I stood at the podium looking into a sea of faces at a loss for words. I had just concluded my remarks addressing the question “Is the Culture Toxic?” and I was fielding questions for the Q&A portion of our diocesan pro-life conference.
The very first question caught me off guard. After hearing my summary of the challenging and disheartening developments in medical research today, one audience member asked not about the precise moment that new life begins or the ethical ins and outs of reproductive technologies, but a question far more pressing and practical: “How do you stay joyful?” The incredulity in her voice was palpable.
I was thrown off by the unanticipated question. As I regained composure, I relayed to her the most joyous part of my life: my children. Their bright optimism and enthusiasm for each new day were always a stark contrast to the medical and ethical complexities I had just laid bare.
In the months since, this question has lingered in my mind. First Peter 3:15 tells us to be ready to give answer for the hope that we have. I was not ready that day in the conference hall, but I hope to share with you here the fruit of many months’ reflection.
Joy in the darkness
In a culture that is indeed toxic to Christians — an increasingly digital wasteland that poisons us against Christ and one another, alienating us even from ourselves — joy can feel perpetually out of reach. Yet, as people of faith, we are called to be beacons of hope and joy in the midst of despair. Pope St. John Paul II declared, “We are an Easter people and alleluia is our song!” This powerful declaration reminds us that our joy is rooted not in the circumstances of the world but in the resurrection of Christ.
He went on to reveal that joy is rooted in self-gift, in laying down our lives for one another:
“We are not looking for a shallow joy but rather a joy that comes from faith, that grows through unselfish love, that respects the ‘fundamental duty of love of neighbour, without which it would be unbecoming to speak of Joy.’ We realize that joy is demanding; it demands unselfishness; it demands a readiness to say with Mary: ‘Be it done unto me according to thy word.'”
So, in a way, my answer at that conference was correct; motherhood is one vocational path God provides us with to find this elusive joy.
As the proverbial saying goes, the hour is darkest just before dawn, the moment when the first light of hope breaks through. The history of the Church, and indeed of humanity itself, is nothing more than the story of Christ’s redemption of our brokenness. Should it surprise us to find evidence of that brokenness all around us? Finding joy and maintaining hope requires that we face this brokenness not with despair at our insufficiency, but with patience at our own littleness. Like St. Thérèse, we must learn to bear the cross of being displeasing to ourselves, so that we can raise our arms to Jesus, asking him to pick us up whenever we fall.
Isaiah 9:2 speaks of a people who walked in darkness but have seen a great light. This light is Christ, and it is his light that we are called to reflect in our lives. Our joy is not a denial of the darkness but a testament to the light that shines in and through it.
Throughout history, the Church has weathered dark periods marred by our human sinfulness, and yet emerges renewed and strengthened in fidelity to Christ’s call. For example, the Protestant Reformation ripped the Body of Christ apart, severing many of its limbs forever. At the same time, it was also a powerfully purifying force, leading to the address of many egregious abuses via the Catholic Reformation. While the darkness of our separation from our Protestant brothers and sisters remains tragic, God worked in and through this tragedy to bring about good in his Church. We must continue to pray for a return of all Christian denominations to one communion, the unity that Jesus himself prayed for (cf. Jn 17:21-23). We pray not in despair, but in joyful anticipation: Christ himself assured us that “the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail” against his Church (Mt 16:18). One day, we will be restored to the unity that is proper to the Body of Christ.
As Christians, we have a prophetic call to denounce the injustices and evils of our time. We must stand against the culture of death with all its manifestations: from war and violence to the devaluation of life through abortion and euthanasia. But our mission cannot end with the proclamation of what is wrong with the world; we must also announce the Good News — the gospel of life.
Isaiah 9:2 speaks of a people who walked in darkness but have seen a great light. This light is Christ, and it is his light that we are called to reflect in our lives. Our joy is not a denial of the darkness but a testament to the light that shines in and through it.
