Lent 1

Readings: Gen 2:7-9; 3:1-7; Rom 5:12-19; Mt 4:1-11

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We know that the devil is a liar,
and that when he tempts us
he does so by lying.
Sometimes he lies by telling us
that something evil is in fact good,
so that our will is drawn to things
that are harmful to us.
But our first reading and Gospel today
suggest that there is another sort of lying 
by which the devil tempts us:
he lies about God,
telling us that there is some good thing
that God wants to deny to us
that we should grab for ourselves.
This sort of temptation
stands at the head 
of the story of humanity,
suggesting that perhaps this 
is the more fundamental kind of temptation,
because it involves the more fundamental kind of lie:
the lie that God is stingy with the good.

In the Garden, 
where God has lavishly provided for humanity, 
there is a tree of the knowledge of good and evil,
a tree from which God has forbidden 
the man and woman to eat.
The serpent tells the woman,
“God knows well that the moment you eat of it
your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods
who know what is good and what is evil.”
The serpent tells the woman that God 
wants to keep godlikeness to himself,
that God wants to keep 
wisdom and insight to himself.
But this is a lie.
Indeed, God has already 
breathed his Spirit into humanity
so that, unlike any other earthly creature, 
they might live by sharing in God’s own life.
God has already given them 
a share in godlikeness,
which will grow and develop
into full wisdom and insight
if only they can recognize that it
can never be anything other than a gift,
can never be something that they
reach out and grasp for themselves,
can never be claimed as their right 
or their private possession.
The forbidden tree 
is there in the Garden
to remind them of that.
And, when the woman and the man eat,
the only knowledge that they gain
is knowledge of their own nakedness,
knowledge of their own vulnerability,
stripped as they are of the gift they have lost
only because they refused to receive it as a gift.

In the desert too 
the devil tempts Jesus to think
that there are godlike goods 
that God wants to keep from him,
and that he ought to reach out
and grasp for himself:
the good of miraculous works,
the good of divine protection,
the good of power over kingdoms.
But Jesus knows 
the deepest truth about himself,
in a way that Adam and Eve did not.
Jesus knows himself to be 
the beloved Son of God the Father,
born of the Father before all ages,
born in time of the Holy Spirit 
and the Virgin Mary. 
Jesus knows that his existence itself,
in both eternity and in time, 
comes from the overflowing generosity
that is the very essence of the one he calls Father.
He knows the truth,
and so he is immune to the devil’s lies,
for he knows his Father is not stingy,
because he shares divinity itself 
with his Son and Holy Spirit.

And in the events that follow in Jesus’ life
we see the devil’s lies revealed.
Jesus would prove his Sonship
not merely by turning stones to bread
to satisfy his own physical hunger,
but by feeding multitudes 
with five loaves and two fish,
by healing those afflicted with diseases
or possessed by the devil’s minions,
by calming storms and raising the dead.
Jesus would show his trust 
in God’s care for him
not by throwing himself down
from the top of the Temple,
but by letting himself be raised
on the tree of the Cross,
mocked by those who would say,
“He trusted in God; 
let him deliver him now 
if he wants him,”
handing himself over in love
for us and for our salvation. 
Jesus would gain power
over the kingdoms of the world
not by bowing down before Satan
but by enduring his passion and cross
so as to be raised up 
as the one who now reigns
in the kingdom of heaven,
a kingdom whose beauty outstrips
all the kingdoms of the world 
in their magnificence.
Jesus knew himself,
and so he knew that all 
that the devil said 
God wanted to deny him
was already his.

And it is already ours, as well,
if we but know ourselves truly
as beloved sons and daughters of God.
All that is good is already ours
because it has been given us in Jesus Christ.
St. Paul tells us:
“if by the transgression of the one, 
the many died,
how much more did the grace of God
and the gracious gift 
of the one man Jesus Christ
overflow for the many.”
The story of the capitulation 
of Adam and Eve to the serpent’s lie 
that God would not give them
every good gift
has been overwritten 
by the story of Jesus’ faithfulness,
his fierce conviction that he is 
the Father’s gift of life to the world,
overflowing for the many.
Our first parents reached out their hands
to grasp the fruit of the forbidden tree;
Jesus Christ extended his hands 

to embrace the tree of the Cross,
becoming himself the fruit that hung upon it,
the fruit upon which we feed in the Eucharist,
the bread of immortality that makes us godlike.

