The older I become, the more penance I crave. I never expected this evolution in my spiritual maturation. Schooled in a seminary that served up large helpings of stir-fry theology and sacramental soufflé, terms like fasting and penance have always sounded vaguely fascist to me. But now I eat less, go meatless on Fridays, and have chosen a less comfortable bed.
            Two years ago, with the permission of my spiritual director, I began to experiment with various forms of traditional penances. The result has been stunning. Voluntary suffering has completely transformed my spiritual mindset. The transformation is akin to some sedentary blogger doing a gig as an embedded reporter in a war zone.
            Let me explain.
            As a pastor, there are times when you sense a need to put more skin into the game. For instance, when praying a rosary for a mother with terminal cancer feels as anemic as saying “God bless you” after a sneeze. Or when a SWAT team rescues a parishioner from self-destruction, and your silent prayer of gratitude fails to match the circumstance. Or the reflex to avert your eyes—and thus dismiss—the strip-search in the prison yard prior to offering Mass at the penitentiary is scant preparation to worship the One stripped of his garments on Calvary.
              For me, refusal to embrace deprivation while claiming to serve a Messiah who gasped and bled on a cross would be like a war correspondent refusing to march with the troops. Yes, I have learned a lot from sleeping on a cot and my stomach may growl a bit more often at the altar. But the nourishment of sacramental rations has acquired a whole new flavor.