Ash Wednesday 2012

The season of Lent, which begins today, is often associated with the desert. Matthew, Mark, and Luke each devote a portion of their gospel accounts to Jesus' forty days of fasting and wandering in a barren landscape, followed by the devil's temptation to renounce his dependency upon and relationship with God. John the Baptist appears in the desert, calling people to repentance for personal and collective sins.

Atacama Desert, Chile

Desert imagery in the Bible and elsewhere evokes memories of three visits I've made to the desert in the past seven years. The first, as a Jesuit novice, saw me spend Holy Week in a small rural village in southwestern Mexico. The second, as a Jesuit scholastic, occurred three days in a small town in Chile's Atacama Desert, one of the driest places on earth. The third, amidst my transition from studies to teaching, consisted of a passage through the Southwest while traversing the United States by train. Whereas Jesus was alone during his desert sojourn, I was blessed with the company of fellow Jesuits, kind strangers, and old friends, respectively, in each of my desert visits. Yet I was also placed– not always comfortably– in a position of dependence upon those who called these particular deserts home.

As I begin my observance of Lent this year, I find that the season is shaping up to be full of subtle challenges and curiously secluded realms of grace and growth. For all the starkness of a desert landscape and its obvious attributes– piercing sunshine, sharply hewn rock and weathered sand, arid air that greedily sponges bodily moisture– much remains hidden from an initial sweeping overview. Prayerful efforts at visualizing the state of my soul and the vitality of my relationship with Jesus produce a similar view– my strengths and weaknesses are clearly evident, yet my needs and desires for more authentic prayer, more trusting self-expression, and more engaged reflection, dialogue, and practical action on pressing issues do not readily meet the eye. They are like tiny grains of sand– the irritating grit or smooth strata of daily experiences pressed and whirled on ever-shifting currents of circumstance and grace– continually shaping, eroding, and reshaping my personality and behavior. These movements, I believe, are what deserve my attention this Lent, especially given my inability to harness or control them, which produces no small measure of anxiety. Yet, by responding to them– even embracing them– with the same trusting dependency that opened me to wondrous instances of hospitality, humbling experiences of fellowship, and striking feelings of comfort in foreign lands amidst my three desert journeys, I earnestly believe that my companionship with Christ will be renewed and strengthened, and every contour of my life will be lovingly sculpted anew.