The Deacon

A half hour. That’s how long it took my wife, Anne, and me to figure out how to turn on the TV and get to where we could watch a British detective show. All that was required were two remotes, a doctorate in computer technology, a halfhearted prayer for patience and a phone call to one of our children out of state to get a lesson in the differences between “platforms,” “streaming options” and “media subscription services,” as well as several different “menu” and “home” buttons. (Why so many “homes”? Isn’t one home enough?). After a rare Saturday of construction work on the house (“That” I can do!), Anne and I had an equally rare evening to relax together for a little entertainment. That was our plan — only to be caught in a vortex of technological intricacies. (“Cancel every one of these d**n subscriptions! How’d we ever get so many?”). Our plans were crossed.

In this column a couple of months ago I wrote on “What — or Who — Drives My Bus?” (September-October 2024), and a couple of months before that on “Remain at the Cross” (May-June). Remaining at the cross is the unromantic means by which our always-loving Lord Jesus seeks to woo me to intimate participation in his enduring, saving work. It is also how he, over time, in a mysterious and hidden way, grasps hold of me and expands my desire for him alone, purifying me of legitimate but lesser desires, so that I might more and more desire him and attain him who is beyond my attainability. The cross begins to “drive my bus.” The cross is at the center of the Gospel paradox: in dying, we live; in losing our life, we gain it. The wood of execution becomes the Tree of Life.

Understanding this means that my plans will be crossed. Whether my aspiration is subconsciously for “good weather” (please, we live in Minnesota!); for two uninterrupted hours of attending to a backlog of emails; for one day — just one day — finally to write; for a quiet and attentive Holy Hour; or for a productive meeting (or a day without meetings! Surely, there are no meetings in heaven!) — whatever my plan may be in the temporal order, it will be crossed.

And, on a grander scale, no one enters marriage, holy orders, ministry, study, a career or a new role hoping for failure or frustration at what seems essential to those vocations and avocations. No one takes on the responsibilities of children and family intending to be thwarted. No one embarks on the disciplines of prayer looking for desolation and dryness. But our plans are crossed. Does God not know? Does he not care? Does he not foresee how weak I am?

He does. And he knows precisely how to bring life from death, whether the severest of sufferings and even evil or the “little deaths” of quotidian plans not coming to fruition. He uses the crossing of my will to form my will more and more, to will only that I willingly receive all he wills. This is the entire thrust of Dante’s great “Comedy”: In his will is our peace. The equanimity and joy of the saint rests in large part in seeing and receiving the love of the Father in every circumstance, especially in the unplanned, in the unforeseen, in the inevitable interruption not only of my preferences but so often of my good aspirations and well-intentioned plans. As St. Thérèse of Lisieux so trenchantly declares: “All is grace.”

As Benedict XVI reminds us, “There is no love without suffering.”

DEACON JOSEPH MICHALAK is the director of the Office of Discipleship and Evangelization for the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis.