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Today's Readings
Lord Jesus,
Why did you decide to begin your public ministry by going through the desert? I fear the desert. I'm afraid of its barrenness and its bareness. I'm scared of going hungry there.
Something about going hungry brings out the worst in people, doesn't it? If it doesn't kill you, the deprivation--whether self-imposed or not--can make us irritable or resentful. I'm afraid that if I go hungry and stay hungry, I may not like the "me" that I see. What was your point in going to the desert--not to mention staying there for 40 days and 40 nights--anyway?
When you made your desert retreat just before your baptism, you met the Devil and were tempted by him. I suspect that if I venture to the desert, the devil I find will be the devil in me. But I'm not sure I'm in the mood to do that now! There are so many tasks to perform and so many deadlines to beat! The last thing I need is to see the face of the devil within. It will not be a pleasant experience; it can be painful and quite threatening, based on my past encounters with him.
But today, the First Sunday of Lent, I can sense that this is exactly what you are extending to me--an invitation to the desert. The baptism you desire to give me is neither a baptism of water, but a baptism of sun and sand. This baptism will burn me and may leave me scarred, but when I think about it, that was probably your reason for going through the desert on your way to the River Jordan.
Lord, grant me the courage to venture into my desert--and to stay there this Lenten season. Perhaps only in meeting myself and my demons in the desert can I meet you.
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Today's Readings
Dear God,
Sorry for saying this, but what Abraham went through wasn't exactly cool. For decades he and his wife Sarah waited for you to give them a son. Finally, when Abraham was 100 years old (!), you gave Isaac to them. But then after they raised their son and loved him, what did you decide one day? You decided to put Abraham to this test; you asked him to give Isaac up by himself sacrificing his son on the mountain. You knew how tough this was because when you made your request, you referred to Isaac as Abraham's "only son, whom (he) loves." Talk about rubbing it in.
Now, I know the name "Isaac" literally means "he will laugh," but this request was no laughing matter. Just imagine what Abraham must have been thinking as he left Sarah that morning--she probably still sleeping and he knowing fully well that he would have a lot of (useless) explaining to do upon his return alone. Imagine what he must have been feeling as he walked with his son to the mountain, his only son turning to him to ask why they had only wood but no sheep or goat for the sacrifice. It must have been the longest walk of his life.
I can't help but think of similarly long walks in my life when I was about to give up something that I really wanted or felt I really needed. There have been many moments in my life when I felt I was asked to let go: There have been times when I had to make the decision to walk away voluntarily--when it made sense to do so or I felt you were asking me to do so. But I also remember the instances when I didn't have too much of a choice--when things weren't up to me and lay beyond my control, and all I was being asked to do was to accept my loss and simply to come to terms with it. Both haven't been easy, and both have taken time.
But thank you, God, for happy endings. Thank you for coming to Abraham's rescue, for sending your angel at the last minute to stop what would have been a terrible, heart-breaking sacrifice. If you hadn't done that, Abraham would have been changed--and perhaps broken--forever.
But just as importantly, the way I look at you would have changed too. Thankfully, you're not the kind of God who seriously orders us to kill what and whom we love. That's not the kind of tests that you design and put us through. I know that sometimes it looks and feels that way, but what matters to you is not that we follow your orders to make big sacrifices because you issue no such orders. You value our freedom too much, so what you desire is that we ourselves, using our freedom, make our own decision about what to give up and give back to you. And once we've made our decision, you respect it and usually don't come to the rescue.
Of course what all this really tells me about you, what it truly reveals about the kind of God that you are has to do with the fact that what you spared Abraham from doing to his own son, you did not for yourself: While you came to his rescue and prevented him from sacrificing his only and beloved son, you gave up your own--for the sake of the rest of us who don't deserve to be called your children. That shows us the kind of Father you are to all of us.
This Lent I'd like to examine my life and ask myself the obvious question: "Is there anything that you may be asking me to give up and give back to you?" I'm not just talking about meat or texting or Internet surfing--none of those innocuous sacrifices that, if for nothing else, heighten our anticipation of Easter Sunday, when we can finally--and gloriously!--break our fasts. I'm talking about the Isaac's in my life--things and persons I hold dear, too dear, so dear that for some reason, they get in your way and keep me from you.
