As the “hero” of the Book of Job illustrates, the life of the believer is often beset with difficulty—even, and perhaps often, great difficulty. This is the way of human life in a fallen world, and as Job and many others illustrate, a living faith provides no immunity from undergoing such difficulties. Though God has promised “that in everything [he] works for good with those who love him” (Rom 8:28) so that we can ultimately rest secure in him (see Rom 8:18–21), he does not guarantee freedom from bodily pain and spiritual sorrow. This problem, the problem of suffering, is the knife’s edge of the problem of evil, for it is evil, both natural and moral, that brings suffering upon us. But how do we bear such suffering and its source in the evil we find both in ourselves and in one another? And how do we learn to live a good life in the face of evil and suffering—a life filled with hope and love, a life oriented toward God?

Faith Secured

Of course, the answer is to be found in the Catholic faith—that is, in our faith in Jesus Christ and his Mystical Body, the Church. In the practice of our faith, we learn—sometimes slowly, sometimes swiftly—to cling to Christ in his Church and thereby to receive his gift of redemption. This gift can then become increasingly effectual as we deal with life’s inevitable vagaries, and we can even begin to participate in Christ’s holiness and live a life of friendship with God. But, as Jesus counsels us, in order to enter into his salvific company we must daily deny ourselves, take up our crosses, and follow him (see Mt 16:24). Just so, we learn to humbly surrender to his love and begin to experience the intimacy of his presence. This is the way of Christian life, a way St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein) calls “the science of the cross.”[1] It is an unusual science inasmuch as it is never learned in a general and theoretical way but only ever in a singular and existential way—it is a science learned only by the individual, and only individually. And it is precisely by remaining close to Christ in this way, by clinging to him in the difficulties of life, that we begin to learn how to suffer well in the face of evil.

Yet, every believer worth his salt knows this already, for every Christian knows that God loves him and that he must unite his particular cross to Christ’s. But a difficulty presents itself here. When we experience the suffering that follows upon natural and moral evil, when we are in pain and are sorrowful, we can begin to waver in our practice of the faith. Though we may perhaps think we are secure from such problems, that these difficulties are only for the weak of faith, none of us are really so secure that we are exempt from this temptation—which we ask the Father to “lead us not into” (see Mt 6:13). It is generally true that when we are hurt by evil and suffer its cost, we can often get annoyed and cover over our hurt with defensive anger; with anger comes the possibility of growing frustrated with life and its difficulties; if the frustrated anger is chronic, we can become entrenched in resentment and bitterness; and finally, we may begin to struggle to believe in a truly good God and may even doubt his existence.

Now, it is right here, at this point of struggle, that we find a most biting existential question. When we face evil and are filled with its suffering, we are questioned, so to speak, by its presence. It says to us, “Is God still good? Even now, while I suffer?” And again: “Does a good God even exist? If he is good, how could he let this awfulness happen to me?” But how are we to handle this difficulty, a difficulty we all face, or at least will face? When our faith is tested and evil begins to rattle its very foundations, perhaps tempting us toward disbelief, how do we withstand this trial and bolster ourselves against such a temptation? In a way, the answer is simple: Christ has suffered for me and with me; Christ has conquered evil and borne the weight of my suffering. Or, in the words the beautiful paschal troparion of the Byzantines, “By death he conquered death, and to those in the grave, he granted life.”[2]

Yet, when we suffer, since we can also evidently stumble, we would be wise to secure our faith and that of others against this patent threat to the life of faith—which, ultimately considered, is the only real threat. There are numerous ways within the practice of the faith itself to fortify the individual against evil and suffering, but there is also something external to faith strictly considered that supports its integrity: its foundation in natural knowledge of (not belief in) the existence of the good God.

Properly speaking, assent to the truth of the existence of God and his goodness are not articles of faith. Though the individual believer can rely on faith to accept these truths, they are actually knowable in a purely natural way, through reflecting on the nature of the world and its creatures. Indeed, this possibility is itself something revealed, for example, when St. Paul says, “What can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. Ever since the creation of the world his invisible nature, namely, his eternal power and deity, has been clearly perceived in the things that have been made” (Rom 1:19–20; see also Ps 19:1–6). This scaffolding of natural knowledge of God supports the supernatural act of faith so that the believer’s faith is rightly substantiated and appropriately coordinated (a particular application of the dictum “grace perfects nature”[3]).

