This one is personal, and complex. Please note that everything expressed in this post is my perspective as a person and not a representation of the views of anyone else within the Archdiocese of Dubuque.
Now that I am a few months into my role as Director of Leadership Formation, I have had the privilege of being with many different people throughout our Archdiocese, and my travels will continue. As you might expect in any new role, my primary objective right now is to listen and learn—to be with people who are thinking, feeling, grieving, hoping, questioning, and praying in many different ways about the Journey in Faith we are on together.
As with any large-scale and deeply personal change, I have encountered the extremes: excitement, hope, and gratitude, as well as confusion, frustration, anger, and deep despair. In some way, each of us is moving through a process of grief. Even—and perhaps especially—those who are leading these efforts.
No one wanted to be here. No one wanted to make these impossible decisions or ask the people of our Archdiocese to make this level of sacrifice.
I have witnessed the hopeless tears of people losing the Church building that holds the memories and history of generations of their family. I have felt the palpable anger of people who do not understand or believe in the decisions that have been made, for a myriad of reasons.
Experiencing these stories and witnessing this pain is gutting.
In my prayer time, I am lifting these hurting people by name. And I am lifting up the priests, leaders, and our Archbishop right alongside them, because this is deeply painful for every person on this Journey in Faith.
You may not see it, because good leaders do not burden the people they lead with their own experience. They do the hard work of processing on their knees, often behind closed doors, so they can continue moving forward. They absorb the painful arrows being directed at them each and every day so they can keep showing up for the people they are called to serve.
What has surprised me most—and, honestly, moved me most—is seeing how our Archbishop, our priests, and our leaders continue to love us in the midst of our hurt, our anger, and sometimes even our hurtful actions.
I was a little fearful of being on the “inside.” Now, I am grateful. Because I see the truth. I see very holy men and women working hard every day to be the hands and feet of Jesus. I see courage. And I think about Moses.
Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt in faith, even when he did not feel equipped. He leaned on God when, over and over again, the people wanted to turn back. They longed for the comfort of what they knew, even when what they knew was not the life God was calling them into.
When I read Exodus, where we are right now feels deeply familiar. So many of us are fighting for what was because we cannot yet accept what has come to be—especially when so much of it is outside our control. So many of us are longing for the comfort of what was, even when what was may not have been everything God was calling us to become.
Maybe this is the invitation before us now: not simply to preserve what we have known, but to become something more: A real community. A people who participate. A people who sacrifice for one another. A people who depend upon one another. A people who love one another. A people whose faith is alive.
We live in a world that tells us, almost by default, not to trust people—especially when we do not fully understand what is happening or when we are being asked to sacrifice something personally meaningful. But this is not the way of Jesus.
God calls us, especially in times of deep suffering, uncertainty, and instability, to look to Him and lean into one another. Jesus showed us what this looks like in the Garden of Gethsemane. He did not pretend that it was easy. He pleaded with God for another way. He experienced anguish. He expressed His desire for the cup to pass from Him.
And then He surrendered. “Not my will, but yours be done.” That is not weakness. That is faith. That is trust. That is what it looks like when we allow the divine part of us to speak louder than our very human desire for comfort, control, or certainty.
For those who do not want to “give up,” please hear me: that is not what I am asking. I am asking you to pray. Really pray. To move beyond our first, very human response and listen for God’s voice. To unlock ourselves from the place where we are stuck and ask a different question:
What does God need from me right now?
Not, What do I want?
Not, What do I think should happen?
Not, How do I get back what I have lost?
But, What is God calling me into?
And just as importantly: What does our Church need from me right now?
We need every heart considering the long-term future of the Church—not only what we are losing today. If we can get there, I have faith that we will begin to see something new. Something different. Something we could not see while we were only looking backward.
There are many people being called to sacrifice a lot right now. Seemingly impossible things. For some, this feels like a death. Everything that has been will be no more. I honor that.
I do not want to rush people through their grief or tell them that what they are losing should not matter. It does matter. The memories matter. The people matter. The places matter. The history matters. And yet, we are being asked to walk in faith toward a future that is not fully understood or visible to us yet.
I think about the Israelites who followed Moses out of Egypt. Some of the elders who made that journey never lived to see the Promised Land. What an incredible sacrifice they made for future generations. Some of us will never have the opportunity to sit under the shade of the trees we are being called to plant.
And then I think about Moses. He led the people out. He endured the hardship, the complaining, the uncertainty, the conflict, and the suffering. And he never entered the Promised Land either. Again, I am in awe of that level of sacrifice. And I am reminded of our Archbishop and so many priests who are later in their vocations. They may not be the ones who see every fruit of what they are being called to lead today.
But isn’t that part of the call for all of us? To plant trees whose shade we may never enjoy. To build something for people we may never meet. To sacrifice for generations we may never know.
This is what they have been called to. I am inspired by their courage. I am grateful for their real and rooted love for us—to face the sometimes terrible task of leading us through this, even when it is painful for them, too.
Within all of it, I feel and see God strengthening us. I see glimpses of what will be:
A Church and a people more alive than we have seen or known in our lifetime.
People living out the mature spirituality Jesus modeled for us.
People who know that faith is not simply about receiving, but about participating.
People who understand that we need one another.
People who are willing to sacrifice for one another.
People who are bringing unity into a world that desperately needs it.
This fire is not consuming us. It is refining us.
We are being called to look inward and upward. To examine our own hearts. To lean more deeply into prayer, into the Living Word, and into one another. At a level we have not before.
When we do that, I believe we will see the fruit. It may not be the fruit we wanted. It may not be the fruit we expected. It may not even look like the future we imagined. It will be more than we could have imagined. Because that is what God does. That is who He is.
This is our moment to show Him that we believe. Not by pretending this isn’t painful. Not by denying what we have lost. Not by demanding certainty before we take the next step. By choosing faith. Choosing trust. Choosing one another.
Ultimately, living out, “Thy will be done.”
