with our suffering Jesus as he is stripped of everything familiar, comfortable, and restful.

From Calvary, He sees me in the chains of fear and discouragement. He calls to me, “arise”.

I’ve been struck throughout this week, by the overwhelming reality that not only human life itself, but every construct of this world along with life, is so fragile and so subject to shift, change, or evaporate. 

Our world and everything within it is corruptible, damageable, destroyable. 

Schedules and rhythms have been flipped inside out. Routines and plans, canceled. 

Hopes and expectations, crumbling.

Naturally, these experiences elicit a fear response. Our defense mechanisms emerge, and we feel a need to resist. In our humanness, we want to fight and panic. 

Acceptance and peace sound like foreign concepts in these moments. Trust seems distant.

Then, I am again reflecting on this timing. Lent.

From Calvary, He sees me in my worldly pleasures, comforts, and desires. He sees my desperate attempt to cling to what is of this planet. He is calling to me, “arise”.

I recall the message we are given on the first day of this journey with Jesus: we are DUST. Everything here that we’ve created is finite. Everything on Earth has an expiration date. And we can’t be too sure of when that will be or what it will look like.

I step into a store and see shelves completely bare.

I read about the elderly in the nursing home, void of visitors.

I feel the ache in my heart for social interaction.

I hear the message from politicians and civilians alike, “take care of each other.”

I’m so moved when I realize that, Catholic or not, our entire planet is being united in prayer, fasting, and almsgiving.

From Calvary, our Hope cries out to us, “arise”.

I’m certain that most of us did not expect life would come to a screeching halt at the hands of a virus, but here we are. Being brutally banged around by this vicious disease. Afraid and unsure.

And then, here Jesus is. Also bloodied. Also hurting. Also aching.

He cries out, anguished, and points toward the Father. Steady. Unmoved. Unshaken. Unchanged. 

He gazes with strained sight to God —  full of rest, full of hope, full of promise.

From Calvary, Jesus sees a spark in our world – we desire deeper trust and truer freedom, uniting our struggles with His suffering, thus consoling His heart. Out of the dust, He calls to us, “arise”.