Last week, I took a loved one for a procedure at Johns Hopkins Hospital. The night before when I looked at the hospital website, I saw there would be a Mass at noon in the hospital’s interfaith chapel. I didn’t think I would still be there then, but I made note of it, just in case.
As the morning progressed, I realized things were moving more slowly than I expected. Just after 11:30 a.m., as the procedure started, suddenly that noon Mass was just what I needed.
So, I headed to the chapel.
Walking into the space, though, I wasn’t even sure I was in the right spot. The room was empty. There was a table at the front of the room, but it was covered with books and other objects. I was looking around, wondering whether the Mass would be offered in a different space, when a man passed me pushing a rolling cart.
He greeted me briefly, and as he moved to the front of the room, I realized he was the priest, bringing everything he needed for Mass.
He swiftly cleared the table, wiped it carefully clean on all sides, and then pulled out a purple cloth. As he unfolded it and flipped it across the front, suddenly the space became a chapel. He placed each item carefully on the altar, pulled a podium I hadn’t even noticed out from a corner of the room, and the room was set. We were ready for our Eucharistic celebration.
The Mass was quiet and beautiful, with congregants slipping in just as it started. Most of them seemed to be hospital employees who knew one another. Everyone was friendly, and people stepped forward to lector as needed.
I was so full of gratitude—for the space, for the people, for the priest, and for the opportunity to pray with them.
Later in the day, before we left the hospital, I had a moment to slip back into that space for a final prayer. The chapel had returned to the stark simplicity I had discovered when I entered the first time. But this time I knew what transformation was possible. And I found myself thinking about what a beautiful reminder it was of how we find ourselves on our Lenten journey.
We might feel we are struggling, unprepared, or even stripped bare. We might feel that we have not done enough to welcome God into our lives fully. We continue to fail—often the same sins over and over and over—and we fall short time after time.
But I think of that priest, arriving with a simple cart of supplies. With a little care, intentional choices, and a few minutes of his time, he transformed that bare space into a place where we could welcome Jesus—body and blood and divinity—in person. And we became transformed too, in ways we might not even realized, as we carried the Eucharist out of the chapel and into the world. But it started in that space.
God can transform any spot into sacred ground—and he can transform us, too. He can take us at our weakest and barest and worst and bring about miracles. He can turn darkness to light, despair to hope, pain to healing, sorry to joy. And he can work miracles in our hearts, even when we are struggling—and maybe even more deeply when we are at our most vulnerable.
We might not feel ready. We might feel confused or helpless or lost or unworthy. But we might not be as far from holiness as we realize. God is ready to bridge that gap—no matter how deep, no matter how wide. We might not feel ready, but he is. How can we welcome him into our hearts today? What a wonderful encounter he might have in store.
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