Stop and let the love happen

Recently while visiting with my family in Atlanta, I surprised my grandson, Emerson, by my arrival. He had just finished his breakfast and was in his mother’s arms getting ready to play. He reached for me (you know how my heart melted over that!) and I took him joyfully into my arms, preparing to sit on the floor for his favorite activity – reading a book.

When I received him into my arms, however, he put his head down on my shoulder and got very still. I waited, then realized he was loving me with his whole body. I had been prepared to get right to what we were going to do together, but Emerson had a different plan: he wanted to stop and let love happen first. I surrendered and we stayed in that embrace for a very, very long time.

This lesson from Emerson is one I have to learn over and over again: stop and let the love happen. Like so many in our culture, I am generally oriented toward getting things done. Our internal chronometers compel us to keep moving, keep accomplishing, mindful of the schedule for the day.

The first person to introduce me to this lesson was my Transition Minister from my home diocese of< Georgia. Born in Selma, AL, and a friend of my husband’s family, The Rev. Bob Carter was a slow (and I mean slow) talking Southerner. I was in the process of ordination at the time, so Bob would call me often. When I’d hear his melodic address: “Vaaalllori, this is Booobb Caaaahtuh” my internal chronometer would shut off and I’d stop what I was doing ready to listen for as long as it took. Bob was a loving man, a wise counselor, an experienced priest, and a valued friend. It was always worth attending fully to what he had to say – for as long as it took him to say it.

Relationships deepen when we stop to listen or to let love happen. Sometimes the most important thing we can do is let go of our schedule for the day and notice who or what is seeking our full, loving attention. It may be a hug from a precious baby, or a call from a slow-talking friend. It may be a bird whose song compels us to join it in creation, or a memory of a loved-one that draws us into prayer and remembrance.

There is nothing we can accomplish on our calendars that has more eternal significance than stopping to let love happen, it all its many forms. As we move into the many tasks calling for our attention, I pray we remember to stop and let the love happen and our relationships deepen.

A holy, transforming Advent

“Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” (Mt 24:42)

The familiar Advent theme of keeping awake derives from apocalyptic literature about the end of times – a common fear among humans found in most cultures throughout history. For Christians, however, the feared judgment has already happened -- and it was redemption. God chose to come among us as Jesus, the Christ, who is always coming, always redeeming.

This is the Good News we share: that there is no longer anything to fear about our personal deaths or the end of the world as we know it, so we can turn our attention instead to living this apocalyptic truth from Jesus: “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” (Jn 10;10)

God knows, our humanity guarantees that there will be times we’re proceeding through life as if in a slumber. A common example is when we eat a meal with friends only to discover that the food on our plates is gone and we hardly remember eating it. Also, sometimes when we drive, we suddenly “wake up” and realize we’re much farther along in our trip than we’d realized.

These are natural occurrences and are a testament to how elegantly designed we are by God. There is a biologic state in between waking and sleeping called the hypnogagic state which scientists are just now beginning to study more closely. “Hynogogia tends to be experienced as if we were passive observers.” (Source) Jesus goes right to this in his call for us to wake up.

The problem is not, then, that we fall into this slumber, but when we get stuck in it. When we can’t or won’t “wake up” out of fear or a sense of powerlessness or worthlessness. When that happens, it points to a rift in our relationship with our Creator and we risk going through the motions of our lives as passive observers rather than as active, beloved participants with the Divine..

Advent calls us to wake up fully, to breathe in deeply, to re-orient ourselves and shake off the slumber so that we can get going again. We have been invited to participate with God in the work of redemption; chosen as partners, just as Mary and Joseph were two millennia ago.

Doing so takes preparation – intentional, prayerful, continuing preparation. That is the purpose and the goal of the season of Advent. Advent gives us the opportunity to quiet the chaos of the season as the culture experiences it and make space in our souls and our lives for God, so that the amazing event we await – the coming of the Christ - has the opportunity to have its transforming effect on us. We do this by making time for quiet reflection and prayer; allowing ourselves to enter the peace, touch the mystery, and be in the Presence of God.

