Category: Behold Vancouver

In this episode, we explore: 1) How anger at God is far more common and intense that you realize; 2) Why you need to work through your anger at God; 3) Your hidden reasons for your anger at God; 4) Why your anger at God is so frequently banished to your unconscious; 5) 16 defense mechanisms that drive your anger at God outside of your awareness; 6) How your anger at God is so often overpowered by your fear of God; and 7) The signs and symptoms of your unacknowledged anger at God.

Be still and know that I am God.   -Psalm 46:10

How much time do you spend in your mind, lost in world of racing thoughts concerning anything and everything but the present moment?

Do you find yourself habitually living in a state of anxious deliberation fueled by past ponderings or future fears— instead of being fully present to God, yourself and others?

Such unbridled thinking—which 12 Step Programs refer to as “stinking thinking’” and Buddhists call “the monkey mind”—literally keeps us “beside ourselves”—instead of resting with a centered awareness of both God’s within, and all around us.

Lately, I’ve become increasingly aware of how difficult it is to stay present to the present, of how quickly one can drift into a no man’s land of fearing, fretting, and fantasizing. This point was driven home last Sunday morning as I sat on the front porch of my sister’s Mississippi bungalow gazing contentedly at the sugar white beach and sparkling Gulf waters before my eyes. All was well with my soul as I enjoyed a contemplative moment of silence basking in the majesty of God’s creation and the hush of his calming presence.

With lightning speed, my thoughts turned to the day’s news of hurricanes, earthquakes and a potential war with North Korea, and just that fast — as though a switch had been flipped — a wave of adrenaline-fueled unrest washed over me. I was instantly aware that I had surrendered a beautiful moment of gratitude and peace-filled joy to a more familiar (and less healthy) state of mind: the anxious preoccupation with something external to me—something that pulled me off center and away from resting in God’s holy presence.

As the week went on, I began to take note of how much time I was spending off-kilter and outside of myself via chronic negative thinking, and how little time I was resting in God from moment to moment.

Glancing at the culture around us, it’s pretty apparent that I’m not alone in this problem.

So why is letting our thoughts run amok such a bad habit?  Because it keeps us living beside ourselves, instead of in what St. Paul called the “inner self”—the inmost center of our being that is made to “be filled with all the fullness of God.” (Eph. 3:16,19). It is only in the inner self, which Jesus called our “inner room” (Mt. 6:6) that we can truly come to know “the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge” and experience the “breath and length and height and depth” of that love (Eph. 3:18).

Everyone wants that, right? So why do we avoid our inner room?

Because going into the inner self also means that we will go to the places that are weak, poor, wounded, and sinful—the painful places we need to enter with God, so he can save us, heal us, and fill us with his love and mercy.

The well-known Orthodox priest Fr. Josiah Trenham made waves on social media recently with a powerful message about what it means to live out one’s Christian faith in a broken world. Fr. Trenham is a father of 10 and the founder of Patristic Nectar, an outlet that aims to “bring the wealth of Sacred Tradition to a generation attuned to listening rather than reading.” 

Every person has a portion of the world given to them by Christ

to make beautiful.

For some, that portion might only be a cubicle, but that’s the cubicle where Jesus’ name must be glorified. And if you do that, you can change your world.

If people know that when they go by that cubicle, there’s a person there who loves them, who will stop what he’s doing to listen to them, and who will pray for them, the world around that cubicle can be radically changed. 

So, this is what I want my sons to do: I want them to be human beings … to be a human being means to live with God in everything. That’s what human beings were created to do.

Looking back, looking forward

I wish I had heard Fr. Trenham’s advice years ago when I worked in a cubicle. Back then, life often felt void of meaning. I’d like to think his wisdom would have inspired me to make my cubicle a warm, welcoming place with some cool artwork on the walls, perhaps a scented candle or two … maybe even a cozy chair in the corner. 

But most importantly, this ideal cubicle would have had me in it — fully present with a prayerful attitude, working hard, and welcoming my coworkers with a smile (and even a hug when appropriate). 

Sadly, I look back on my years in a cubicle as a time when I wasn’t in tune with all the beauty that was available to me. I shirked work and complained about my boss and coworkers. I also gossipped. A lot.

