The readings for the first Sunday in Lent ground me and open a spaciousness in my
spirit. The story from Genesis of the rainbow after the flood and from the Gospel of
Matthew of Jesus’ forty days in the desert bring back vivid memories from my years
living in the Holy Land. They evoke the late winter season when the chilly, wet weather
gives way gradually—and sometimes dramatically—to the beauty of spring.
I remember one winter day driving through the West Bank after a rain, when I could
barely keep to the twisting road, so distracted was I by one massive rainbow after
another appearing among the steep hills terraced with olive trees. Another day, driving
from the hilltop of Jerusalem down into the desert at Jericho, the winter snow and rain
had irrigated the desert hills and brought forth an incredible bloom of red poppies.
Thousands of them covered dozens of normally bare slopes, a miracle bloom that would
last just one day.
Although Lent is often seen as a time of turning inward and depriving the senses, these
readings make me wonder if Lent could be instead a time in which my spirit expands
outward, opening to God in new ways. The readings also offer intriguing clues of how
that expansion might happen. As I read the story of Noah, I am struck by the nature of
God’s promise after the flood:
When I bring clouds over the earth,
and the bow appears in the clouds,
I will recall the covenant I have made
between me and you and all living beings.
The covenant is not just between God and human beings; it is “between me and you
and all living things.” So, might Lent be a time for me to rediscover the nature of my
relationship with God—that it is not just something private between the two of us, but
rather deeply connected to my relationships with “all living beings,” my fellow humans
as well as all of creation?
And then there is the intriguing passage about how Jesus spent his forty days in the
desert:
He was among wild beasts,
and the angels ministered to him.
Jesus was “among” the wild beasts—not fighting them, hunting them, riding them,
working them, walking them, but simply being among them in peace. Could I make time
to spend in nature during Lent, not controlling or changing anything about it, but just
being there in peace? I could listen to the shifting breeze, watch the migrating birds, and
observe the buds swelling on the trees. That might well foster spaciousness of spirit.
The angels who ministered to Jesus during his time in the desert also interest me and
lead me to ask whether I can be as attentive as an angel, ministering to Jesus—in the
form of my sisters and brothers—while He is in the desert. There are so many people
around me living in the desert of their lives, whether elderly relatives, victims of gun
violence in my city, or victims of disastrous wars in Gaza and Ukraine, who cry out for
my loving attention.
God, help me during Lent to cultivate a spaciousness of spirit. Help me to rediscover
your covenant with me and all living things, and to learn to be your ministering angel.