Lenten Offerings

Philosoraptor asks the question on all our minds

In Light of the World, Pope Benedict practically stated he'd resign under the right conditions, but that doesn't lessen the shock. It still seems so sudden. Why now? It's easy to feel abandoned. Like the job got too hard, so he decided to move on. But as the Anchoress points out, he's not giving up his burden so much as trading for one perhaps more suited for him:

He’s retiring to a monastery within the Vatican One does not “retire” into monasticism; a monastery is not an idyllic place of retreat, but a full-thrust into spiritual depths. It is where one goes to pray, do penance and — if one is particularly holy and willing — to engage in supernatural battle with things seen and unseen. 

This is grave stuff, indeed; a heavy task. My suspicion is that Benedict is not taking his leave of the papacy in order to play his piano and read his books. In the midst of the temporal Lent of 2013, he’s going to be immersing himself in the Long Lent that began for us in 2002, and is with us still. 

I suspect he will be doing penance for the church, and for the world — for those of us who cannot or will not do it, ourselves.

And so, where no pope in the last 600 years has seen the need or duty to step aside, Papa Ratzinger does so with quiet humility. What this says about him, or the last 600 years worth of popes, I do not know. Will it set a precedent? Unlikely. It's probably just Ratzinger being Ratzinger. He is unique in many ways. Through his own prayer and introspection, he concluded that there is now a better way for him to serve the Church.

I have previously written about how much Blessed John Paul the Great meant to me. Pope Benedict is similarly beloved by me, for altogether different reasons. JPG was the pope of my childhood; the charismatic figure who inspired love for the Church. B16 is the pope of my adulthood. The intellectual whose writings furthered my understanding of the Church. I know JPG was a great philosopher and theologian himself, but that's never how I knew him. But one of the first books I read in college was Ratzinger's Introduction to Christianity. And I've spent the last year or so reading Jesus of Nazareth (between 6 and 7 on Wednesday mornings, during my holy hour, which is why it's taking me so long). He's the writer that introduced me to spiritual, intellectual maturity.

And I'll always love him for Summorum Pontificum, which introduced me to the Latin Mass, which I have since fallen in love with.

Marc Barnes' has perhaps the best tribute, in a poetic style that is sublime even for him: "How unwitting the darkness that made his light shine brighter. He leaves as he came, with a humility that shocks the world."

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Speaking of Lent and things given up, since each year, I give up n+1 things, where n are the things I gave up the previous year, it's now gotten to the point where sometimes it's simpler to just list the things I haven't given up. I can't really even remember everything, if I try to list them, but I do remember before I do them. At this point, it's basically if I enjoy it, I probably gave it up.

But Lent isn't about giving up things. It's about becoming a better Christian, so I tend to focus more on the extra things that should be done. In Lents past, I've gotten in the habit of going to daily Mass. This year, I think my focus will be on a daily rosary, nightly examination of conscience, and more frequent confession. I figure if I aim for weekly confession, I should make it at least biweekly.

I asked the Murloc what she was giving up for Lent. She pointed out that she's already given up gluten and dairy. There's not a lot left to give up, except maybe rocks and twigs. This is also the first Lent in five years for which she must fast, being the first Lent since 2008 for which she was not pregnant or breastfeeding. The shock of fasting was lessened by the fact that she already basically fasts every day.

She has suggested that I give up gluten as well, in solidarity with her. We are Not Cool with this scenario. You can have my bread and pasta when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.