God bless us all as we practice a holy, transforming Advent.

Collective healing blessing

For all of us triggered by the news of late, especially the Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, I offer this opportunity for healing/grounding. Tomorrow afternoon at 3:00 p.m. (EST), let us all gather together in prayer, grounding ourselves to our Mother Earth who heals us body and soul as the lap of Divine Love. Share a selfie of your grounding moment and let the earthly roots of Divine Love be the pathways of our collective healing and blessing. If you can’t get outside, hold salt in your hands (salt of the earth). As we re-ground, I offer this blessing we can pray over ourselves and each other.

Touching forehead:
In blessing our foreheads… we claim the power of reason.

In blessing our eyes… we claim the power of vision, to see clearly the forces of life and death in our midst.

In blessing our lips… we claim the power to speak the truth about our experiences; we claim the power to name.

In blessing our hands… we claim our powers as artisans of a new humanity.

In blessing our wombs… we claim the power to give birth, as well as the power to choose not to give birth.

In blessing our feet… we claim the power to walk the paths of our courageous foremothers, and when necessary, to forge new paths.

In blessing each other… we claim the power that rests collectively in our shared struggle as women.

Now placing palms or feet (if bending down isn’t an option) fully on the earth, say:

We bless the earth in all its fruitfulness. In so doing we claim the power of life that rests in the earth. In touching the soil, let us feel the energy of all who struggle this day to rise from their oppression… Let us claim the collective power that is ours!

Adapted from Rosemary Radford Ruether’s Self-Blessing Ritual, “Women Church,” 171.

Risky freedom

Good morning, friends. Just a few thoughts from my morning meditation to share...

As individuals and as a Christian community we are called to live being guided by the Spirit of God. This is true freedom, and it’s risky, because it means letting go of all the safety and certainty the law and the world seem to provide and steadfastly refusing to be divided again by gender, race, class, sexual orientation or any other worldly and ‘lawful’ distinction.

Living a life of faith means trusting that Almighty God, who is always faithful, can and will act to redeem and restore “shalom” the way things ought to be. It means working to learn how to hear God who is still speaking to us; not only in our hearts, minds, and bodies, but also in and through our varied and diverse communities.

Living in the freedom of our faith requires that we remember how we all came to have salvation. We are saved because God acted to save us, and God acted to save us because God loves us. Our salvation is a gift freely given by our loving Lord, Jesus Christ. The only thing we can actually do is respond to that gift in faith and humble gratitude, living the life of freedom we were given and opening the way for all people to do the same.

While it can be tempting to spend our lives chasing after spiritual law-breakers,” that isn’t our purpose. We aren’t called to judge. We’re called to manifest the love of God in the world. As Mother Theresa of Calcutta once said, “When you know how much God is in love with you then you can only live your life radiating that love.”

Radiate some love. It’s transforming.

Shalom. Valori+

Meditation for Ash Wednesday, 2017

The following is a poem I wrote in 2015. I was reminded of it in prayer as I began this holy (and my favorite season) of Lent. May you be blessed.

Love is a rock

Sometimes love is a rock
cut and clear
with a rough crown –
there should always be a rough crown.

Formed of the earth
infused with divine breath,
found by accident
and molded with the skill
of the artist,
this love is a rock
cut and clear
with a rough crown.

It waits for the one who is
alive and dead
to come and connect.
And when she arrives
the artist recognizes her
and offers her
the love
which is a rock
cut and clear
with a rough crown.

By: Valori M Sherer
03/05/2015

The grace of obedience

I’m grateful for the story of the disobedience of Adam and Eve in the Book of Genesis. Like them, I often succumb to disobedience by attending to my own voice or the voice of a tempter, shutting out the voice of God who, as Isaiah says, calls to me, saying: “Incline your ear, and come to me; listen, so that you may live.” (Is 55:3)

Raised Roman Catholic, I went to Catholic school for 8 years, during which time, and by the example of my nuns and mentors, I built a strong spiritual muscle for obedience. I’m not talking about the systematic dismantling of free will or coerced compliance with church doctrine. I’m talking about learning to trust in the experience of the mentor and/or the tradition of the Church and allowing that to support me regarding something I needed to work out for myself spiritually, theologically, etc., giving myself time and space to do that.

