One of my brother seminarians told me the other day, “Sometimes when I look to the priesthood, all I can see is the cross.” I was both fascinated and intimidated by that idea. It was a very edifying moment because, as much as that may sound daunting, it gave me a sense of gratitude: gratitude that we can share in Christ’s sufferings.
We all know that life has its ups and downs; the seminary is no exception. Like my seminarian brother, we will have difficult days sometimes, and we will have days so joyous that we don’t want them to end. The fact is that both the good and the bad days are filled with God’s blessings. There are a lot of days, even in seminary, that can wear you down if you don’t practice one very important virtue: gratitude.
This thankfulness to God is tantamount to a happy life. Without it, we are like a bird without air. Birds and planes can try to fly all they (or their pilots) want, but without something for their wings to push against, they will always fall. It is the same with gratitude. If we don’t appreciate the good things we have—the things that God has given us out of his love—we’ll never be able to rise above life’s difficulties to reach a good life. I don’t always want to be thankful when I struggle through a midterm, or when my holy hour feels dry, or when I get a sore throat and can’t cantor, but I need to be. I need to realize that God can turn these trials into blessings.
In these moments I find it very helpful to look to Mary. We can’t imagine how hard it would have been to be grateful at the foot of the cross, but even there, Mary was able to give thanks. How? It is said that Mary has even more faith than Abraham and Job. Let’s remember that these two men had their faith put to the test in astounding ways. Abraham was willing to trust and obey God, even at the expense of his only son. Job had everything but his life taken from him. Yet neither Abraham nor Job doubted God. They could still be thankful to God for something, even if it seemed to be only the air they breathed.
No matter how awful our trials are, they will never compare with standing at the foot of the cross, but there Mary stood, feeling sorrow deeper than anyone ever before. We can be sure she never once doubted the Father’s blessings. We don’t know what went through her mind—she likely was focused entirely on her agonizing son—but she still knew that God was in control, and for that she could give thanks. Imagine Mary, with a sword of sorrow in her heart, still gracious! She may not have known it then, but looking back on it, she could rejoice that her sorrow was united to her son’s suffering. Trials that God allows, even if they are as grave as Mary’s, can be united to Christ’s cross. God can make blessings come out of them. This is one of God’s great marvels, not just that he can give us good things, but that he can give us good things—like union with him—in spite of and even through our trials.
In this season when we recall many of our innumerable blessings, I hope that I don’t forget some of the less appreciated ones. I will certainly be grateful for my family, for my brother seminarians, for my ability to come to seminary and follow Christ, and for all the fun and joyful times I’ve had on this journey we call life. However, I pray that I can also thank God for those moments that aren’t so fun and joyous—those moments when I feel closer to Calvary than to Easter morning. The thing that my brother seminarians and I—and all of us—need to realize is that the cross, even though it is daunting, is filled with hope and grace. We have innumerable blessings poured on us each day, but if we’re not grateful for them, we might not see these amazing gifts from the Father.
I hope and pray that, as we begin this most blessed time of year, all of us can look at our crosses with gratitude and give thanks to God.
Brendon Schneibel is a College II seminarian studying at St. Gregory the Great Seminary in Seward, Neb.
Editor’s Note: Seminarian Life is a column written by current Diocese of Fargo seminarians. Please continue to pray for them.