The way I feel at the end of this St. Michael’s Lent is the way you feel after a real knockdown, drag-out with someone you love. Not a passing skirmish, but one of those eruptions where everything comes spilling out: grief, fury, pride. And then, when it’s all spent, there’s that quiet. Not a proud quiet, but a wounded quiet. A humbled, almost childlike quiet.
The second half of St. Michael’s Lent felt like standing in front of a mirror that finally showed me what I’ve always kinda known but never wanted to actually acknowledge: my actual limits, my real fickleness, the depth of my selfish heart. These aren’t new revelations. I could’ve parroted them to you a thousand times, “Oh, yes, I’m the worst.” But somewhere in the middle of this devotion, I stopped parroting it in theory and started seeing it in 4K.
The first half went “well.” I even had some spiritual consolations. Our Father doesn’t spare us some gifts, some party favors for our feeble efforts. But looking back, I was leaning on my own strength. By the second half, that illusion was ripped out from under me. I saw how deeply wounded and desperately broken I am. How selfish. How addicted to comfort. Full of vainglory. Not just with others but even with God. I hoard my time with Him. I hoard His gifts. I want my comforts for my own sake, like Bilbo clutching the Ring, not wanting to hand it over to Gandalf. But like Bilbo, I have many friends who want to help me set out on this journey, leaving that deadly baggage on the mantle place in an envelope.
And I don’t know why I’m surprised. We fall into the same old vices we’ve struggled with for years, and then we’re so shocked, crushed by despair. “I can’t believe I failed again.” But why can’t we believe it? This has been the cycle for thirty years. What do you mean you can’t believe it? That’s the only thing you should be able to believe. It won’t be undone by one forty-day prayer challenge. But it is the beginning of true conversion. Peeling back the next layer of the repentance onion.
The truth is, I’m not a spiritual man. I’m a man who is interested in spiritual things. I’m not a man of prayer and discipline. I’m a man who prays and practices discipline when he wants to. And that want, even when it’s frequent, isn’t mine. It’s a gift. The moment God removes the desire, I drift. Because at the core, I’m not disciplined. I am the proverbial plant that springs up fast, but doesn’t take root, and gets scorched in the sun and dies in the gravel.
So here I am, sitting in my room after this long interior argument, feeling the shame and the failure, knowing that I don’t deserve to celebrate Saint Michaelmas. And yet, somehow, sensing Jesus’ mercy at the door. Knocking softly. Saying, “You can still come to the party. I didn’t ask for your night vigil. I didn’t ask for your extra rosary. I didn’t ask for your cold shower. Those were gifts to you, not to Me. I wanted you to see that you need Me. I wanted your heart.”
And not the heart I imagine I have, the polished, holy version I wish I could offer, but the ugly one. Because He already knows what it can become, and He promises to transform it. And not only to make it a better version of Cody’s heart, but to truly make it His own Sacred Heart.
And so, like that little Baptist boy I once was, I whisper again:
“Lord Jesus Christ, come into my heart and wash away my sins.”
Next year, I’ll try again. And I’ll fail again. Maybe I’ll check more boxes, but maybe this time with deeper intentions and steadier expectations. But in the end, it isn’t my discipline that saves me. It’s my collapse into His arms. The broken heart I hand Him in shame is already the very soil where He intends to plant His glory.
So here I stand, empty-handed again, and that’s somehow the invitation. The scraps I offer are the feast He multiplies.