Who and what then are my Isaac's? Could you by any chance be asking me to sacrifice them this Lent at your altar, to give them up and to give them back to you?
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(image: Caravaggio's "Sacrifice of isaac")
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Today's Readings
Dear Jesus,
Is my heart a temple or a marketplace?
This morning I read about the Cleansing of the Temple, and I can't help but feel disturbed. Did you really have to get that upset about what you saw in the temple? It's a little bit frightening to see you like this--driving out people, whip in hand. This expression of anger is a far cry from your usual gentle and patient self, an image we all prefer for obvious reasons.
I think that today's gospel passage invites me to examine my own heart, to ask myself whether my heart still remains the temple that you have always intended it to be, or whether it has, for whatever reason, deteriorated into a marketplace.
Even without trying too hard, I suspect--no, I know--that my heart unfortunately resembles the cluttered and noisy marketplace that you walked into in today's gospel much more than a true house of prayer. These past days I've been running around like a headless chicken, performing tasks, meeting deadlines, rushing from one appointment to another... My days have been too cluttered and noisy. It feels like there's this chaotic mob of vendors and money changers milling inside my heart, elbowing one another for room and competing for my attention.
Lord, should you, by any chance, walk into my heart today, I think I would dread the look on your face. I wonder: Would you also reach for a cord and make a whip of it? Would you also overturn my tables and spill their coins? Would you drive us all away--all the different roles I play in my life and work--and throw out all the paraphernalia that accompany them?
Dearest Lord, beneath all the clutter and the noise in my heart, I know: That's exactly what I need. So here I am. Here is my heart! This moment in prayer, I fling its gates wide open to let you in! Wait no more! Enter my heart--and more than that, come charging in! Drive out the vendors and money-changers in me! Toss out all my wares and merchandise! Scatter the stacks of loose change I've been counting so painstakingly! Overturn every table, and rearrange every piece of furniture you find in my life!
That's exactly what I need, Lord! And right here, right now, it's also exactly what I want. For I know that's what it'll cost for my heart to be cleansed and un-cluttered again. It's what I must do for your temple to rise within me again. And it's what it'll take for you to enter my heart and to stay there always again, with me.
Amen.
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(image: Bernardino Mei's "Christ Cleansing the Temple")
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Today's Readings
Dearest Lord,
In today's Gospel, you compared yourself to the bronze serpent that Moses lifted in the desert: The Israelites had found themselves in a desert teeming with serpents and were dying from their venomous bites. But whoever looked upon the bronze serpent that you asked Moses to raise on a pole were miraculously healed.
We too walk in a desert crawling with serpents. This world we live in can be quite a hostile and dangerous place: Things go wrong. Things fall apart. People get hurt. People harm others. Hearts get broken, and dreams shattered. We lose people we love--sometimes forever, for good, never seeing them again.
What's worse, Lord, is that even this world inside me--my own heart--swarms with serpents too. Where does it come from--this venom in my heart? What is its origin--this dark power within that I know can blur my vision and possess me? These inner serpents frighten me more than those outside because sometimes when I'm thoughtless and prayer-less, I unwittingly identify with them, reduce myself to them, and lose sight of you dwelling in me.
We don't always realize it, but we live a frighteningly dangerous life where in our own hands we find the power that can mean heaven or hell: Every decision I make, every word I utter, action I take, even thought that I entertain can lead me closer to you or kill my heart with the slow, secret poison of serpents.
Where are you, Lord? Let me turn my eyes towards your Calvary now. Let me keep them fixed on you hanging on your cross as the Israelites did on the serpent that Moses raised in the desert. I know the serpents are here to stay, but only your love as expressed on the cross will heal me from their poison, and only the sight of you against the sun will tame the serpents in my desert. Amen.
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(image: Margaret Thompson's Moses and the Brazen Serpent)
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