Last night I attended Adoration at my parish.

If you have never gone to or heard of Adoration, it is a sort of contemplative prayer in front of the Blessed Sacrament–Christ Himself present in a thin, round wafer.

I realize how weird and possibly insane it sounds–but often the most true things appear strange and mysterious at first.

I went almost against my better judgement–it’s been a very full week and I’ve barely been getting enough sleep.

But I had told my friend I would go, and–struggling as I have been recently–I was hoping this time would provide a reprieve.

So I decided to go only for the first hour (the event lasts from 8-11).

Pretty much as soon as I walked in I began regretting my decision to go.

There were only three other people–and the priest.

And the people who were there were just…odd.

I know how cold it must sound for me to describe them that way, but it’s true. They were not your average person. You could tell almost right off the bat that there was something a little off about them.

And then my friend who was there, one glance at her told me she had been crying. She, too, is not what you would call a ‘normal’ person–although by all accounts and purposes she may appear that way initially.

While I took stock of what I had just walked into, and fought my instict to turn around and leave, I sat down and began to talk to my friend in whispers about what was troubling her.

The other woman present was trying to help, too. The gentleman went into the confessional with the priest.

After a few minutes the priest came back and the gentleman resumed his seat. The woman, my friend and I fell silent and began to pray.

It struck me, as I sat there, that this group made perfect sense.

Because everyone there, including myself, was accutely aware; aware that we needed to be there.

And that is also why there were so few of us, because most people don’t recognize that need in themselves.

The most dangerous challenge with our modern world is the comfort we experience.

In the security that money provides, in the food we eat, in the drinks we have, in the hobbies we take up, in the shows we watch…in all of these things it is all too easy to immerse ourselves and slowly, surely, become numb.

I could have stayed home. I could have put on my pajamas, gotten into my bed, cozied up with a blanket and watched The Office until my eyes were too tired to continue.

But I really couldn’t. Not because I’m better than others, but because I’m worse–I’m weaker–and I know it. That is the grace: all the comforts available to me (Netflix, blankets, alcohol, snacks, online shopping, medication) are not enough to fully bury my desperate need for Christ and His grace.

You see, the countless comforts available to so many of us have given us the much easier option to ignore what we don’t feel equipped to handle.

We close ourselves off spiritually. We turn a blind eye to the brokenness that we have learned to tolerate in ourselves. We ignore that same brokenness in others, or turn away when we can’t overlook it.

It’s repulsive. The ugly head of anxiety, depression, eating disorders, abondonment issues, pornography addictions, trauma, same sex attraction, abuse, marital infidelity, anger, envy, bitterness, hurt… It’s heinous. We don’t want to deal, and we don’t have to. So we don’t.

Comfort has convinced us of our own self-reliance, that independence is attainable and desirable. It has taught us that isolation is preferable to being vulnerable. It has assured us that oblivion is easier than looking inward and being distraught at what we find.

We may pray for things we want (a good job, a spouse, children, a nice home), we may go to church on Sunday’s and talk about how messed up ‘the culture’ is.

But I would say we need to look at ourselves first. We need to realize how great and dire our need is: our need for salvation, for redemption, for healing.

And the fact that these people were there last night, including myself, is a result of grace; the grace of being a little bit more broken than most.

A level of brokenness which is almost impossible to ignore. Most people are able to hobble along on their broken leg, but our legs are not weak enough to stand on their own–and though others may look at us and feel pity, last night I felt grateful for my crippledness.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

2 Corinthians 12: 9

I also wondered if another person would ever be willing to face my crippledness, to embrace it, to help me walk on my weak legs.

Often when people see me, I think they see a ‘nice, Catholic girl.’ But a deeper examination would reveal a world of hurt and suffering and woundedness which drives me to my knees. I wonder if there will be a man who wants to carry that with me, who is okay with such a deep and overwhelming experience of fallen humanity.

Because the average person, even the average ‘church-goer’ isn’t interested in that: they want whole, they want good, they want unblemished.

Last night I was challenged. I was forced to look brokeness–and all it’s undesirability–in the eye, both in myself and in others. Paradoxically I found a lot of peace there.

I wonder if more Christians can face that. I wonder if we have the courage–the courage to not only see what we don’t want to in ourselves and others, but to hold it; to help carry each others’ pain and suffering and deep woundedness. I wonder if we can be strong enough to experience each other at a deeper level, a level that is simultaneously more human and more Christ-like.

I wonder If more of us will have the ability to shed the blanket of comfort we’ve wrapped around ourselves and plunge into a reality which is more vivid and troublesome. A reality that has a need, a need for a savior.

“I am not afraid, I was born to do this.”

Saint Joan of Arc, pray for us.