This Lent, like none other, finds the veil of trust holding the Church together, rent from top to bottom, like the Temple of old.

Winds of  doubt and confusion drive the faithful into desert caves of silence, where they quiet their minds and hearts to prepare for unchartered tomorrows.

Facts pound against their consciousness, undeniable facts, blazoned in headlines from Coast to Coast.  Betrayals by priests and bishops, betrayals of children, parents and friends, of all God’s people, threatening their faith, held tight against a lifetime of storms, now shaking and cowering before a spiritual Katrina, with all the levees of hope at the breaking point.

Yet, not betrayed by Him, not Him, though blood did flow from veins opened by pains of anguish and human fear of torture and humiliation at the hands of purveyors of hate. While the Father’s love lay hidden in the darkness,  loneliness and near-despair spread crimson on the Garden floor.

In desert caves, as Catholics dwell on the betrayal of the ever-faithful Christ, they find their courage nourished, strengthened in the presence of His steadfastness and love, love reflected in Francis Thompson’s poem, “The Hound of  Heaven.”

Poverty, failure, drug addiction and alienation from a respected avenue of life left Francis bereft of hope, and we might never have known his beautiful, lyrical poetry if it had not been for Wilfred and Alice Meynell, who cared for him and saw that his works, including those written on brown wrapping paper, were published. 

Here, we find Francis, seeking the Lord in the midst of despair, as have millions of God’s people, saints known and unknown.  This is the Introduction.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

They beat – and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet –
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”

I pleaded, outlaw-wise
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with interwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside)

As Catholic Christians leave their desert caves and shield their
eyes against the sun of a new day, they will make their way to public
squares: doctors’ offices, church sanctuaries, hotel lobbies, ceramic
factories, department stores, or babies’ nurseries, wherever they will
serve as Christ served, with renewed faith and courage and love.

May Lent heal the people of God, as they follow in Christ’s footsteps
to Calvary and a new Easter morn.

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