I look back on those years as a sad, wasted time when changing my ways and following Fr. Trenham’s advice would not only have had a positive impact on those around me, it would have made me happier and more fulfilled too. 

We live in an extroverted world, and as an introvert and a writer, I love the idea of shutting out the rest of the world for several hours each day to write about faith. I often find it beneficial to remember what the Prophet Elijah experienced in 1 Kings, 19:12 when he found God’s presence not in earthquake or fire but in “a light silent sound.” 

God speaks to us in those silences, which, in all the bustle and noise of modern life, can be hard to come by. As Catholics, our faith brings us to an experience of God through communal worship in the liturgy, as well as through parish life and the Works of Mercy. But for a Catholic introvert like me, it can be a challenge to find the balance between that active engagement with the world and the quiet contemplation I need to sustain me.

Fortunately, our faith connects us with the great Communion of Saints — all those holy souls who have gone before us and still offer us their wisdom and guidance in living a holy life. Whether or not any of them were true introverts is a question lost to history, but the saints can teach us valuable life lessons about how to be our best introverted, spiritual selves.

RELATED: How to Make Friends With a Saint

Saint Clare of Assisi

Clare lived an introverted expression of one of the more extroverted of religious orders, the Franciscans, who were actually among the first orders to reject the cloistered life. They begged in the streets, preached in the towns, and made themselves living examples of the Christ-centered life.

But Saint Clare and the sisters of her order (commonly known as the Poor Clares) lived in a cloister. This was more in keeping with the tradition of the day for all religious orders, men and women. Francis and his brothers were considered eccentric for the public nature of their lifestyle; for Clare and her sisters, it would have been scandalous. They were able to live out the Franciscan charism from within the cloister walls.

The Poor Clares, like their Franciscan brothers, were an order devoted to being public examples of a Gospel-centered life. And like Francis, Clare rejected the idea of the cloister as protection against the evils on the outside. It was a spiritual refuge – a place, as Jesus said, to withdraw to her inner sanctum, close the door, and pray to God in secret. For this Catholic introvert, my prayer time can be like that cloister — a place of quiet, solitary retreat when I need spiritual rejuvenation.

Saint John the Baptist

A fiery, outspoken prophet might seem like an odd example of an introverted saint.

Whether it’s your boyfriend, sister, or best friend, chances are you’ll disagree with someone about something sometime. What are some best practices for having fruitful conversations when you’re both firmly rooted on opposite sides of an issue? 

St. Ignatius has some tips for discernment that work well for resolving disagreements And these hold true whether you’re discussing climate change, where to send the kids to school, or what to do for dinner tonight.  

Before you’re able to discern properly, however, you need to make sure your head is in the right space. 

Father Warren Sazama attributes to St. Ignatius seven attitudes for authentic discernment: openness, generosity, courage, interior freedom, prayerful reflection and examination, having your priorities straight, and not confusing the means with the ends. If you don’t have these attitudes, it will not be possible to discern well. 

So how do these apply to disagreements? 

Openness means coming into a decision without preconceived ideas. This is especially important when you are arguing with someone because if you can’t listen to what he or she is saying, your conversation will be fruitless. If you enter the discussion assuming you know their position, you won’t listen and be able to truly discuss your differences. 

Generosity means that you have to be ready and willing to change, or at least to understand the other side. Often it is easier to argue the crazy opinion you think someone holds than to understand what they actually think and why they have come to believe that.  

Courage is important because what you are discerning (or in this case disagreeing about) may be emotionally charged and sharing your side may be unpopular. You’ll need to have courage to say what needs to be said. 

Interior freedom is necessary for discernment. You can’t be free if you dance around what God is calling you to and never fully commit. Or if you talk around the subject so much that you don’t ever focus on what needs to be done, you aren’t free either. Similarly, when you are disagreeing with someone, you have to get to the point and not fill the conversation with detours. And you aren’t doing either of you a service if you keep intentionally starting and stopping the conversation so that nothing real can be said. 

The fifth attitude is one of prayerful reflection — if you aren’t in the habit of reflecting on your life and praying regularly, you won’t be able to discern well. Prayer and reflection help form your thoughts and opinions, and thus directly affect your views on everything from political stances to questions of morality in daily life. Forming your own conscience well by examining it and by trying to listen to God better every day can only help you grow in wisdom.

