Last Sunday, I found myself again attending the Mass of Divine Mercy. It was a continuation of a reflection that had begun the previous Easter Sunday, when I pondered Mary Magdalene’s encounter with the risen Jesus. Her desire to cling to Him was met with the tender but firm instruction, “Do not hold on to me” (John 20:17). This moment had stayed with me, quietly reshaping the way I thought about meeting Christ.
This Sunday, the Gospel told the story of Thomas. His doubt, so human and familiar, stood in contrast to the trust asked of him. Jesus said, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29). These words echoed in my mind during the Mass, joining themselves to my earlier reflections.
Alongside these two biblical figures, I thought of Saint Faustina Kowalska, whose life embodied a radical trust in Divine Mercy. Her humility allowed her to receive visions of Christ not through emotional clinging or intellectual proving, but through pure surrender. The news of Pope Francis’ recent death on Easter Monday, April 21, 2025, added a final solemn note. His life of service concluded not with triumph but with a peaceful return to the One he had served.
As I sat quietly after Communion, it became clear to me that all these figures, Mary Magdalene, Thomas, Faustina, and Pope Francis, were bearing witness to a single reality. True meeting with Christ happens not by our own strength, but when we stop trying to reach Him on our own terms.
The Quiet Paradox of Seeking God
It often seems that the harder we try to seek God, the more distant He feels. This strange reality is not new. It runs through the stories of those who encountered the risen Christ.
Mary Magdalene, out of deep love, reached toward Jesus with the hope of holding onto what she had lost. Her love was real, but her longing was rooted in the past. Jesus’ response was gentle but necessary: faith had to be something greater than nostalgia.
Thomas, on the other hand, approached Christ from the mind. His skepticism demanded tangible proof. He needed to touch, to verify, before he could trust. Yet even here, Jesus did not shame him. Instead, He blessed those who would believe without requiring the satisfaction of their senses.
The two disciples on the road to Emmaus offer yet another example. They walked with the risen Christ Himself, yet failed to recognize Him because their expectations blinded them. They had a certain idea of what the Messiah should be, and that idea kept them from seeing who He truly was.
In each case, it was not the absence of Christ that prevented the meeting. It was the weight of their own emotions, thoughts, and assumptions. The paradox is that human striving, even when born from love or reason, often becomes the very wall that obscures the face of God.
The Hidden Traps of Our Efforts
When we imagine seeking God, we often think in terms of effort. We pray more, study harder, serve better. These activities are good in themselves, but they can quietly carry an illusion: that if we work hard enough, God will become visible to us on our terms.
Emotional striving, like Mary Magdalene’s desire to hold onto Jesus, represents one such trap. It seeks to preserve an experience of God rather than trusting His presence beyond the senses. Faith becomes tangled with feelings, and when the feelings fade, so too does the sense of God’s nearness.
Intellectual striving, as seen in Thomas, presents another path that leads us astray. Here, faith becomes a puzzle to be solved, an equation to be balanced. God is expected to fit into human logic, and any mystery that remains becomes a reason for doubt rather than awe.
Expectation is yet another quiet burden. Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, we form images of who God should be and what He should do for us. When reality does not match these images, disillusionment follows.
In each of these traps, the focus subtly shifts from God’s initiative to our own effort. We act as if God were distant, waiting for us to build the ladder that reaches Him. Yet the truth is the opposite. He is already present. It is our self-centered striving that blinds us to His nearness.
Death and the Revelation of Mercy
Death strips away all illusions. At the moment of death, no effort remains. Neither emotional attachment, nor intellectual achievement, nor human expectation can bridge the final gap. The soul stands naked before God.
Yet for those who live in faith, death is not a defeat. It is the final surrender into the arms that have always been waiting. It is not by our strength that we cross that threshold, but by His mercy alone.
The death of Pope Francis offers a living image of this reality. After a lifetime of service, teaching, and prayer, he passed away quietly, soon after offering his last Easter message. There is a mystery in the timing, as if God was reminding us that no matter how great our accomplishments, the final meeting is always a gift, never a reward earned.
When Jesus cried out from the cross, “Father, into Your hands I commend my spirit” (Luke 23:46), He modeled for us the path home. It is a path of surrender, not conquest. In the end, meeting God is less about reaching and more about falling into His arms.
The Meaning of Fasting and Wilderness
Even while we live, there are ways to practice this surrender. Fasting, both physical and spiritual, prepares the heart for meeting God by allowing us to let go of false comforts.
When Jesus fasted for forty days in the wilderness, He faced temptations that mirrored the illusions we cling to. The Devil urged Him to turn stones into bread, to throw Himself down and be miraculously saved, to seize power over all kingdoms. Each temptation was an invitation to grasp at something to reach by effort rather than trust.
Jesus’ refusal was not a denial of human needs, but a rejection of false dependence. He chose to hunger rather than perform a miracle on demand. He chose to trust rather than test God’s providence. He chose to wait for the true Kingdom rather than seize worldly power.
In fasting, we are invited into a similar school of trust. We become aware of how quickly we reach for satisfactions to fill the spaces where God waits. By practicing hunger, whether literal or figurative, we practice opening those spaces instead of covering them.
In this way, fasting becomes a rehearsal for the final surrender. We learn to live with empty hands, ready to receive what we cannot earn.
Radical Acceptance and the Nearness of God
Faith, then, is not an achievement. It is not the result of emotional passion, intellectual mastery, or heroic striving. Faith is radical acceptance of what already is.
God is closer to us than we are to ourselves. It is not He who hides, but we who look elsewhere. Meister Eckhart captured this truth simply when he said, “God is at home; it is we who have gone out for a walk.”
We do not need to climb toward God. We need only to awaken to His presence. The effort is not in reaching but in seeing. It is not in building but in allowing ourselves to be found.
This does not mean that action, thought, or emotion are worthless. They are part of the human journey. But they must be purified of the hidden pride that says, “I will find God by my own strength.” True faith says instead, “I am found by the One who loves me.”
Living the Death That Leads to Life
The Resurrection teaches us not only about life after death, but about life before death. To live as a Christian is to live the death of self-centered striving every day.
When we surrender the need to control, when we let go of the demand to see and feel and prove, we already begin to taste eternal life. We begin to live in the freedom of those who have nothing left to lose and everything to receive.
The mercy of God is not a distant hope but a present reality. It waits for us not at the end of a long search, but at the end of our own efforts.
To die in faith is to fall into that mercy. To live in faith is to die daily to all that would keep us from trusting it.
In the end, it is not we who meet Christ by our strength. It is Christ who meets us when we finally stop running, striving, clinging, and simply say, “Yes.”
Image: A photo captured by the author.
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