In light of this possibility, we could reflect on the Western tradition’s numerous philosophical demonstrations of the existence of God, those of Sts. Thomas, Bonaventure, and Anselm, together with many others. But for this article, allow me to take all these proofs for granted in order to look a little closer at the reality of creation itself—that is, the startling fact of being a creature created by the Creator. This is an awesome reality, and one well worth pondering at length.

Orphaned at five and trying to make sense of the world as a teenager, Charles de Foucauld lost his faith at the age of 15. Reflecting on this period of his life, he wrote, “I lived twelve years denying nothing and believing nothing, despairing of truth and not believing in God. No proof seemed evident enough.”[1] The further away he drifted from God, the more the young Charles, not yet a saint, resembled the prodigal son of Luke’s Gospel (see Lk 15:13–16).

Naturally contemplative, Charles appreciated solitude, but his conception of natural solitude uniquely “included the quiet presence of those he loved.”[2] He desired a well-ordered life, but in reality, the further away he drifted from God, the further he drifted from his family and friends. In his alienation, he experienced a profound sorrow and loneliness: “A painful emptiness, a sadness that I had never experienced before would return to me every night when I was alone in my apartment . . . I would be overcome by silence, disgust, and infinite boredom.”[3] As a young soldier and explorer, he spent several years living in Algeria and Morocco before returning to Paris in 1886 at the age of 28. Moved by Christian charity, his family welcomed him back with open arms and hearts, treating him as if he had never left for Africa or fallen into sin.

His family’s response shocked him—the witness of his family’s love toward him inspired him to live more virtuously: “I drew closer and closer to this beloved family. I lived in such an atmosphere of virtue that life returned to me, visibly.”[4] In particular, God drew Charles back to the Church through his older cousin, Marie de Bondy. Eight years older than Charles, Marie had first accompanied and formed him in the faith when he was preparing to receive his first Communion. Knowing her as an adult, Charles witnessed an intelligent, virtuous woman who loved God with all her heart. Suddenly Catholicism no longer seemed absurd and foolish to him.

Writing to Marie after his conversion, Charles remarked, “God has made you the first instrument of his mercies towards me, from you everything else began. Had you not converted me, brought me to Jesus and taught me little by little, letter by letter all that is holy and good, where would I be today?”[5] In this, Marie was a model catechist: She did not teach Charles with words but rather “by her silence, her gentleness, her goodness, her perfection.”[6] She taught him from her lived intimacy with Jesus, leading him into an equally intimate friendship with the Lord that inspired him to give his life as a religious priest and, ultimately, as a martyr in Algeria.

When we consider the Mass as a place of encounter with the Lord, we frequently jump right to receiving Communion as the most important catechetical point to highlight. Of course, our joy at receiving the Lord is always called for, but we cannot neglect the rich and valuable moments that precede this summit. Every action of the liturgy is a place of incarnate encounter with the Lord, who first entered into our world of time and material; and in a special way, we should take notice of the beginning of the Liturgy of the Eucharist, which is marked by the presentation of the gifts.

It is easy to gloss over the importance of this rite. Far too often we can find ourselves considering the preparation of the altar and the presentation of the gifts as a type of intermission in the drama of the liturgy. Yet, this rite, too, has rich and beautiful meaning and symbolism, and we would do well to approach this moment of Mass with gratitude for the gift of the Word and joyful anticipation for what has yet to happen within the liturgy.

To truly understand the offertory procession, we must consider what it is that we do during this time. It is crucial that we view the offertory as more than a material procession of goods for a utilitarian purpose. When we bring to the altar the bread and the wine, it is not merely a material gift; indeed, symbolized by this gift is the Bride of Christ, the whole People of God which is the Church. Symbolically, we give bread—made from pure wheat flour and water—and wine—made from grapes, yeast, and water—to represent all we have. The bread, made from two elements, calls us to acknowledge Christ, fully God and fully man. And the wine calls us to acknowledge the three divine persons of God. These truths, themselves a gift to man, are all we have to offer.