My first real struggle with doubts in my faith happened in the dark depths of the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic. Faced with the hardships of the world, the political moment we were in, the frailty of human life, and my own struggles, it was very difficult for me to see the goodness of God. 

Naturally, as my experience of faith shifted from pure joy and delight to frustration and confusion, I wasn’t really sure about God or the convictions of my Catholic community.

Had I gotten something wrong about the character of God? Was my community really interested in a deep life with an active and personal relationship with Jesus, or were they just interested in His moral and social teachings? And were those teachings really good or were they just arbitrary commands made centuries ago by religious leaders who wanted control?

These were hard questions and they led me into a “deconstruction” of sorts. I found myself turning over every aspect of my faith and asking if it was true and if it was good. Those months and years of struggling were immensely painful; it felt as though I was living out of alignment with my identity as a Catholic and with my community of fellow believers. I also wondered how God felt about it all – was He hurt, as though I was betraying Him or rejecting Him by having doubts? 

Still, I am so grateful for the person God has shaped me into on the other side.

We can sometimes be tempted to run away from doubt. We hear nicknames like “Doubting Thomas” and assume that to ask questions or to be uncertain is a bad thing. We’re warned by well meaning people not to ask certain kinds of questions or explore certain sources because they could lead us astray. There is a kind of doubt and a form of deconstruction that leads to the ending of faith – and that is a tragedy. But when our doubts come from a true place of curiosity (even if that curiosity is spurred on by pain) rather than cynicism, it is possible  that God is working in us to bring about a greater spiritual maturity.

The ultimate goal in our spiritual journey is to be united with God. Our call is to be transformed day by day by His love and to love Him so deeply that we experience “union.” Just like in a marriage, two people become “one flesh,”; God desires for us to become one with Him, restored in full relationship.

Saint John of the Cross used an analogy, comparing us to a cold, wet log and God to a blazing fire.

Most of us can identify certain teachers or mentors who have had a profound impact on our lives. The same can be said for particular books that have shaped our view of the world. With that in mind, BustedHalo asks the question:

“What books have helped you on your spiritual journey?”

Mark Mossa, S.J. is studying theology at Weston Jesuit School of Theology in preparation for the priesthood. He taught philosophy at Loyola University in New Orleans and is currently at work on an introduction to the spiritual life for young adults, to be published in 2007.

Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller 
This collection of essays, subtitled “Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality” is a real, down to earth and, at times, funny exploration of one young man’s struggles to negotiate his Christian life. Miller comes from an evangelical Christian background, but doesn’t back off from being honest about both its advantages and pitfalls. He talks about being in love, being in doubt, and sincerely wanting to follow Jesus. The writing is good and honest and you’ll keep catching glimpses of yourself and your own struggles.

Return of the Prodigal Son by Henri Nouwen
If you struggle with family relationships—and who doesn’t?—you’ll find this one of the most consoling books you’ll ever read. Nouwen’s extended reflection on Rembrandt’s painting of The Prodigal Son opens a whole new window into Jesus’ parable. Nouwen invites us to recognize how we at times fill all the roles of the story—the profligate son, the scorned but compassionate father and the jealous older brother. Almost any book by Nouwen is worth reading, but this one’s his best.

Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
No Christian writer I know is as brutally honest–or as good–as Anne Lamott. This single mother who struggled with addiction and anorexia tells of how she was saved by her faith and her friends. The book will make you laugh out loud, but it will also make you cry. Lamott offers penetrating spiritual insights and has the gift of not taking her self too seriously in the process. If you’re looking for blushing piety, that’s not Lamott’s style. But if you appreciate the raw and honest emotion of ordinary encounters with God, with even the occasional curse word thrown in, you’ll find a soul mate here.

The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
Ours is a world of violence that is also touched by grace. O’Connor’s stories are often outrageous and shocking, but always witness to the persistence of God’s grace. Perhaps the greatest Catholic writer of the twentieth-century, O’Connor’s stories are rarely explicitly Catholic. Yet the themes she pursues and the questions she raises come undeniably from the religious sensibility of this devout Catholic woman.

