CHERYL ANN SMITH, of Madonna House at Robin Hood’s Bay, reflects on a life-changing Lenten experience…

My life changed this Lent. Oh, you wouldn’t know it from the outside: I look the same. I act the same. I do the same things. But in my deepest heart, which I call my heart of hearts, something has changed. It began with a dream I had a few weeks before Lent began.

This was the dream: I needed to go on a retreat, and I had a particular kind in mind. It was unorthodox and a little risky, but my heart was set on it. I found a priest who agreed to direct me, although he was a little hesitant, and I extracted a reluctant permission from my superior. After the usual dream obstacles were thrown in my path, another priest came into the room to talk with me. His presence was big and I meekly sat at his feet to hear what he had to say.

“You can do this kind of retreat if you really want to,” he said. “But first let me tell you a story. There was once a monastery in which the monks lived in strict poverty. For example, they would not eat meat, unless it was for the sake of hospitality. One day, they really wanted a little meat, so they invited many people for a banquet. Do you know how much that banquet cost?”

I was thinking it might have cost $15 (remember, these are dream prices), when this priest exclaimed, “Seventy-five dollars! That meal cost $75!” He let that enormous sum sink in. Then he said, “Now, what was it they really wanted? “

“Meat”, I said, “They wanted a little meat.”

“Right,” the priest affirmed. “So they should have simply eaten a little meat, instead of throwing that huge, expensive banquet. That would have been more honest, direct – and poor!”

Then he turned his piercing eyes to me. “And you,” he challenged. “What is it you really want?”

Suddenly, I realised what it was, and I blurted it out. My teacher raised his eyebrows, lifted his hands in a gesture that said, “Well then? Now what must you do?”

I awoke from the dream with that question burning within me. And it continued to burn for about a week. Then one morning as I was hurrying down the road for Lauds (our morning prayer), trying to protect myself against the icy winds, I was complaining a bit to Jesus.

“What do I want? Well, I want to get up early again to pray before I begin the workday. But I can’t get my energy back after that flu bug and I can’t claw myself into consciousness early enough…the spirit is willing, but the flesh is very weak and tired…”

“No!”, came a booming voice within. “What is it you really want?” That voice of Jesus pierced through my mind’s nattering to my heart of hearts, and a cry came from deep within, “I need silence in the morning. I need time with you alone. My soul is like a dry weary land without water. I really want this. Please give me the grace.”

And God did give the grace – after he had brought me to the awareness of my aching desire. For it was only then that I could really receive what he gave.

I have always loved the story of Zacchaeus (Lk 19). I guess it’s because I am a lot like him. Zacchaeus was a tax collector, and although we don’t know this for sure, it’s a good guess that he defrauded plenty of people through the years, to give himself a comfortable life. But in his heart of hearts was a spark of desire to be right with God and others – in other words, to be saved. That was the “meat” he was really longing for.

It doesn’t seem like Zacchaeus was aware of this deeper desire. It seems like he was just curious to see Jesus – so much so, that he didn’t care how foolish he looked up in that sycamore tree. But Jesus knew the desire in his heart and He drew it forth. By the end of the encounter, Zacchaeus was ready to make four-fold restitution for his sins. He had found what he had been secretly aching for – salvation – and nothing else mattered. (Isn’t he a powerful model for the Lenten journey?)

It is striking that the sinner Zacchaeus was able to embrace salvation in a way that the righteous Rich Young Man couldn’t. This young man seemed to have such big desires, as he asked about eternal life. But when it came right down to it, he was unwilling to do what was necessary to reach the depth of union with Jesus that was being offered. What he really wanted was riches. He made his decision and he went away sad. (Mk 10).

Jesus looked at the rich young man with love, and understood how hard – impossible really, it was for him. In the Garden of Gethsemane (Mt 26), Jesus Himself agonised about his coming Passion. Three times, he asked to be spared this cup of suffering, yet each time he stood in the truth that his deepest desire – a desire even deeper than that for life itself – was to do the Father’s will. So he chose obedience.

When I told you about my dream, did you wonder what I answered when the priest asked me what I really wanted? I cried out, “I want to be known!” Now, I didn’t know that was such a burning desire, and I’ve been pondering this in my morning prayer.

It is only in the depths that we are fully known: known to ourselves as we’ve always been known to God. But in order for us to get there, we have to be stripped of all that obscures our identity as children of God, and so the pathway to our hearts of hearts inevitably includes suffering.

The Prodigal Son shows us the way on this journey inward. At first, he seemed only to desire “freedom”. However, as his life of debauchery degenerated into destitution, his desire shifted to survival. Then as he became poorer, less proud, he came to know his father not just as provider of money, but as one who would shelter him, unworthy though he was.

Then, when the Prodigal returned home and was loved, forgiven and restored, he finally came to know himself fully as son of his father. And this is the end of our Lenten journey. This is Resurrection, Redemption, Easter. This is the path Jesus came to give us – the path to our deepest heart where we come to truly know ourselves as beloved children of our Father.

Around the same time I had my Lenten dream, I was given a profoundly moving photograph of a little girl hurtling herself towards the waiting arms of Pope John Paul II. The picture crackles with intensity. The child’s hair is flying behind her. The Pope’s face is alive with love and delight as his arms reach out and strain to catch her and press her to himself. Surely the embrace was as full of love as that of the Prodigal father and son!

I posted this photograph in the choir room by the chapel door as a reminder of what the liturgy is all about. The Father waits with longing to press us to his breast in a union of desire and love. Because he will be satisfied with nothing less than that union, he keeps pushing us deeper into our hearts, until we know who we are as his children, and we desire him with total passion!

When I die, I pray that I will see this same expression of love and welcome on my Father’s face. And when I throw myself into his arms and he asks me, “Cheryl Ann, what is it you want with your whole heart?”, I want to cry out, “You! I want you!” And I hope I hear him whisper, “Me too! I want you!”