In my experience, a healthy relationship with obedience will include a bit of faithful disobedience. I had the advantage of having a Latina mother, the daughter of immigrants from Puerto Rico and Spain. My mother converted to Roman Catholicism during the time I was being prepared for First Holy Communion. As a result, we studied the Baltimore Catechism together, memorizing the answers to a litany of questions, e.g., Q: Who made you? A: God made me. Q: Why did God make you? A: God made me to show forth His goodness and to share His everlasting happiness in heaven.

As my mother and I memorized the answers to what seemed to me, as a 6 year old child, a million questions, we would come upon questions which had answers to which we weren’t inclined to assent. In true Latina fashion, my mother’s faith was more concerned with redemption than doctrine, so regarding those questions and answers, my mother would say, “You don’t have to believe that. Just memorize the answer in case the bishop calls on you.”

Early on, therefore, I learned to approach the institutional church with a measure of faithful disobedience. My mother allowed me space to grow into my spiritual maturity over time, in prayerful conversation with God. I was free to prayerfully ponder and explore, rather than simply accept, church doctrines.

Five decades later, and having the benefit of a seminary education (Yea, Sewanee’s right!), I now know that the word we translate as “obey” derives from words in Greek, Hebrew, and Latin that mean “to listen” – but more than that, “obey” in these ancient languages, seeks that we listen AND respond to what we hear. If we are listening for the word or the will of God, then, our obedience calls for our attention followed by some kind response.

This is affirmed for me in my prayer life which has been rich and conversational since my childhood. God has been accessible to me as have the saints, my friends in heaven. As a result, I’ve given great importance to prayer time as part of my every day, even as life got busier and time got shorter. I don’t pray out of duty or fear, though, but from inner divine prompting. God calls to me first. When I call out to God it isn’t so that God might wave a divine wand and fix what I say is broken or wrong (in the way I want it fixed); it’s for God to show me how to be in the will of God as I enter the moment facing me – or the day, or the season. It’s because I’m scared, or I don’t know how to proceed, or I know the voice of my will is drowning out God’s voice. Prayer is one gateway for me to the grace of obedience: hearing and responding to God.

I know that in the frailty of my humanity, I simply can’t see the big picture of my life, my place in the world and in human history – but God can. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.” (Isa 55:8) Still, at times, I choose not to obey.

Does my disobedience make God mad? I don’t know. What I do know is this: “God is not wroth” as Julian of Norwich said.* Wrath is a human response to helplessness, disappointment, shame, or humiliation. Each time I set out on a path not of God’s choosing, God gently and very clearly re-routes me. I can repent and be re-routed, or be stubborn and resist. The choice is always mine.

I have noticed, however, that my body responds according to my choice. A felt lack of peace, expressed in my body as tension in my throat or chest, or tightness in my stomach, is present each time I set out in disobedience. Peace and wellbeing are restored in my body each time I relent and trust. This has taught me that my disobedience is: a) known to me; b) not good for me; and c) does not separate me from the love of God for me, just as St. Paul promised. (Ro 8:39)

In the Genesis story, Adam and Eve learned that there were real consequences from their choice to disobey. In the very next verse, however, God sewed clothing for Adam and Eve, covering their shame and humiliation. Then God sent them into the world “knowing good and evil.” (Gen 3:22) We know good and evil, and we know when we are choosing to disobey, no matter how well we’ve justified or defended our choice. We know.

