A while ago, my boys were watching a show on YouTube called Science Max. In the episode they were enjoying, they were making paper aeroplanes and then “maxing them out.” What caught my attention was that they used the design based on the paper aeroplane that holds the Guinness World Record for the longest flight.
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| Watch clip here |
The man behind that record did not simply sit down one afternoon and happen to fold the perfect plane. He had always loved folding paper aeroplanes, but then spent about ten years studying the ancient Japanese art of origami. Through that discipline, he learnt techniques he could bring back into the world of paper folding, and eventually used them to build an aeroplane capable of enduring a remarkably long flight.
What fascinated me is that even a paper aeroplane is not as simple as it looks. If it dips, the flaps need adjusting. If it leans, the balance is off. Even something so light requires precision, discipline and patience if it is going to fly well.
The same is true, of course, of a real aeroplane. Every time we board a flight, we witness something quite extraordinary: a heavy metal machine loaded with fuel, luggage and passengers somehow rises off the ground and lifts into the sky. But that does not happen without careful preparation. The pilot must consider the weight of the aircraft, the balance and trim of the plane in the air, and how to endure headwinds and turbulence along the way.
That image struck me recently as a useful way of thinking about mortification in the spiritual life.
Because if we are honest, each of us feels that gravitational pull downward. Original sin has left us with an inclination toward sin. We may desire what is good, but we also feel the weight of disordered attachments, impulses and habits that keep us earthbound. If we are going to rise in the spiritual life, we must gradually free ourselves of excess baggage. That is what mortification is.
Mortification is not about hating the body or punishing ourselves for the sake of punishment. It is about training the soul to love God more freely. It is about lightening the load so that grace can lift us.
There are many ways of speaking about mortification, but two helpful ones are exterior mortification and interior mortification.
Exterior mortification has to do with taming the body and senses by denying ourselves some lesser pleasure. To return to the aeroplane analogy, it is like the strict baggage limit before takeoff. An extra unchecked bag may not seem like much, but too much weight can destabilise the whole flight. Before we even board the aircraft, our behaviour has already been shaped by the limits placed upon us.
The same happens in the spiritual life. Exterior mortification might be something as small as taking no sugar in my coffee, leaving my phone alone for a while, saying no to a snack I do not need, or getting out of bed promptly when I would rather lie there. On the surface these seem like very little things. And they are. But when they are offered to Our Lord, they become acts of love. They train us not to be ruled by comfort.
We see a much more intense example of this in Acts chapter 5. The apostles had been arrested for preaching Christ. Gamaliel wisely advised the council to be careful not to oppose God. The council took his advice in part, but still had the apostles flogged and ordered them not to preach in the name of Jesus. Yet the apostles left rejoicing that they had been counted worthy to suffer for the name of Christ.
That is an astonishing scene. Their suffering, united to Our Lord, bore the fruit of joy.
Most of us will never be asked to endure that kind of mortification. But the principle remains the same. A very small act of self-denial, when united to Christ, can become a means of drawing closer to Him.
Interior mortification is more hidden and often more difficult. It is the subduing of the will and passions. It is about what happens inside us when anger rises, when pride is wounded, when envy stirs, when ambition takes over, or when we feel the need to react impulsively.
I saw this in a small but humbling way the other day. I was taking my boys to school and arrived at a stop street at about the same time as another car. It was unclear who had come first, but it was probably the other driver. I moved off too quickly, the lady became upset, and in that moment, I felt anger rise in me, too. It happened almost instantly. Then one of my boys said, “Daddy, are you going to pray to Jesus to say sorry for getting angry with that lady?”
Children have a way of bringing us back to earth. It was such a small moment, but it revealed something important. How often do we react before we think? How often do our passions take over before grace has a chance to speak?
That is where interior mortification begins. It is in that difficult inner work of holding back the sharp reply, resisting the need to prove ourselves right, refusing to feed resentment, and choosing meekness when the flesh wants retaliation.
Why is all of this important?
Because voluntary mortifications prepare us for involuntary ones.
When we practise small, chosen acts of mortification, we are training the soul for the crosses we did not choose: inconveniences, disappointments, misunderstandings, illnesses, delays, humiliations and sufferings that arrive uninvited. If we never train the heart in the small things, we will struggle to receive the bigger things well. But if we begin to mortify ourselves voluntarily, we become more ready to receive even involuntary crosses as something God can use for our good.
St Paul says in Galatians that the flesh wars against the spirit. We all know this battle. We may sincerely want to do good, but still feel the pull of sin in our bodies, emotions and imagination. That tension is one of the consequences of original sin.
Saint Alphonsus Liguori says that without mortification, we have no power over sin and experience little depth in prayer. That is a striking thought. But it makes sense. If my heart is full of noise, attachment, distraction and self-love, then there is less room for God.
Lent has made me reflect on this through a simple aspiration I have heard in the Hallow Pray40 reflections:
Lord, empty me, fill me, use me.
Those words are simple, but they say everything.
First, empty me. We spend so much of our lives filling the silence with noise. We reach for our phones, our entertainment, our opinions, our distractions. We avoid stillness because stillness often brings us face-to-face with ourselves. But if we are going to encounter God, we must allow Him to empty us of what clutters the soul.
Then, fill me. Once we are emptied, even a little, we become able to receive. Grace comes from outside ourselves. Like the eye needs light in order to see, so the soul needs the light of God. He fills us through prayer, the sacraments, silence, Scripture and the life of the Church.
And then, use me. If we are not emptied, we cannot be filled. If we are not filled, we cannot be used well. Mortification prepares us to become instruments of grace in the ordinary circumstances of life. It helps us become Christians not only in church, but in traffic, at work, at home, in tiredness, in inconvenience and in hidden sacrifices no one else notices.
That is where sanctity is forged.
So what might this look like practically?
It may mean choosing one small daily act of exterior mortification and persevering in it. It may mean fasting not only from food, but from noise. It may mean biting back the comment that is already on the tip of the tongue. It may mean responding with kindness when irritation feels more natural. It may mean examining our conscience honestly and asking: where am I weakest? Am I quick to anger? Am I proud? Envious? Impure? Impatient? Those are the turbulent places where mortification is needed most.
Just as a pilot prepares for headwinds and turbulence by managing the aircraft well before the storm, so we prepare for spiritual battles by reducing the weight we carry, adjusting our interior balance and learning to surrender ourselves to God in the small things.
The point of mortification is not misery. It is freedom.
It is about becoming light enough to rise above the clutches of this world. It is about loosening sin’s grip on the soul. It is about loving God with an undivided heart.
If a plane is going to fly, it cannot carry everything. Some things must be left behind.
The same is true for us.
If we want to soar toward God, we must be willing to lose the baggage.
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