The Fall

Tuesday night, I sat for an hour before the Blessed Sacrament. The church was lit with the golden glow of the setting sun filtering through the stained glass. Inside the sanctuary, the flicker of candles, the fragrance of peonies, and the hush of breathless prayer. Adoration has a way of softening time—of stretching the moment until it becomes eternal. I sat still, not asking, not reaching, only gazing. Only being gazed upon.

Then came the Mass.

I knelt at the rail for communion, heart open from that long hour of intimacy. I struck out my tongue, as I’ve done so many times, ready to receive what is most holy. But the host didn’t hold.

It slipped.

It fell.

The gasp in my chest was louder than the sound it made on the marble floor.

In the space of that fall, I felt the sting of shame—ancient, instinctual. A rupture. A failure in the act of receiving. But the priest, without pause, stooped down. He retrieved the Body of Christ. And, with tenderness, he placed it once more on my tongue.

The host had fallen. And it was not discarded.

It was returned, sanctified.

I couldn’t hold back the tears.

Because in that moment, I saw myself. And I saw all of us.

This is the human condition, isn’t it? To fall. To miss the mark. To fumble even the holiest things.

I’ve fallen, too, in the analytical chair. I've watched my own interventions land too soon, or too sharply, or not at all. I’ve rushed when I should have paused. I’ve been distracted when presence was needed. I’ve misread the symbol, missed the grief, or failed to hold the unbearable truth a moment longer. And I have wept afterward, knowing that the sacred was entrusted to me—and that I faltered.

But it’s not only in the therapy room. I’ve made mistakes in the garden, too—over-pruned, over-watered, planted too early. Or too late. Still, the earth, like grace, is forgiving. Life finds its way back. Even when we stumble. Even when the first fruits fall before they ripen. Even when the weeping bed will not yield to wildflowers. No matter how many seeds I sow.

And what relationship hasn’t known this? The misspoken word. The wound we didn’t mean to inflict. The failure to see the other clearly. The inability to stay when it mattered most. Love, too, falls. And we grieve.

But again and again, I am shown this: what has fallen need not be lost.

We are a broken world—fractured by war, disconnection, loneliness, indifference. We are a people of broken hearts—some numbed, some wide open and raw. We keep trying to build a life, a meaning, a connection—and we keep fumbling the sacrament of it.

And yet.

The host falls. And is lifted.

The silence breaks. And heals.

The seed dies. And is reborn.

In Jungian language, we might say that the fall is archetypal—it is the moment when ego cracks, when the illusion of control is pierced, and something larger has the chance to enter. Marie-Louise von Franz reminds us that perfection is the enemy of the soul. It is through the broken places that the light seeps in. It is through the fall that transformation begins. Oh, happy fault.

I’m learning not to fear the fall. Not at worship. Not in the chair. Not in the garden. Not in love.

The sacred does not cling to cleanliness. It touches the earth. It enters our dust and does not recoil. It stoops to lift what has fallen and returns it—consecrated—to the altar of the heart.

It’s not our perfection that saves us. It’s mercy.

It’s not the flawless ritual that brings healing, but the broken one made whole by grace.

So if you’ve dropped something precious—if you’ve missed your moment, hurt someone you love, or said the wrong thing at the wrong time—don’t despair.

What falls is not forsaken.

Sometimes, it is in the fall that the sacred reveals itself. That mercy stoops down. That something deeper takes hold. And if we are willing—if we can kneel still—we might receive it anew.

We might even learn to bless what’s broken.

Because the mystery of love is this: it gathers the fragments.

The mystery of the Eucharist is this: it is given, and given again.

The mystery of our lives is this: we fall, and are lifted. And in that lifting, we are not just forgiven—we are transformed.

What falls… is sanctified.