We also know that forgiveness is ours for the asking. As the prophet Isaiah says, “let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the LORD, that he may have mercy on them, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.” (Isa 55:7) In case anyone doubts that could be true – and many of us do doubt the lavishness of God’s love for us – Jesus made clear that his sacrifice was for our forgiveness: “Then, he took a cup, and after giving thanks, he gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the new covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” (Mt 26:27)

As long as we live, we will have to reckon with the voice of the tempter, but the steadfast love of God will gently, clearly, and always guide us back to the path of life. Our choice and our challenge is to obey.

*John Skinner, Editor and translator, Revelation of Love, Julian of Norwich (Doubleday, NY, 1996), 96.

Awakened to live

Life is full of little deaths that, as Christians, we are called to enter fully and, as best we can, fearlessly because we believe that death is the gateway to new life: resurrection life. So whether it’s the death of our habits, our expectations, or the death of our self-identifiers, our career, our relationships, or even the final death of our bodies, we who are followers of Jesus Christ know that new life awaits us on the other side.

In his resurrected state Jesus was hungry, cooked and ate with his friends, spoke with them, and allowed them to touch his wounds. He

was real and really there, yet he was also unrecognizable to those who knew and loved him best until his love unlocked the limits of their thinking. Simply speaking her name was enough to open Mary Magdalene to recognize her beloved Jesus. Letting go what made sense in that moment (she was at Jesus’ tomb to tend to his dead body), Mary surrendered to her love of Jesus and was transformed by it. Her transformation led to the transformation of the disciples which led to the birth of Christianity.

Every death we know in this life is like that, and Jesus is as real for us in these moments as he was for Mary Magdalene at the tomb. Promising to be with us always Jesus dwells in us. Uniting his spirit with ours, Jesus is our gateway into eternal resurrection. This is a huge truth which I have to reflect on often because of the limitedness of my humanity. It changes everything to recognize that my smallness is made vast, my weakness strong, by the presence of God in me for the purpose God has which is beyond me.

So it matters that we believe that Jesus was the Christ who came to reconcile humanity to God and that Jesus’ death and resurrection were real. When we choose to let go of what makes sense in our worldly experience and surrender to the love of Jesus that is present within us nothing is impossible, just as Jesus said. (Mt 17:20) Every mountain actually becomes moveable, every created thing becomes a thing of beauty and great value, and every death becomes a gateway to another resurrection.

Resurrection is not only something that happens after we die. It’s a way of being alive - awakened to the reality that the spirit of God in Christ lives/abides/dwells within us both as individuals and as the universal “us.” It is a state of unified being in which we have eyes that see, ears that hear, and hearts that are one with God’s own heart. In this state of unified awakening, what our tradition calls resurrection life, our wills are aligned with God’s will, and that affects what we do. We act, not out of fear or obedience to laws or traditions, but in love – divine, creative love - which flows from us making everything it touches through us new, whole… holy. The church, the community of faith with all of its supportive traditions, is where this process is (or could be) discovered, nourished, and manifested.

The key to this unified state of being in awakening is surrender. It helps to remember, however, that surrender is not weakness or loss. There is no white flag to wave, no humiliation to face. The English word surrender is derived from the Old French: sur-“over, on top of” + rendere “give back, return.” (Source, Source) To surrender in faith is to choose to return ourselves to our Source. In doing that, we become so much more than ourselves - we become one with all that is, that was, and that will ever be. When that happens, the individualism of western Christianity, in which most of us were reared, fades into foolishness.

Yet, each time my life leads me to another death, as is happening now, I dread what’s coming and I go into the experience with trepidation. I don’t know why… I’ve been through these deaths enough to know that the new life it will open for me is totally worth the pain of dying for it. Still, it’s hard each and every time. I take solace in knowing Jesus struggled similarly in the Garden of Gethsemane just before his arrest. “I am deeply grieved” he told his disciples. Then he asked God if it might be possible for the cup to pass from him. (Mt 26: 38-39, Mk 14:34-36)

Could it have gone another way? Nothing is impossible for God, but for us, the only way to resurrection life is through death. Dying involves a total detachment from expectation and outcome, and I always forget how empty the accompanying void of joy feels as the dying happens.

