A homily for the First Sunday of Lent, February 18, 2024
Gn 9:8-15, 1 Pt 3:18-22, Mk 1:12-15
I’m pretty sure I have a bad case of FOMO. Or I’m just plain nosy.
Then again, I’m legitimately extremely curious, and with better-than-average peripheral vision and much-better-than-average hearing — even in my dotage — I’m easily attracted and distracted by interesting things and events.
Such as God’s Creation, and the various activities of my fellow children of God. In other words, Life.
I always have been.
We live in a time and place intentionally designed to overstimulate us, to claw at us, to shake us up, to vie for our undivided attention, which remains undivided only until the next ad or robocall or text or TikTok. Because one or all of them are on their way.
Our economic system is built on this incessant noise. If people with Type 2 diabetes weren’t serenaded into taking once-daily Jardiance at each day’s start, Wall Street and Big Pharma would flame out. Instead, we have the song from the ridiculous over-the-top production numbers stuck in our heads. (Sorry…)
Billions of dollars are being wasted on noise.
No wonder Jesus retreated into the desert for six weeks. And he lived before iPhone apps and HDTV.
What can we do, especially now that the ashes on our foreheads have faded or been washed away? A flight to the Mojave isn’t in the cards for the vast majority of us.
Maybe this is counterintuitive, but here goes: Let’s all use our calendar apps to set aside a time — daily, if possible, but definitely regularly over these 40 days — to find a quiet place to talk with the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
We can call it prayer, call it reflection, call it meditation, call it escape, call it anything. The physical place we find matters less than the spiritual, mental and emotional place we take ourselves.
If we opt for this special time at the end of the day, we can consider something structured like The Ignatian Examen, whose steps help us look back on the day we just had and look forward to the day or days ahead.
Perhaps we’ve gotten away from saying grace before meals, especially family meals. “Bless us O Lord…” still works just fine, because it seats the Giver of All Good Gifts at the table with us. But maybe we could expand on it, with greater gratitude for the specific benefits our families and friends have received that day.
For half a century, I’ve been enamored of the quirky, heartwarming grace led by the grandfather character in the play and movie “You Can’t Take It With You”:
Well, Sir, here we are again. We’ve been getting along pretty good for quite a while now — we’re certainly much obliged. Remember all we ask is just to go along the way we are, keep our health; as far as anything else is concerned, we leave that up to you. Thank you.
So simple, so pure: thanks, a minor ask, and faith. Wow.
Now, this being New Jersey, we won’t find a place for meditation while we’re driving on the Parkway or Turnpike (please don’t try!), but we can direct a bit of kindness toward our fellow travelers, be they spiritual pilgrims like us or not. Sometimes letting someone into our lane ahead of us can be an act of charity in this season of prayer, fasting and charity. And in every season, for that matter.
At the very least, our motoring experiences can help us imagine how much better the world will be when respect and gentility reign supreme.
The 40 days of Lent are a gift and a challenge, interwoven. If we know ourselves, we’ll know where and when and how to find — or, more likely, engineer — our quiet place to be with God.
And we should remember that “quiet” need not mean “silent” or “alone.” We can quiet ourselves, we can emerge from emerging Tremfyant and outfox Fox News by being Christ to one another.
As the un-desert-like snowfall reminds us as the flakes drift down quietly, some of our sisters and brothers need us to bring them divine love now.
