In a land called Uz, there was this guy called Job, and Job dealt with a crap-ton of crap. All the living things around him (his camels, his crops, his daughters …) started to die. And all the things around him that most certainly shouldn't have been alive started to fester and curdle (i.e. – the boils on his feet). Satan literally smote him. But somehow, after all that smiting, Job did not curse the Lord.
I hope I am not making a gross generalization when I say that most of us have never been smote before. But most of us have, however, cursed the Lord. In fact, I did just that on Sunday. My power went out, spoiling all the deli meat in my fridge, and I shook a fist in the air and stared angrily at the impending rain clouds.
I have never been dragged into the wasteland, deprived of food and tempted by the Adversary. I have, however, given in to my temptations when a friend offered me a slice of Martin’s tiramisu cake. I broke my Lenten promise just 15 days in.
The thing about the Roman Catholic Lent is that it's relatively easy. There is (hopefully) no smiting involved. Satan does not send down evil spirits to kill our camels and crops, or whatever the modern equivalent for a Midwestern Catholic may be (Honda minivans and well-manicured lawns?). But still, we find ourselves breaking our commitments and relishing in our own self-pity. Unlike Job, we cannot resist the urge to blame God for our misfortunes. And unlike Christ, we give into our compulsions as soon as they bubble up inside of us.
Compared to Ramadan, our fasting period is a walk in the park. We carve out a measly 40 days to promise not to eat sweets, or to pledge we're going to pray more. The most hardcore Papists take on even more radical tests of faith—deleting Tiktok, taking up daily mass or cutting out alcohol.
But even so, when it comes to a Midwestern Catholic's Lent, there are relatively low stakes. Even at Notre Dame—arguably the most Catholic university in the world—no one really holds you to your Lenten oath. No one really pays attention if you skip out on your morning coffee like you vowed you would.
Fridays in Lent are anybody's game. To mark this day of atonement—when our Lord and Savior endured the most gruesome of physical tortures for our sins—we Catholics pull up to our local Culver's and take it upon ourselves to stuff our faces full of deep-fried cod. What a sacrifice! What a display of our utter devotion to our God!
When a great wind knocked over the four corners of his son's house, killing everyone inside, Job began to praise the Almighty One. Even when Job's three BFFs (Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar) were like—"Dude, it's okay. You can curse God. Your life sucks and you should probably just die or confess."—Job refused to sin with his lips.
When a great wind knocked over the Irish Flats power lines, ruining my oven-roasted turkey in my fridge, you bet your bottom dollar I cursed the universe for being so unfair. My three BFFs didn't even have to persuade me—I volunteered. I cried out, "Woe is me!" as I lounged on my couch and ordered Grubhub off my phone.
In an age of instant gratification, living in a first-world country and attending a top-rate university, we Midwestern Catholics have very little to curse God about. But somehow, we find a way. For roughly 2100 lines of poetry, Job's remaining family members pleaded with him, trying to get him to confess or turn away from God. But Job is steadfast. And he had a crap-ton more to curse God about than we do.
If we can learn anything from Job's hounded loyalty, it's that we have sort of a sweet setup. Out of all the times to be alive—splattered against the backdrop of millions of generations of humanity—we have won the cosmic jackpot.
Lent is a dedicated period to challenge ourselves, both physically and spiritually. Whether or not you're Catholic, or even religious, sometimes depriving yourself of something is an essential element for growth. In our day and age, when extravagance is not only easily accessible, but expected, going a mere few hours without being pampered may feel like torture. I spent the short period without power hunkered down like a Medieval poet, furiously taking notes in the candlelight. Most days, I live better than ancient Persian kings. I have come to demand a life of lavishness. I have warm clothes to wear, hot showers to take and good food to eat.
Stripping ourselves of a vice or a luxury teaches us to have discipline over our bodily desires, to control our impulses. If we had but one ounce of Job's discipline, we'd spend a lot less time angry at the world for our minor inconveniences, and a lot more time appreciating the gifts we've been bestowed, up in our ivory towers. As Lent nears its end, I want to take the remainder of these days to stick to my covenant, even if I've done a pretty subpar job of it thus far.
Gracie Eppler is a senior business analytics and English major from St. Louis, MO. Her three top three things ever to exist are '70’s music, Nutella and Smith Studio 3, where she can be found dancing. You can reach her at geppler@nd.edu.