To me, it’s like the selective memory many of us mothers have about the intensity of labor in childbirth until, that is, we are in the midst of giving birth again. Then we have that moment where we wonder why we did this again. When the baby emerges we remember why. The new life is totally worth the pain involved in its birth, and the pain is soon forgotten, lost in the joy of the overwhelming love.

We really must die, over and over again, in order to truly live. This is what Jesus was saying to us in the story of the seed that must die in order to bear fruit (Jn 12:24) and when he cautioned us that whoever seeks to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life will save it (Mt 10:39, Mk 8:35, Lk 17:33, Jn 12:25).

Dying, in the spiritual sense I’m describing here, is an absolute, unconditional giving over (surrender) of ourselves and all of our perceived control back to our Source. Our fabulously designed but limited minds fight against that again and again as if our survival were at risk. The truth is our survival, as individuals and as a people, is in the hands of God in Christ who showed us the way and calls us by name to follow him. Unlocking the limits of our thinking, Jesus transforms us and our world by his divine love. For our part, we respond to this truth by entering enter every moment of our lives fully and fearlessly, knowing that even when are called to die, we live eternally in Christ who lives eternally in us.

Lent: Making space for something new

For many of us, on Ash Wednesday, which is the first day of Lent, we gathered in solemn assembly and marked the sign of our salvation - the cross of Christ - on our foreheads with the dust of ashes. By doing so, we also marked these next 5 weeks of Lent as different – sacred time set aside for a purpose.

The word “Lent” means “spring” and it refers to a time when new life is being formed, and the one forming that new life is the same one who forms all life: God. We’re mistaken when we think we need to choose what to DO or STOP DOING for Lent. We don’t DO Lent. We simply choose to let Lent (new life) be formed in us – and we do that by faith.

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus, filled with the Holy Spirit, is led by the Spirit in the wilderness.(4:1) The Greek word translated here as ‘wilderness’ and in other versions of the Bible as ‘desert’ can also be understood to mean ‘a place that is uncultivated.’ So, the Spirit takes Jesus from his baptism to a place that is uncultivated and prepares him for his purpose. Luke tells us that throughout this time of cultivation, Jesus is tempted.

Jesus, in the fullness of his humanity, really is tempted, and in the fullness of his divinity, Jesus could have responded very differently. I think we let ourselves off the hook about our own responses to temptation by supposing that in his divinity, Jesus could simply out-power the devil and stand firm against temptation – something we, who are not divine, can’t do. But if we do that, we’re forgetting the truth of the Incarnation and we’re missing the gift of this gospel story – how to cultivate faithfulness to God in a world of temptations.

Luke tells us that Jesus went from his baptism into a season of cultivation… a season of 40 days. Forty days was a colloquial term for ‘many’ and meant ‘a period of time that was long enough,’ that is, enough time for God to act. He fasted, allowing himself to physically know the emptiness he was entering, trusting in God alone to sustain his life.

That is what Lent is for us. Time we set aside to go willingly into the emptiness and allow God to cultivate us, to prepare us for our purpose. Lent is not a time for us to wallow in the misery of our wretchedness as hopeless sinners. We don’t fast in order to suffer, or as punishment for sin. We fast to allow ourselves to experience emptiness. In the deep, dark center of ourselves, we willingly choose to make space for something new, something nourishing and life-giving that God will supply.

During Lent, we get honest about God. In Psalm 91, we are reminded that God is our refuge and stronghold, the One in whom we put our trust. But if we choose to make God into a big judge who is waiting to smite us for every failing we know we have, then we feel justified in keeping our distance and we have fallen prey to the second temptation Jesus faced: idolatry; making for ourselves an image of God to worship and serve (or not to worship and serve), rather than being in relationship with the one, true God.

During Lent, we also get honest about ourselves. We are all marvelously and wonderfully made by our Creator, who hates us not. But we often forget to live as if that’s true about us and our neighbors. There are times that every one of us will find ourselves lacking the will to be compassionate toward someone else when it involves some amount of sacrifice from us. There are (or will be) times in our lives when our anger erupts quickly, while forgiveness comes slowly, if at all.

