40 Days in the Desert: A Reflection on Lent Without Mass

Just last week, I published an article on safe ways to receive Communion during the coronavirus pandemic. The very last item on the list, almost an afterthought, advised Spiritual Communion for anyone who cannot attend Mass. Now Masses in my region, along with many regions around the world, are closed to the public. I knew this was a possibility. I thought I was prepared, spiritually, emotionally, and rationally. I understood the prudent necessity of such a decision. I thought I was ready for a Lent without Mass. But my sadness has surprised me. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. Perhaps my devotion is greater than I thought it was. Perhaps I am simply sad.

A Personal Desert

Like many of us, I struggle with anxiety and depression. For the past couple years, thanks to many good therapists and a wonderful husband, these tendencies have been under control. Most days, I don’t even notice they’re there. I barely remember what it was like, although I spent years in this state, to wander through my day in a haze of fear and confusion, living entirely in the cascade of thoughts in my head. Most of those thoughts were mean. And most of them I’ve forgotten.

I’ve been drawn to religion my whole life. Some small children are drawn to soccer or science. I remember staying up late, because I had insomnia even then, developing elaborate rituals of song and rosary in prayer. My parents told me to pray until I fell asleep, but I would simply pray all night.

I don’t know if my stubborn attachment to the faith of my youth is intrinsic to me or if it’s simply a pattern I cemented in my own mind from hours of repetition. I’m also not sure it matters. The ability to pray, to reach out to something mystical beyond myself, was the only thing capable of pulling me out of my head during my worst times. And the healthier I become, the more I do it, not the other way around.

A Lent Without Mass

Which brings me to now. A Lent without Mass. It’s the most unexpected thing in the world and yet, strangely, so fitting. I have been asked, along with fellow Catholics around the world, to stay at home and pray. Introverts like myself are making jokes online. (I’ve been training my whole life for this moment!) But I can feel the vines crawling up around my heart, old sensations that I thought I had left behind. There is a familiar tightness in my chest. (“Oh God, is that the virus?” I think. But it releases whenever I cry.) We’ve been sent out on our own, asked to wander for a bit, without the guidance of our leaders. Without the Sacraments. We’ve been asked to live Lent like Jesus did.

Alone Together

But not really. When Christ wandered into the desert He was utterly alone. No one could support Him through the battle because no one was, or ever will be, like Him. Indeed, this extreme exercise in loneliness was only training for what was to come. We, although separated physically, are not alone in our loneliness. We have each other. We have the knowledge that every one of us, right now, is in the desert. We can stream Mass online or on television. We can set up video calls and pray with our friends. We can hug our families. We can receive Spiritual Communion, because Christ desires so intensely to dwell in our hearts that He will bypass even the rituals He created to do so.

Our time in the desert is just that: time. It will pass, as do all trials and anxieties. As will life itself, ultimately. And there will always be Easter, even if it does fall on Easter Sunday. Because God makes His own time. We are merely gifted it. What a beautiful gift it is.