None of us wants to suffer. We don’t want to be diagnosed with a disease. We don’t want to experience loss.But suffering is inevitable. When it comes, what are we to do? Is it merely to be endured? What, if anything, can we learn from Jesus and his experience of suffering? What does his response to suffering mean for us, who are joined to him in baptism?

The Priesthood of Jesus

Jesus is the eternal Son of the Father. He is the divine Teacher and our model of holiness. The Letter to the Hebrews tells us that he is also a priest, our great High Priest, making of his entire life—but especially his Paschal Mystery—a sacrifice to the Father (see CCC 662; Heb 7; 9:11–15). If we are baptized into Christ and joined into union with him, then the fact that he has a priestly identity and mission means something significant for us.

In the baptismal liturgy, these words are spoken over the newly baptized person: “He [God] now anoints you with the Chrism of salvation, so that you may remain as a member of Christ, Priest, Prophet, and King, unto eternal life.”[1] The ritual text indicates that every baptized person possesses a priestly identity and mission, which centers around the offering of sacrifice. From this point on, our lives are meant to be sacrificial. At Mass, those who are priests by baptism gather around the one who is a priest by ordination, who stands in the person of Jesus, and we all as the assembled body of Christ offer the sacrifice of Jesus to the Father.

Yet, there is another offering that we priests (by baptism) make in the liturgy. While every facet of the life of the baptized person is capable of being offered to God as a gift, our suffering can also be offered to God. Let’s consider here what would be required for suffering to be experienced and turned over to the Father as a priestly offering.

I’d like to suggest that there are three steps to suffering in a way aligned with our missionary identity. Each of these movements is needed if our sufferings are to be experienced as truly ours and if we are to be conscious and present to them so that they might be given to the Father as a gift.

It was my freshman year of high school, and I was attending a youth retreat focused on the Theology of the Body. My 15-year-old self had no idea what the Theology of the Body really meant, but I had heard someone throw around the words “sex and dating,” so it intrigued me enough to attend. I was raised in the Catholic faith; my parents took us to Mass each Sunday and even taught our religious education classes. At this point in my life, I knew the faith was a priority for my family, and I believed in God, but I also had my own priorities in high school, like being popular and well-liked. But what I thought would be a fun weekend with friends to giggle about the word “sex” turned out to be a life-changing weekend.

My youth minister had invited two theology graduate students, Amber and Chris, to give the talks on the retreat. When Amber and Chris spoke about God’s plan for relationships and his desire for an intimate relationship with each of us, my heart was drawn into this beautiful concept of a personal relationship with the Lord. As they spoke about this personal God who desired an intimate relationship with us, it was as if my heart began to burn within me. I began to realize a deep desire for an intimate relationship with God. It was from this place of intimacy with the Lord that they taught us about God’s plan for intimacy in marriage and the sexual act. Chris and Amber gave examples of how God had brought real freedom into their own lives through his grace. When they spoke about these topics of sex and dating, it was not as if I was hearing an empty theological lecture. It was clear that they were speaking from a place of living this intimate relationship with the Lord.

My beautiful mother, Kathleen Pauley, died on June 4, 2025 at the age of 83. She is an extraordinary person and an intimate friend of Jesus. She lived with suffering from a very early age and was well acquainted with the Cross. In the weeks of serious illness that led up to her death, I learned many things from her about our life in Christ, lessons which have helped me see suffering and death in a way more aligned with our Christian hope.

First, some background: Kathy was a woman after the Lord’s heart. Around four decades ago, she told me of being asked by our Lord in prayer if she would suffer for souls. She gave her assent to this seemingly strange request. Days later, she slipped on a puddle of water in the produce department of the grocery store and severely injured her back. And from that day on, she experienced a series of serious physical setbacks that lasted the rest of her life. Although her suffering had begun much earlier through a very difficult and painful childhood, this choice she was given by our Lord was a pivotal moment in her life where he made a proposal of love and she freely accepted it. After decades of intentionally sharing in his Cross, the final stage of her earthly pilgrimage took place over two months as she battled a very serious blood infection in her heart. This infection caused a heart attack and several strokes, which impaired her vision by about 80%. In being a member of her family who sought to accompany her through this experience, she taught me much from her school of suffering. Here are seven lessons I learned from her.