We tend toward being so preoccupied with ourselves and our own, that we become blind to the fact that all around us, others of God’s kin are suffering, lacking food, friendship, or hope. Sometimes, our preoccupation with ourselves takes the form of addiction and we can be addicted to many things: being the center of attention, food, alcohol or drugs, or work. Other times, our preoccupation with ourselves takes the opposite form: subtraction - diminishing ourselves as if we don’t matter at all through things like: anorexia and bulimia, abusive relationships, and constant self-censure.

It is in these forms of self-preoccupation that we confront the third temptation Jesus faced: testing God. It sounds something like this: ‘If I work to destroy myself, will I matter enough that God will save me?’ The truth is, we do matter to God. God has already saved us, giving up everything, including his own life, for our salvation. What else do we need? Testing God is a deception. What we’re actually doing is denying God.

So, Lent offers us the opportunity to get honest about God and ourselves, and the hard work of Lent is emptying ourselves of all that already fills us, including the need to be full and satisfied. But emptiness scares us. The nothingness of it feels kind of like death, so we tend to avoid it. That’s why Lent is different. Knowing that by our baptism we have entered into Jesus’ death and resurrection we have no fear of death, not even the little ones like the death of a habit, or the death of an idea we hold about God, ourselves, or our neighbors.

The traditional Lenten practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are tested and reliable ways we can use to respond to God’s call to us to return with our whole hearts. Prayer brings us into the presence of God who created us, gave up his life on the cross for us, and calls us to a season of cultivation to prepare us for our purpose. Fasting reminds us of our mortality and our real limitations as humans, and it provides a way for us to experience solidarity with those who truly hunger. When we remember how real and compelling hunger is, we are moved by compassion to do something to relieve it – even if it means making a bit of a sacrifice. And alsmgiving is the way we can do that: giving of ourselves: our money, time or gifts to serve those children of God who suffer from any lack: food, friendship, hope, or faith.

Our Lenten practices aren’t about success or failure. If you are diabetic, on medication, or for some other reason you can’t fast from food –don’t. We can fast from lots of other things: criticizing, complaining, or estrangement.

We don’t score points for praying, fasting or giving alms, and we don’t get demerits for not doing those things because we don’t DO Lent. We choose it. During Lent we choose to make space in our lives for God to cultivate new life in us.

Re-enter the womb of God this Lent

If I could reduce the purpose and practice of Lent into a single idea, I would use this quote from a poem by St. Theresa of Avila:“[God] desired me, so I came close.” 

It’s very sad to me that the most pervasive notion about Lent (my favorite season) is that it is a dark and difficult season, to be approached with avoidance, guilt, and self-loathing; that we have to “tame” our desires by giving something up, then use all the self-control we can muster to keep our Lenten promises. Doesn’t it occur to those people that exerting our self-will is exactly what we are called NOT to do during Lent?

Lent isn’t a time of practicing self control. It’s a time of relinquishing it. During Lent we practice discipline and penitence. It’s a mistake to confuse discipline with self-control and penitence with wallowing. In fact, it’s sin: the sin of hubris – the very thing that got Adam and Eve in trouble in the garden.

Our discipline and repentance are the means by which we re-enter the womb of God where we can rest, be restored, renewed, and prepared. In his book, “Praying Shapes Believing,”  theologian Lee Mitchell reminds us that: “Joy, love, and renewal are as much Lenten themes as are penitence, fasting, and self-denial; and we need to remember that it is within the context of preparation for our participation in the Feast of feasts that [our] Lenten penitence is expressed.” (29). 

Or - as St. Theresa said, “[God] desired me so I came close.”

Temptation is that which leads us into sin – and sin is that which causes us to forget who we are, whose we are, and why we’re here. St. Luke tells us that Jesus, the Incarnate One, the manifest reality of the unity of humanity and divinity, was tempted to separate himself into a dichotomy of body and spirit; to focus on his humanity (he was famished) and forget about his divinity.

