Lent begins with a promise that sounds almost dangerous to repeat out loud when you have spent months watching Rome reward novelty and punish reverence.
“He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will deliver him and glorify him; with length of days I will gratify him.”
That is the Introit. A vow from God, spoken without the synodal “discernment process” that never seems to reach a conclusion unless the conclusion happens to be fashionable.
“You who dwell in the shelter of the Most High, shall abide in the shadow of the Almighty.”
The shadow is the shadow of God Himself. The Church’s crisis has trained a lot of traditional Catholics to live by the rhythm of headlines: a new appointment, a new restriction, a new scandal, a new silence from the professional “defenders of Tradition” who always seem to find reasons to caution everyone else while they keep their access and their invitations.
Psalm 90 (91) offers a different address. It speaks to souls who have learned what it feels like to be treated as a a nuisance to be managed. It speaks to souls tempted to think that fidelity has become a kind of devotional archaeology.
Under His wings, the psalm says, refuge still exists. Faithfulness still functions as “a buckler and a shield.” In other words: protection is real, even when it fails to look like the protection you wanted.
This is where Lent starts. With shelter. With wings. With the quiet insistence that God has not surrendered His people to the demons of the age.
Continue reading at Hiraeth In Exile