Lesson One: Suffering That Stays

My mother understood something remarkable about God: out of love, he only infrequently chooses to take away suffering. This is counterintuitive, of course, for us humans, who see suffering as the greatest of evils—as something from which we want God to rescue us. Instead, he chooses to enter deeply and intimately into our experience of suffering, accompanying us in radical, divine solidarity. Kathy experienced the presence of God in her suffering quite profoundly; she spoke sometimes of her experience of being deeply loved by Jesus as she suffered. It seems that this confidence in his closeness allowed her to embrace reality as it confronted her. Often, of course, she didn’t feel close to him; yet, she persevered in those periods of dryness and spiritual darkness. But always he provided for her, usually in unexpected ways.

Here’s a compelling example I witnessed: In her last days, I found myself marveling at how the Lord had drawn close and was uniquely providing for the needs of his beloved daughter as she suffered. Because of the strokes she had had, she often hallucinated. Yet, most of her hallucinations were of the loveliest type. For a span of about a week, she frequently believed she was not in a hospital bed facing a dire prognosis but rather at an enormous party with all of her family and friends around her. As I sat by her bedside, she asked me time and again if people were having a good time. And at one point, she brought a rush of tears to my eyes when she told me she was so excited because my daughters and nieces were going to “put on a show” for everyone, drawing on memories of a dozen years ago when the then-toddling Pauley girls loved to put on shows for Nana and Papa with play acting and singing.

Through these experiences with her, I found myself marveling at how the Lord was taking good care of his beloved and giving her joy. For much of my time with her, she was, as they say, happy as a clam. I know this isn’t the experience of most who suffer—and it certainly wasn’t her experience through most of her own life as she struggled to embrace some difficult realities. But, for a few days during her final weeks, her experience of joy showed me God’s great tenderness and closeness to her. I was so grateful to him for this. While he rarely took away her suffering, it did bring about opportunities for intimacy and union with Jesus that were just breathtaking to behold.

To view a full resolution of this artwork on a smartboard, click here.

In every age of the Church, God raises up saintly men and women whose holiness builds up the community of the Church. These saints are living reflections of the face of Christ in the world, and their lives invite our imitation on the path of holiness aided by God’s grace. In our own time, the Church continues to raise up for our imitation saintly men and women who respond to our baptismal vocation to Christian discipleship. They remind us that the Christian life is lived out precisely within the community of the Church and the Communion of Saints.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church, quoting the Second Vatican Council’s Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, highlights our communion with the saints when it teaches that:

It is not merely by the title of example that we cherish the memory of those in heaven; we seek, rather, that by this devotion to the exercise of fraternal charity the union of the whole Church in the Spirit may be strengthened. Exactly as Christian communion among our fellow pilgrims brings us closer to Christ, so our communion with the saints joins us to Christ, from whom as from its fountain and head issues all grace, and the life of the People of God itself. (CCC 957; quoting Lumen Gentium 50; cf. Eph 4:1–6)

Each liturgical year on the fourth day of October, the Church celebrates the memorial of St. Francis of Assisi. This beloved saint embraced radical discipleship through poverty and the preaching of the Gospel to all—rich and poor, lowly and exalted. St. Francis was, and continues to be, a builder of the community of the Church through his radical witness to holiness of life and missionary discipleship. As we join the Church in celebrating his saintly life and in imitating his saintly virtues, an exquisite illuminated manuscript from the early 14th century offers a stirring visual catechesis for our contemplation.

At a regional bishop’s meeting that i recently attended, an animated dialogue took place regarding different catechetical approaches currently employed in our Catholic schools. The discussion was wide ranging, but several bishops lamented the all-too-common absence of any treatment of the “fear of the Lord.” It appears that many texts avoid all but a passing reference to it. What also became apparent is that, in numerous cases, the reason for its exclusion is that many teachers and catechists simply don’t understand it themselves! Many intentionally omit it in order to protect people, especially children, from what they judge to be a punitive focus that is out of keeping with modern religious sensibilities. The teaching is thought to be inherently Jansenist, and they fear its effect on children and catechumens. This is a tragedy, as nothing could be further from the truth.

