Spending Time in the Desert
I was probably about fifteen years old when I first took a trip to the desert. We spent about three weeks of the summer in the southwestern corner of Arizona camping, hiking, and birdwatching (a hobby my family enjoyed very much when I was growing up—and the only reason we were in Arizona in the hottest part of the year!). It was a wonderful trip filled with many memories, but I remember several things distinctly about my first foray into desert life.
First: the tarantula, rattlesnake, and several scorpions we saw. They were all too close for my personal liking. But that’s not the point of this bulletin article, so we’ll push past those.
Second: how incredibly dark the desert was at night. I remember one night especially when we had been hiking in a canyon up until sunset. As darkness descended around us, we slowly made our way out of the canyon—but before we got back to our campground, my dad shut off the car and told me and my brother to notice how dark it was, without any street lamps or nearby light pollution to light up the sky. There must have been no moon, because I remember vividly putting my hand directly in front of my face and realizing that I couldn’t see anything, even when it was inches from my face! I remember nights looking up at the stars and realizing just how vivid they were there. One night, we even got to watch (a bit frightfully, to be honest) a lightning storm cross the desert toward us.
Third: how, when you really paid attention, the desert was much fuller of life than it appeared at a cursory glance. The longer you are in the desert, the more you begin to notice how vibrant some of its life really is. When it would rain, the ocotillo would seemingly instantaneously sprout green leaves and beautiful flowers (ocotillo is a pole-like shrub that looked relatively uninteresting otherwise). The desert was living, but you had to slow down enough to notice it.
I think of that as we move deeper into this season of Lent—a time that could be described as forty days “in the desert” with the Lord. We heard last week in our Gospel how Jesus, filled with the Holy Spirit, was driven out in the desert. In Hebrew, the word for desert is the same as the word for wilderness—probably because, in Israel, those words are roughly coterminous. Jesus often returned to the wilderness—isolated Himself—when He most desired to commune with the Father. Have you ever asked yourself why?
I have to think that it’s because it’s only in the quiet that we begin to notice the even quieter voice of God. In the darkness, the stars show up brighter. In the desert, deprived of everything else, you start to notice more the little signs of life around you, and there's an invitation to savor what you find—to take it less for granted than we do in our normal everyday (Midwestern) existence.
All of this is a great analogy for Lent, at least to my mind. The deprivations we undergo in these forty days—what we call our penances—are not meant to impose a huge burden on us, as if God wanted us to be burdened for some reason. Rather, they put us in a sort of metaphorical desert of our senses, that without the things (even good things!) that usually distract us, we would be encouraged to encounter in a deeper, albeit less obvious way, the life and blessings we find around us. In the desert, far from the noise of the city, we are afforded the opportunity to hear God’s voice a little more strongly. Indeed, if that was the only purpose of Lent, it would certainly be worth it!
Keep spreading joy!
Fr. Friedel