THE DESERTS IN OUR LIVES
Gen 9:8-15; 1 Peter 3:18-22; Mk 1:12-15
For Mark, the Gospel story doesn’t begin with angelic visitors or a prophetic dream. It doesn’t open with a miraculous birth or a poetic hymn to the Incarnate Word. In Mark’s Gospel, there is no soaring prose, no travelers from the East, no expensive gifts, no awestruck shepherds, no jealous, brooding king. Instead, Mark’s Gospel hurls us, ready or not, into a lonely and barren wilderness—a desert—where everything either bites or burns or stings.
It’s hard to imagine a more dramatic moment than the baptism of Jesus. As he emerged from the water, the heavens ripped open and the Spirit descended like a dove while the voice of God proclaimed, “You are my beloved Son, in you I am well-pleased!" This, truly, would be a moment to savor—A moment to remember and celebrate. And yet, almost immediately, Jesus was driven out into the desert to be tormented by wild beasts and tempted by evil.
It’s not exactly what you would expect, is it? After all, God was pleased—no… make that, WELL pleased with him. But this beloved son was driven directly from a moment of affirmation and love into the harsh wilderness.
Experts say that deserts are formed under unique climactic conditions. Maps show that they cover about 25% of the earth’s surface. Globes indicate they are found only between specific latitudes. That’s what the experts say. But we know the truth about deserts, don’t we?
The truth is, sometimes, no matter where we live, no matter how far we travel, the desert is all we can see.
Sometimes, despite what the weather report or average rainfall may indicate, we find ourselves right in the middle of the desert: blinded, disoriented, sunburned, just about dying of thirst.
Sometimes, the desert feels so familiar, that we can name every shriveled plant, every venomous snake, every blistering ray, every irritating little grain of sand.
Sometimes, the wilderness can feel a lot like home. The single mom, stretched so thin that she almost disappears, knows the desert of exhaustion. The rejected child, watching silently from beyond the playground, knows the desert called loneliness. The unemployed man, whose sense of self-worth has become nonexistent as he faces rejection time and time again, knows the desert of despair. The widow, waking alone, eating alone, sitting alone, living alone without the love of her life, knows the desert called grief. The teenager, peering into the bathroom mirror, questioning just who really is that person staring back at him or her, knows the desert of confusion. The man, woman or child who receives the unexpected and dire diagnosis, knows the desert called fear. We know the truth about deserts, don’t we?
The truth is, despite what the globe says, deserts aren’t found only in sub-Saharan Africa, or south-west Nevada, or in the Sinai peninsula. Some of the harshest deserts aren’t marked on any map. They lie just around the corner or beside the 5th row pew at the 9:00 AM mass.
But there’s something else true about deserts—something that Mark wants us to hear. Jesus has been there first. That’s the Good News of Mark’s opening scenes. No desert on earth is so remote, so barren, so seemingly inhospitable to life, that Jesus hasn’t walked there first. As we begin our Lenten journey, our Gospel today reminds us that Christ entered the desert and emerged triumphant He faced everything that you and I can face, Satan and all of life’s beasts. Know that whatever the boundaries of your desert, whoever or whatever the beasts, the Spirit has driven you there as God’s beloved one, as Christ’s sister or brother, and will use the experience to draw you closer to himself while defeating the powers of Satan in your own life. You are not in the desert alone.
Jesus’ presence in the wilderness reminds us that there’s something else true about deserts: Despite all appearances to the contrary, the wilderness is filled with life. A handful of desert soil, baked and brown, blowing in the hot wind, can be filled with hundreds of seeds, just waiting for a chance to bloom. That withered plant, desiccated and dry, has living roots reaching deep into the ground. That empty landscape—lonely in the harsh light of day, comes to life in the moonlight as reptiles and insects emerge from hiding. Even at its most desolate, the desert is always ready to burst into bloom at the first sign of life-giving water. Maybe that’s why God so often uses the desert as a place for transformation. Maybe that’s why Jesus emerged from the waters of baptism only to be thrust into the wilderness.
This Lent finds many of us traveling through the desert wrestling with demons and tempted by evil. Some people might look upon that journey and despair. But we know the truth about deserts, don’t we?