Fear of the Lord is a critically important disposition of a person toward God. It acknowledges the infinite glory and majesty of the Supreme Being, the One Creator God who effortlessly sustains all that he has created in being. He is mysterious beyond comprehension, an all-consuming fire, at once terrible in power and fascinating beyond imagination. As the Catechism affirms, “we firmly believe and confess without reservation that there is only one true God, eternal infinite (immensus) and unchangeable, incomprehensible, almighty and ineffable, the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit; three persons indeed, but one essence, substance or nature entirely simple” (202) and one “infinitely above everything that we can understand or say” (206).

To truly grasp the immense mystery of God’s infinite splendor and grandeur is to be amazed. It is to be filled with deep religious awe. God is discovered as the numinous, omnipresent presence to which every creature owes its existence and to whom they must answer. The Catechism affirms that, when faced with God’s presence, humans discover their own insignificance and recognize God’s holiness (see 208). This is, of course, absolutely true and profoundly important. But it is also where the confusion begins.

Last spring, most of my family spent a semester at Franciscan University of Steubenville’s beautiful campus in Gaming, Austria. As an introvert, one of my worries going into the semester was getting to know a whole new group of coworkers and joining their community as an outsider. Never have I been more delighted to discover my worries were unwarranted.We were picked up at the airport by a beautiful and generous family. When we arrived to Gaming late at night, a benevolent philosophy professor insisted on bringing in our bags. There was warm pumpkin soup and tea waiting for us at the dinner table. And with a burst of joy and energy, four amazing Franciscan TOR sisters rushed into the house with hugs and words of welcome. Over the course of the next four months, the faculty and staff there became the dearest of friends. Never have I experienced friendship and community in such a concentrated way.

For most of us, our current cultural climate is one of stark isolation. With families spread out geographically more than ever, and with screens drawing us away from real human interaction, it is easy to live significantly withdrawn from good relationships. Without the cultural supports for community that previous generations enjoyed, unless we take intentional steps toward others, it’s very easy to lead a solitary and lonely life.

And yet, we human beings were made for communion with others. We know theologically that we were made for union with God (who is a communion of Trinitarian persons) and with all the baptized who are joined to him. And on a natural human level, we know that good relationships are critical to the flourishing of every human being—even if finding such authentic community can be a bewildering quest today.

Becoming a Channel of Grace in Catechesis

The OCIA class I was leading was about to enter the period of the catechumenate, and it was time for a talk on human sexuality and Christian anthropology. This talk had been looming in my mind for weeks prior, causing me no small amount of anxiety. I felt reasonably confident in my ability to communicate the Church’s teaching on these controversial topics, but it is always somewhat daunting for me to get up in front of a group of people and talk about sex, gender, and other “theology of the body” topics. As my audience was composed of adults who were seeking to become Catholic, I knew there was a good chance that many of them were still in need of conversion on these topics. They had all made some concrete step toward becoming Catholic, but nevertheless, the Church’s teaching on human sexuality can be a moment for some to walk away. In my mind, the stakes were high.

My first instinct when preparing a talk has always been to go to the Catechism or some other authoritative resource. For this particular topic, I turned to the great St. John Paul II’s Man and Woman He Created Them: A Theology of the Body. While I was well acquainted with the Church’s teaching on human sexuality, I had never actually taken the time to read John Paul II’s catecheses on these topics. I was immediately struck by how thoroughly driven by Scripture each catechesis was. While Man and Woman He Created Them is by no means light reading, to me it read like an extremely well-done Bible study. The doctrinal conclusions that John Paul II arrived at seemed almost obvious because of the way in which he used Scripture to drive his arguments. Reading through his teachings was like being led by a highly skilled guide through a treacherous mountain range. And while John Paul II was the guide, the path was laid out by God himself. Reading Theology of the Body was like being in conversation with God. It was prayerful. I was so captivated by the book that I tore through it far quicker than I ever imagined I could.