The Gospel is a message of joy, a joy that is to be proclaimed “to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8). It is a joy that does not turn a blind eye to suffering; on the contrary, we rush to greet it and offer it to Christ to be transformed. As St. Paul declared: “Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the church” (1 Col 1:24). Ours is a joy that says that even in the valley of the shadow of death, Christ’s light can never be extinguished. In fact, it may shine all the brighter in the darkness. The naked eye can detect the light of a single flame in the darkness from over a mile away — a feat that it cannot accomplish in the light of day. We ought never despair of our present circumstances but remain steadfast in the confidence we have in Jesus Christ.
Bad news burnout
In the Information Age, it can be difficult to escape all of the bad news, like darkness closing in around us. One of the most effective ways to renew our joy in the Lord is to withdraw from the world and sit attentively at his feet. This might mean attending a silent retreat or simply making time for silence and Scripture with our morning coffee each day. While the specifics will vary according to one’s state in life (some religious communities go so far as to cloister themselves from the noise of world news altogether), it is prudent to make a habit of examining the voices one takes in, be they news reports, podcasts, even religious influencers, and to notice whether these sources are bringing peace or fomenting anger and division.
Of course, we want to remain apprised of the goings on in the world. We want to be able to read the signs of our times and intercede appropriately for the current needs of our community — but not at the expense of our spiritual equilibrium and connection to Jesus. Even Jesus took time to withdraw for prayer, and imitating his example of withdrawing and returning to active service can bear much fruit in our lives.
Hope for the lost
One of the darkest trials many of us face is watching as a loved one willingly succumbs to this culture of death. How can we continue to hope for heaven when faced with the fear that those whom we love most deeply might not be there to share it with us?
Ronald Rolheiser addresses this question in his chapter on the Incarnation in “The Holy Longing.” He explains that to claim our identity as the Body of Christ is more than a metaphor; it is a metaphysical reality. Even when a loved one formally walks away from the Church, Christ continues to love and forgive that person through the members of his Body: “Your touch is Christ’s touch. When you love someone, unless that someone actively rejects your love and forgiveness … he or she is touching the hem of the garment, is held to the Body of Christ, and is forgiven by God.” Christ loves through us, so no one who accepts our embrace is ever truly beyond his reach.
Even when our loved ones walk away from us entirely, hope is not lost. A dear childhood friend of mine, who was more like a sister, recently ended all contact with me because of the work that I do. She has not only rejected Christ’s love but mine as well. Even though he cannot love her through me, I can continue to pray and fast for her, and trust that God will never stop laboring to retrieve her heart.
We are free to pray with confidence in the goodness of God, who has revealed himself to us in Scripture as the widow searching fervently for her lost coin, the shepherd who leaves the 99 to retrieve the one, and Father whose eyes never leave the horizon as he awaits the return of his son.
I take solace in the example of St. Monica; this mother who prayed unceasingly for her wayward and wild son, Augustine, would see him not only convert but become a bishop, one of the greatest theologians in Church history and a saint. We also have great cause to hope in the example of St. Paul, the great persecutor of Christians, whom God not only redeemed but commissioned to become the evangelist who penned most of the New Testament. We see not as God sees. However bleak the present moment may be, we hope in a God who holds every moment in his hands and trust that his goodness will be revealed in time.
I have recently been privileged to hear the conversion stories of the ailing parents of several friends, each of whom called for a priest and converted on his deathbed. Stories like these remind us that it isn’t over until it’s over — and even then, we have what I as a convert found to be among the more hopeful of Catholic doctrines: that of purgatory. As a Protestant, I never could reconcile the immeasurable love of God with such a finite window for conversion as the days we have to walk the earth. In purgatory, we have the hope that even in death, our loved ones are not beyond the reach of our love, much less that of God.
So, we are free to pray with confidence in the goodness of God, who has revealed himself to us in Scripture as the widow searching fervently for her lost coin, the shepherd who leaves the 99 to retrieve the one, and Father whose eyes never leave the horizon as he awaits the return of his son. God, who loves infinitely more than we can ever hope to, desires the return of our loved ones to himself more than we ever could. All our passion and sorrow is but a drop is his ocean.
This is why, heavy as most of my podcast interviews on the latest developments in the pro-life movement and bioethics were, I used to end each episode with a song based on the hopeful testament of St. Julian of Norwich: “All will be well.”