So let us enter into this season of Lent, 
not fearful of the devil’s temptations
or beguiled by his lies,
but confident in the gift of God
that is given to us in Jesus.
Let us turn from the lie
that we have only
what we can grasp for ourselves,
and turn toward the God 
who desires nothing more
than that we might be made 
partakers of eternity.
And may God in his mercy
have mercy on us all.

Lent 1

Readings: Genesis 2:7-9, 3: 1-7; Romans 5:12-19; Matthew 4:1-11

This week’s news suggests
that you really should be careful
about who it is that you engage in conversation.
For example, if you are a highly-visible supporter
of a major political party’s presidential candidate—
particularly if you are someone
who could possibly get appointed as Attorney General—
you might not want to have private conversations
with the Russian ambassador.
At the very least, it just looks bad,
and little good can come from it.
This week’s Scriptures similarly suggest
the potential dangers
of conversation with the wrong person.
For example, if you are one of the first humans,
newly arrived on the scene
and not too experienced in the ways of the cosmos,
you might not want to engage in conversation
with that oh-so-helpful serpent
who suggests to you
that you have been deceived by God,
and that doing the one thing
that God has asked you not to do
might possibly turn out really well.

Notice, in contrast, that Jesus, in today’s Gospel,
does not engage the Devil in conversation;
apart from quoting the words of Scripture,
the only thing he says is, “Get away, Satan!”
He knows that the devil has nothing worthwhile to say.
Indeed, it is actually one of the directives
in the Church’s Rite of Exorcism
that one ought not engage
a demon in conversation:
no good can come of it.
Though John Milton made Satan
somewhat glamorous in Paradise Lost,
the truth is that the devil is a tedious liar and a destroyer
whose God-given intelligence has been reduced by sin
to an animal cunning focused entirely
on turning people away from God.

Perhaps one reason we human beings
can so easily be lured into conversations
from which no good can come
is that we are, by nature, conversational.
One of the glories of being human
is our ability to use language to engage others,
to communicate and so enter into communion
with another person.
We are, you might say, conversational animals,
who need communication with others
as much as we need food or sleep or shelter.
And like any good thing that we deeply need,
the good of conversation can be turned to an evil purpose,
as when we gossip or berate or tempt.

But conversation has other possibilities.
In addition to those conversations
from which no good can come,
there are those conversations
from which great good can come:
the casual chat that begins a profound friendship,
the frank airing of differences that leads to reconciliation,
the final conversation with a dying loved one
in which you say and hear those things
that had previously been left unsaid.
These conversations can be life-changing,
which is perhaps no surprise
since the words “conversation” and “conversion”
find a common source in the Latin word convertere,
meaning “to turn together.”
To have a conversation we must turn toward the one
with whom we wish to converse,
and in so doing our life is changed.

In the holy season of Lent
we turn again to the Lord who calls us to new life.
In our Lenten Gospel readings
we will hear Jesus engaged in many conversations:
with the Samaritan woman at the well,
with the man born blind at the Pool of Siloam,
with Mary and Martha at the tomb of their brother Lazarus.
All of these are conversations of conversion,
in which people turn
from shame and weakness and fear
and turn toward Jesus who is living water,
the light of the world,
and life itself.
As we eavesdrop on these conversations,
we also hear the voice of Jesus calling us
to turn toward him in conversation and communion.

One of the traditional disciplines of Lent,
along with fasting and acts of charity,
is a commitment to deepen our life of prayer.
This is for many of us a frightening prospect.
Giving up things for Lent is relatively easy,
being a bit more generous is a small sacrifice,
but prayer is hard.
It is hard because life is busy
and prayer can seem like wasting time.
It is hard because it involves opening ourselves up
to a love that might very well change us forever.
It is hard because, unlike the garrulous devil
who yammers away in our Scriptures today,
God’s response in the conversation of prayer
is most often experienced as silence.

But this silence speaks eloquently of God’s love.
For in the conversation of prayer
God does not seek to trick or persuade,
but rather lets our spoken and unspoken yearnings
echo in the vast space of his infinite compassion,
so that our desires return to us transformed
by our encounter with God:
reoriented, reinterpreted,
released from selfishness.
In that echoing silence
God creates a place of freedom
in which we can slake our thirst for living water,
in which our eyes can be opened to the light of the world,
in which we can find the new life that comes forth
from the empty tomb of Christ.
Let this season of Lent be for us
a time to turn away
from conversations from which
no good can come,
and to turn back again
to this frightening,
frustrating,
time-wasting,
life-changing conversation
that offers us nothing less
than the infinite love of God.