On Sunday, I arrived home from an incredible weekend spent on retreat with my youth group. Spending the entire weekend hearing talks, receiving the Lord in the Eucharist, praising him through music, worshiping him in Adoration, and speaking about his works with my high schoolers, I felt rejuvenated in faith. I returned late afternoon and had to catch a flight to South Carolina to spend the week on vacation with my family. And as I walked through the airport and boarded the plane, the rejuvenation I had experienced and the sense of empowerment that the Lord had placed within me became intense and almost bothersome. I felt the unsettled urge to DO more for the Lord. To serve him more diligently. To recommit myself to the mission of spreading his Gospel. To living my life more authentically and deliberately for him.
As the plane took off, I stared out the window at my city. It flew over my Church, my house, and around the city of Columbus. And as I sat in my seat, peering out the window, staring at the multitude of cars and houses and buildings, the desire to serve my God became deep, tangible, and penetrating. And the only thought that kept coming to my mind was simply, "Jesus, I want to love this city for you." It was like, in that instant, the vastness of the mission field was made known to me. I looked at my city and I saw beyond the buildings and the landscape and saw a city in desperate need of the Gospel. I saw a people who had never known the greatness of our God. I saw a generation that was enamored by the lure of sin that continually leaves them empty.
As I sat, fully immersed in this moment and in this conviction to minister more intensely and radically, my view of Columbus was obliterated by the presence of clouds. Rising in altitude, I lost sight of my mission. Immersed in cloud cover, I instantly lost some of the desire I had just had.
C.S. Lewis once said "It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased." And I think this quote speaks so beautifully and poignantly to this experience of mine. In my own life, I have found that there have been moments of brilliance when there is nothing more I desire than to serve the Lord. There are moments of brilliance where I am so on fire for God that I am ready to embrace a life of hardship and detachment.
But my desire to serve him is fleeting. My desire for him is weak. My desire is obliterated by the presence of earthly attractions. My desires, immersed in the cloud of selfishness and worldliness, are far too easily pleased.
For the most part, my desire to dress cuter than the next girl seems more urgent than my desire to pray for the grace of detachment. My desire to succeed in ministry and be known for it is much more fervent than my desire for God's name to be more known and worshiped. My desire for an i-phone, a hot fudge sundae, a good hair day, and an iced coffee is often more at the forefront of my mind than my desire for heaven. I give myself over to base, limited, fleeting desires and give up the opportunity for "infinite joy" that is constantly being offered to me by Christ.
Humanity is suffering from an epidemic of weak desire. And I come before you today and admit that I am highly infected. This week, I'm not going to suggest to you ways that we can combat this illness. Instead, I want to ask you to join me in silently, humbly, and desperately coming before the Lord--the one source of "infinite joy"--and ask for the grace to desire: to desire whatever he wants us to desire; to desire things that are lasting and meaningful and life-giving; to desire him and him alone. May his grace be sufficient to make our desire strong and not easily pleased. Peace, friends.
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