In November of 2024, I saw a woman, Becky, at the gym wearing a shirt with the inscription, “I Love This Life.” It caught my eye, and we talked briefly about her understanding of its meaning, which was how important she felt it was to love family, explore our varied world, interact with people, and learn from the experiences.
I replied that it reminded me of John 12:25.
Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.
She looked puzzled, and we cordially ended the conversation. But I began thinking more deeply about the scriptural message, beyond the more obvious one, that we should not become enamored of the trappings of this world, as it inevitably leads to a disordered alignment of our love of the Lord. The teaching of St. Francis of Assisi promptly came to mind: “The essence of sin is disordered love.”
That led to an examination of the original Greek, noting that “life” in Greek, which is ψυχή (psyche), can also be translated “breath,” and by extension, “soul.” This understanding of the soul recalls the Hebrew tradition, specifically the second account of Creation in the book of Genesis, in which God breathes into clay, and it becomes a living person. In that regard, when we are baptized, it is through the grace of the Holy Spirit, which animates our souls. That revealed a far deeper level of meaning, one that brings a more profound understanding of what is truly at stake, which, in turn, leads us to Matthew 16:26:
What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul?
The full import of the revelation then became apparent. Clearly, Jesus is not suggesting that we hate our life or our soul. In fact, it is the precise opposite, but we must thread the needle of his message meticulously to realize what he is telling us. It is far more profound than a process of rank ordering the temporal world relative to God. What the Lord wants most is a mortification of the flesh, a self-abnegation, the drinking of the cup, walking with Him to the Cross, which burns off the dross—the impurities—and the stain of original sin from the soul. In that vein, we are prayerfully asserting our sacred relationship with Jesus, which is, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). That hermetically seals the world’s ephemeral enticements from our living, breathing soul.
When we cross the threshold from the temporal to the spiritual realm, which is poignantly described by St. Teresa of Avila in the Seventh Mansion (The Interior Castle), we are stunned to realize that,
I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. (Galatians 2:20)
All of this takes spiritual courage and a deep reservoir of faith to sustain us on our earthly pilgrimage, for we are “mourning and weeping in this valley of tears” (Hail, Holy Queen). Sacrifice and mortification are pleasing only in the abstract, when we contemplate them, when we imagine ourselves taking the first step, not when we are experiencing Shakespeare’s ‘whips and scorns’ of their initial effects on every aspect of our lives. That we realize the spiritual rewards belatedly and on a timetable not of our own making creates a vexing inhibition to embrace them.
The little crosses we must bear range from minor inconveniences to the truly devastating. In his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl (1905-1997), the Austrian philosopher, psychiatrist, and Holocaust survivor, observed that those who had the greatest chance to survive the horrors of Auschwitz were those who could find meaning in their suffering. As Frankl pithily wrote: “The person who has a ‘why’ to live for can bear with almost any ‘how’.”
Because suffering in the secular world has no value or meaning, it is deemed to be a kind of curse. While Catholics do not solicit suffering, our experience of it is categorically different. In 2 Corinthians 4:8-12, St. Paul tells us:
In all things we suffer tribulation: but are not distressed. We are straitened: but are not destitute. We suffer persecution: but are not forsaken. We are cast down: but we perish not. Always bearing about in our body the mortification of Jesus, that the life also of Jesus may be made manifest in our bodies. For we who live are always delivered unto death for Jesus’ sake: that the life also of Jesus may be made manifest in our mortal flesh. So then death worketh in us: but life in you.
We begin to realize what we are called to do, which is to forfeit all that we believe matters, and that one day, when we least expect it, as Luke tells us…
This very night, your life will be demanded from you. (12:20)
That is ultimate forfeiture, for as we know, there is no other road to heaven. But faith assures us that the reward is priceless, beyond anything we can imagine. Now we fully understand that “we must go through many hardships to enter the kingdom of God.” (Acts 14:22)
Philip E. Mella