Cultivate virtue, harvest joy
St. Paul tells us that joy is a fruit of the Spirit, meaning that it is a gift to be received, not something we must generate from within. Joy is not a “fake it ’til you make it” commodity.
How, then, do we receive this joy?
Like any gift, the fruits of the Spirit cannot be forced, but must be actively received. In order to experience the fruits God promises to send us, we must cultivate the garden of our soul to become fertile ground for the Holy Spirit to blossom in our lives.
Joy is not a solitary pursuit. It is found in the gift of oneself to others. In serving those in need, in comforting the afflicted and in sharing the burdens of our brothers and sisters, we find our own burdens lightened and our joy multiplied.
First, we should take care to remain rooted in prayer and the sacraments. Jesus tells us that he is the vine, and we are the branches (cf. Jn 15:5). We cannot bear fruit unless we remain connected to the source of all graces, Christ Jesus. As the source and summit of our faith, the centrality of the Eucharist cannot be overstated in this regard. Deepening our roots enables us to draw from Christ’s living water, the wellspring of grace, even in times of spiritual drought.
Secondly, we experience joy by cultivating a spirit of gratitude. Even in the darkest times, there is always something to be thankful for. Gratitude opens our eyes to the blessings that surround us and lifts our hearts above despair. This is the paradox of gratitude: that it must spring forth from our hearts prior to reception of God’s gifts. We cannot receive the fruits of the Spirit unless we first open our hearts in grateful expectation of all that the Lord wants to work in our lives.
St. Ignatius emphasized the centrality of gratitude in his Spiritual Exercises, particularly through the principle of indifference. Ignatian indifference does not mean apathy, but rather an interior freedom to welcome all that God asks of us in this life. If we proceed with our final end of heaven in mind, we can be just as grateful to encounter sickness and suffering as health and happiness in this life, trusting the Lord to work in and through these obstacles to draw us closer to him.
Thirdly, joy comes to us as a byproduct of serving others, as Pope St. John Paul II declared. Joy is not a solitary pursuit. It is found in the gift of oneself to others. In serving those in need, in comforting the afflicted, and in sharing the burdens of our brothers and sisters, we find our own burdens lightened and our joy multiplied.
This is the facet I expressed, albeit incompletely, in my answer at the conference, when I said that my children were my gateway to joy in a darkened world. This service is not limited to parenthood, but on the contrary, is the essence of every Christian vocation. Every disciple of Christ is called to pour himself out in the service of others, be it as a priest, deacon, religious sister, missionary, consecrated virgin, or spouse and parent. As St. Teresa of Calcutta is attributed to have said, “I have found the paradox of love is that if you give until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”
| Above All, Love |
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“Above All, Love: Discerning Ways to Defend Life with Charity and Justice” (OSV, $14.95) by Elizabeth Gillette As followers of Christ, each of us is called to participate in pro-life activities, whether in an active ministry group or individually. We are called to respect, protect, love and serve every human life. “Above All, Love” will set you on an in-depth personal journey, helping you to cultivate your own pro-life attitude and activities through relatable stories, Scripture verses and thought-provoking questions. The book culminates with an examination of conscience and prayers focused on pro-life ministry. |
An additional habit to cultivate is that of uprooting the weeds that crowd out the seeds God is planting in our lives. This can mean frequenting the Sacrament of Reconciliation to address sins before they become deeply rooted in our souls, but it also might mean pruning back distractions and even thinning out commitments or habits that aren’t bad in themselves but have become impediments to the fruits God wants to cultivate within us.
Finally, joy comes in the very act of bearing witness to hope. In a culture that often glorifies death, we are called to be witnesses to life. Our lives should be a testament to the belief that every moment is sacred, every life is precious, and no suffering is so great that God cannot bring resurrection out of it.
Remaining joyful in a culture of death is not only possible; it is central to our call as Christians. It is a radical act of faith, a courageous declaration that death does not have the final word. As Easter people, let us sing our alleluia with conviction, knowing that the light of Christ will always pierce the darkness, and the declaration of life will always triumph over the silence of death. Let us proclaim with joy, until the whole world hears and the dawn of a new culture of life breaks forth in all God’s glory.