Next, though he knew his purpose on earth (the reason he came), Jesus was tempted to walk away from God’s plan for his life and live out a different plan – one in which he, rather than God, would get the glory.

Finally, Jesus was tempted to throw his life away, daring God to prove that he mattered.

Each of these temptations teaches us something about our relationship with God. The first temptation, separation from the spark of the divine that is within us, goes to our very identity. We are body and spirit. In the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus the Christ, humanity and divinity were reconciled. Each of us is, therefore, a living testimony to that harmonious co-existence. To separate ourselves, even in our thoughts, is to undo the gift Christ died to give us.

The second temptation, putting ourselves and our wills ahead of our obedience to the will of God, goes to how, or even whether, we will live into our purpose. If Jesus’ life is any example,

living into our purpose won’t be all blessing and honor, but it will be redemptive – for us and for those whom God puts in our lives. When we’re honest, it seems ridiculous that we think we can devise a plan for happiness and fulfillment by chasing after that perfect life partner, or that perfect job, or that perfect body. Our hubris is, at times, astonishing.

The third temptation, trying to prove we matter by throwing away the very gift God gave us in the first place, goes to our core understanding of ourselves as beloved. It’s true that many people don’t feel very beloved, their earthly experiences have taught them to believe otherwise. But faith assures us that we are truly beloved of God.

The temptations Jesus faced in our gospel story aren’t the only temptations out there. Discovering what our temptations are and repenting of them is our goal during Lent.

Some of us eat to comfort ourselves. For these, repentance means honest self reflection along with substituting prayer or prayerful activity for cookies or chips.

Others among us work too much in order to win approval or to feel like we matter. For these, repentance means committing to a schedule that balances time devoted to work, family, leisure, and real time with God.

Some of us habitually deny ourselves anything good out of self-loathing. For these repentance means fasting from self-criticism or keeping a prayer journal which acknowledges the daily gifts and blessings God is constantly giving.

For all of us, Lent is a good time to commit to regular attendance at Sunday worship or Morning Prayer, remembering that we live out our purpose in community as the body of Christ in the world. Lent is also a good time for all of us to fast from complaining, self-criticism, foods or eating habits that will harm us, combativeness at work, in school, or in church – whatever leads us away from the love of God, self, and other. 

The disciplines we practice are meant to help us enter humbly into the presence of God, where we surrender ourselves to God’s unfathomable love and unfailing care for us. The emptiness in us that continually seeks satisfaction comes from our sense of separation from that love. We know this deep down but often don’t  pay it real attention.

It’s helpful to remember that God desires communion with us. Doing so quiets those voices of temptation that play like a tape-recording in our heads, saying: you’re not worthy, you’re not beautiful, you’re not gifted, you’re not loved. We are. We’re also unfinished… continually growing, maturing in body and in spirit.

Our brokenness is not something to be ashamed of or to avoid. It is as much a gift as any talent we possess because it is the place in us where God dwells most assuredly, most compassionately.

Our brokenness is the cross we bear; the place where salvation is victorious in us; the place where we witness the reconciling power of God still at work in the world.  When others see this growth and maturation in us they are empowered to stop being ashamed of their brokenness, to pick up their cross and walk into redemption.

Draw close to God this Lent. God desires it. We hunger for it. There’s nothing to fear.

The poem that I quoted from St. Theresa of Avila (which is a handout in your bulletin)

concludes like this:

A thousand souls hear [God’s] call every second,

but most every one then looks into their life’s mirror and

says, “I am not worthy to leave this

sadness.

When I first heard his courting song, I too

looked at all I had done in my life

and said,

“How can I gaze into his omnipresent eyes?”

I spoke those words with all my heart,

but then He sang again, a song even sweeter,

and when I tried to shame myself once more from His presence

God showed me His compassion and spoke a divine truth,

“I made you, dear, and all I made is perfect.

Please come close, for I

desire

you.”

Amen.