Sunday, February 14, 2016

Desert Places

Here’s today’s homily.  The Gospel is Luke 4:1-13.


Today, the first Sunday in Lent, is also Valentine’s Day. It’s actually quite fitting that we’re hearing about Jesus’ trials in the wilderness today. The devil’s temptations boil down to one basic promise -- “I can solve all your problems and fill all your needs” -- and popular culture encourages us to believe exactly the same things about romantic love. The right partner will solve all our problems, fill all our needs, and give us everything we’ve ever wanted, along with roses, chocolate, and Hallmark cards.  

These promises aren’t limited to Valentine’s Day. I recently read that forty to fifty percent of popular songs address romantic love, and if you’ve ever listened to the radio, you know that they do so in some pretty scary ways. Too many of those song lyrics translate into, “I can’t live wthout you. You make me complete. I’m only happy when I’m with you. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll never leave you. Get away from that schmuck you’re with right now and accept me as your destiny.” If a live person showed up on our doorstep and said anything like this, we’d call the police and get a restraining order.  

Most of us also know, if only from hard experience, that no human relationship is perfect or all-fulfilling. German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer observed that marriage, instead of easing every burden, “halves our rights and doubles our duties.” But if intimate partnerships are hard work, they can also be sources of great joy and comfort. We’re social animals. Connection to other people is a deep human need. That’s why Valentine’s Day can be so difficult for people who are alone and who have been told, or who believe, that they can only be complete with a partner.  Under those conditions, it’s a lot more difficult to recognize, and dismiss, the inflated promises of Top Forty love songs.

Jesus, who is fully human, has spent a long time alone in the wilderness, and the devil is appealing to deep human needs:  physical hunger, the desire for power and authority, and the urge to test limits. All of us need to eat. All of us need to feel as if our influence matters. All of us need to take risks sometimes, because that’s how we grow. But Jesus recognizes the traps here, swatting away these false promises as easily as he’d brush away a fly. He knows who, and Whose, he is. He knows he is loved. He doesn’t need to prove himself. He will indeed feed the hungry, but not on the devil’s dare. He is already the ruler of creation without having to worship false idols, and God has already kept him safe through dangerous trials.

Jesus knows that he is not alone. He knows that God is with him even in this loneliest and driest of landscapes. Dates with the devil pose no temptation.

This morning’s Gospel is from the fourth chapter of Luke. In the tenth chapter, we will be reminded that the first commandment is to love God with all our heart and soul and mind and strength; and that the second, which is like it, is to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. Love of God, neighbor and self are the heart of Jesus’ teaching. Lent is an invitation for us to recognize, and dismiss, anything that distorts or distracts us from this trinity. And sometimes Lent comes to us in different forms and at different times of the year.

Last fall, I took a class about addiction to help me in my volunteer work in the ER.  One of the course requirements was an “Abstinence Experience.” The professor asked us to choose something important to us and give it up for ten weeks, as a way of increasing our empathy for addicts trying to give up alcohol, nicotine or other drugs. What most of us learned -- and I suspect this was the real point of the assignment -- is that nearly everyone is addicted to something.

I don’t drink or smoke. I don’t eat dairy or gluten. A few months before the class started, I’d been diagnosed as prediabetic, so I’d already cut way down on my beloved chocolate. My options for the Abstinence Experience were to give up coffee or Facebook. If I gave up coffee, I’d live in a permanent state of migraine and my brain would stop working. This seemed like a bad choice in the middle of a challenging semester. If I  gave up Facebook, I’d theoretically free up an embarrassing number of hours every day. This seemed like a good choice in the middle of a challenging semester. Facebook it was. No problem. I’d give up Facebook for ten weeks! I’d get so much more done!

I gave up Facebook for ten weeks. I didn’t get much more done. What did I do with the free time? I daydreamed. I stared into space. I discovered that I felt unaccountably anxious and lonely. Eventually, I realized that my online activity had been one way of filling what 12-Step recovery programs call “the hole in the soul,” a sense of deep inadequacy, the bone-deep belief that I am not and have never been enough: not smart enough, not kind enough, not good enough. I remembered favorite lines from a Robert Frost poem I read in college:

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars -- on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

I realized that Facebook was only the latest in a series of efforts to fill or flee my inner wilderness. Since childhood, my escape vehicles of choice have included books, writing, academic overachievement, shopping, exercise, and, yes, romantic relationships, not to mention chocolate. If I immersed myself in imaginary adventures, if I got perfect grades, if I found the perfect shoes or the perfect workout or the perfect lover or the perfect Godiva truffle, then I too would at last be perfect, or at least good enough. But none of those things ever fully filled that internal void, which some psychologists believe is the root of all addiction. Trekking through my desert places for ten weeks last fall, I finally realized that the only thing big enough to fill that emptiness -- to make me feel complete and heal me of my self-hatred -- was God.  

By myself, I am indeed not enough, because no one is. That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with us. It’s how we’re made. We’re designed to need God as much as we need our neighbors. Our seeming inadequacies are cause not for mourning, but for celebration. When I finally understood this, I invited God into my wilderness and prayed for transformation. I found myself filled with peace, with the certainty that God loved me and had been waiting a very long time to be welcomed in, to make my desert places bloom into what looked suspiciously like Valentine’s Day bouquets.

Lent isn’t a one-time journey. I’m back on Facebook now, for an embarrassing number of hours a day, and I still find myself tempted by shoe sales and Godiva truffles. But now I’m better able to enjoy those things for what they are, instead of feeling that I’m nothing without them. I have a better sense of who, and Whose, I am. I feel less need to prove myself. I know that I am not alone. I know that God is with me even in the loneliest and driest of landscapes, and I know that if you pay attention to the desert instead of desperately running away from it, you learn how much can grow there.

This Valentine’s Day, I wish all of you a Holy Lent. May everyone here know the embrace of the one, true source of Love:  the One who solves all our problems, meets all our needs, and fills all our desert places with flowers.   


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