In 2014, I knelt in the pew at the Easter Vigil Mass having just been confirmed in the Church moments before. Many months of prayer, study, and conversion culminated at that moment, and my heart fluttered with excitement at the thought of receiving the Eucharist for the first time. 

The emotions I experienced during this Mass were intense. Despite my deep-seated fear of discerning my vocation, the rush of devotion I felt made me pray more sincerely than I ever have, “Lord, I will do whatever you want me to do, even if it means the religious life or married life or being a missionary. I’ll do it.”

For the first few years after becoming Catholic, my new faith stirred my emotions almost constantly. At Mass, singing “Lamb of God” brought me to tears every week. Once, while praying at Eucharistic Adoration, I suddenly experienced a very real, overwhelming sense of being embraced by Jesus as he welcomed me home. And when I went to Confession, if acknowledging where I’ve fallen short of God’s hopes for me didn’t make me feel loved by a merciful God, then the priest’s beautiful prayer of absolution certainly did.

I not only believed and appreciated the beauty of my new faith, but I also felt the beauty of Jesus Christ and the Catholic Church deeply in my soul. 

But a few years after my initial conversion, I began to notice a gradual, creeping spiritual desolation — a sense of abandonment and darkness and a loss of the strong feelings of love and devotion I’d had early in my conversion. I still loved God, of course, perhaps even more than in years prior, but I felt less emotionally moved by that love. I left the confessional feeling hollow — like I’d heard the words of absolution with my ears, but not with my heart. In fact, I quite literally felt nothing, no matter the Sacrament, prayer, or devotion.

RELATED: How Finding a Spiritual Director Changed My Life

I became frustrated and confused, thinking this was some fault of my own. But my spiritual director reassured me that faith is not about our feelings, but about fidelity. He likened my relationship with Christ to a human relationship: We “fall in love,” and the beloved is all we can think about. We’re walking on air whenever we’re around them. But after a few months or years, those feelings subside, and then the real work of love begins: loving even when we don’t feel the emotional consolation of that love.

Thankfully, the truth of our faith isn’t contingent on our emotions. Still, experiencing this spiritual desolation can be a bit unnerving and confusing.

Sometimes the hardest thing to give up for Lent isn’t chocolate or coffee – it’s something good. Something that has become too important.

Earlier this year, I gave up running for Lent.

I know, I know. Running is healthy. For years, it was one of the best tools I had to manage anxiety. It gave me joy, balance, and even a sense of triumph as I crossed finish lines and set personal bests. How could that possibly be something to “give up”?

Over time, though, I noticed how much running had taken hold of me. When I had to miss a week, I felt withdrawal. Training for one marathon turned into four in three years. A few weekly runs grew into seven days straight, sometimes over 100 kilometers a week. At my peak, I was running more hours than a part-time job.

I tried to make it spiritual. I prayed the Rosary on runs, and even started an Instagram account called Running with Jesus. But the truth was, running often came first — before prayer, before my wife, before my kids.

In early 2025, I was preparing for the London Marathon. I wanted it to be my fastest ever. Training was going well until I pushed too far and aggravated an injury in my knee. I ran 36 days without a day off, and my body was starting to break down.

The day before Ash Wednesday, I went to a physiotherapist. His advice? Stop running.

I was devastated. My reaction revealed just how much I had come to depend on running. And suddenly, Lent had begun – without running.

At first, I fought it. Wasn’t this good for me? Didn’t it make me healthier? Why would God take away something I loved?

But in the silence, God was patient. He showed me that my attachment to running had slipped out of balance. Friends and mentors spoke gently to me, helping me name what was happening: I wasn’t just injured physically. I was also spiritually out of step.

I began asking questions I had avoided:

Why am I working so hard? Why do I need to perform? Why can’t I slow down?

The truth was painful: I believed I only had value if I achieved. My self-worth was tied to performance, to proving that I could do more, faster, better.

Injuries teach us something about limits. Online articles attributed common causes of my injury to “training error” — too much, too fast. Spiritually, it was the same: trying to prove my worth at all costs.

But Jesus met me there. As I slowed down, He began to heal more than my knee.