Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor and author of the spiritual classic “Man’s Search for Meaning,” wrote:
“Dostoevsky said once, ‘There is only one thing I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings.’ These words frequently came to my mind after I became acquainted with those martyrs whose behavior in camp, whose suffering and death, bore witness to the fact that the last inner freedom cannot be lost. It can be said that they were worthy of their sufferings; the way they bore their suffering was a genuine inner achievement. It is this spiritual freedom — which cannot be taken away — that makes life meaningful and purposeful.”
Catholicism is tailor-made to make us worthy of our suffering: past, present, and future. Whether our transmission just went out, or our house just burned down, we’ve been welcomed into and united with the suffering of Christ, which is to say the suffering at the heart of all mankind: the lame, the blind, the leper, the poor in spirit.
A dear East Coast friend, an infectious disease doctor and deacon who often works with the poor called me last week to commiserate about the LA wildfires. “I fear for the trauma of the people in the mostly wealthy communities of Pacific Palisades and Altadena,” he observed.
“The poor are used to staggering losses,” he continued. “I often hear things like ‘My mother was just sentenced to 20 years in prison,’ or ‘We’ve been evicted again,’ or ‘My diabetic sister’s other leg has to come off.’ ”
“But the wealthy” — my friend knows because he’s wealthy himself — “are used to being in control. We fix things with money. So to have so complete and sudden a loss, compounded by the thousands of people who lost their homes — the emotional effect, it seems to me, will be staggering.”
Everyone who lives or has lived in LA has felt the wound of the wildfires. The wound to those of all demographics who lost their homes (not to mention the many who lost their lives) is simply unfathomable.
Not a paperclip — no papers. Not a coffeemaker, not a cup to drink from. Not a beloved shelf of books, a toothbrush, a family keepsake, a dog dish, a favorite jacket, a familiar view out of the window from which you may have gazed during morning prayer for decades. The beauty, the sight lines, the treetops, the streets down which you walked, and drove, and dreamed: for many, all gone.
A sense of security and stability shattered. The old-growth Southern California landscape, the visual reminders of a lifetime of memories: up in smoke.
Without engaging in the blame game, one Scripture verse has rung especially true: “We have in our day no prince, prophet, or leader, no holocaust, sacrifice, oblation, or incense, no place to offer first fruits, to find favor with you” (Daniel 3:38).
The moral backbone seems to have come, among other places, from the firefighters, first responders, and debris removers. The reassuring solidarity has been modeled by the innumerable neighbors, friends, and volunteer brigades who by all accounts have offered shelter, set up donation centers, organized clothing and food drives, instituted fundraisers, opened their wallets, shared their tables, beds, hearts, and prayers.
If this ghastly tragedy has shown us anything, it may be the extreme limitations, and folly, of political infighting. When your house is burning down, do you care who the willing-to-risk-his-or-her-life firefighter voted for? When your neighbors’ house is burning down, do you withhold your compassion because they belong to the opposite party?
The rain falls on the just and the unjust, and flames spread with the same neutrality. Can we offer the same heart, open to all, when we start to rebuild?
I am not worthy — “No soy digno” in Spanish — we say before receiving the Eucharist. “I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof.”
I am not worthy — and I may or may not still have a roof — BUT. “I am not worthy but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” My soul, my heart, my nerves. Perhaps never have so many in the city of Los Angeles needed so much healing, on so many levels.
And if we pray to be worthy of our sufferings, may we also be worthy of our joys: however small at the moment for so many; however and whenever they may come.
When a Benedictine monk takes final promises, with his hand on the altar he repeats this phrase: “Uphold me, Lord, according to your word, and I shall live; let not my hope be put to shame” (Ps. 119:116).
Let the emblem of the 2025 wildfires be not the streets reduced to ashes, the faltering leadership, the smoldering embers of beloved homes, businesses, and schools.
Let the emblem be the object unearthed from the smoldering rubble of Corpus Christi Church in Pacific Palisades: a tabernacle housing the body of Our Lord: intact, unharmed.
Source: Angelus News
