Sermons

Finding Space to Overcome Despair 

Well, my friends, I am grateful to be once again traveling beside you in this season of Lent. And that isn’t just because purple is my favorite color, although that is a big perk. It’s because Lent is a period of reflection, fasting, and self-denial that can lead to a self-emptying that allows more of God into our lives. John the Baptist said, “He must increase, but I must decrease.” This is a season when we can take stock of how much we are really showing forth God in our lives. 

And in the past, I have done all sorts of things for Lent, which we call Lenten disciplines. I’ve given up sweets or social media or television. I’ve taken on prayer practices. I’ve given away money. But I think we may need to discern a new call this year. As our rector, Reverend Michele, reminded us in her Ash Wednesday sermon, this year does not feel like any other year. It doesn’t feel like a year when we need to be reminded of our mortality. On our screens and in our earbuds, and even in this never-ending season of winter, mortality is all around us. 

Today, we read the passage near the beginning of Matthew about Jesus being tempted or tested by the devil in the desert. We always hear this or a similar passage in the first week of Lent. (In the other years of our three-year cycle, we hear a similar passage in the gospel of Mark or Luke. Interestingly, no version of this passage takes place in the gospel of John.) But it makes sense that we hear it today because we may be considering our own temptations. We also hear about the forty days and forty nights from which we get the length of our season of Lent. 

This year, I learned something new as I was researching this passage. I learned that the Greek word for devil is diabolos, the root of our word diabolical. But this word is made up of two parts: dia, which means around, and bolos, which means to throw, a similar word to our word ball. And so the devil is the one who throws things around, who stirs you-know-what up, the propagandist, the confuser. The devil makes things seem murkier than they are. 

And sure, there are many mundane temptations of our lives, the same impulses that we’ve struggled with for years. We name many in the Ash Wednesday liturgy and in the Great Litany today: indulgence, negligence, pride, vainglory (this is the kind of word that you only hear at church). 

But I think the greatest temptation we face today is toward despair. I hear it especially from young people: they’re worried about the climate, about gun violence, about the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer, about artificial intelligence causing unemployment, about not being able to afford homes or children, about disconnection and disconsolation. I remember when the internet age felt full of promise and hope. Nowadays, we don’t just scroll, we doomscroll. Many of you may share these same concerns, whether you consider yourself young or not. 

Dr. Hanna Reichel, who is a professor of theology at Princeton Seminary, just published a book called “For Such a Time as This: An Emergency Devotional.” In it, they write, “No one can pay attention to all things all the time. … No one can live in a constant state of emergency. Energy and attention are limited goods. When the absurd and atrocious become the everyday, … people desensitize … what would have created a panic yesterday elicits only a frown today.” 

Lent is a place to bring those fears, those anxieties. It’s a place where we acknowledge that we don’t always have the answers, that the world can be scary, that even Jesus, the Son of God, suffered and died on the cross. But, Dr. Reichel writes, “The Bible doesn’t talk about happiness, but it does talk about joy. The Bible doesn’t offer recipes for avoiding pain and suffering. It lifts up faith, hope, and love.”

We often talk about our “Lenten discipline” at this time of year, but what if, instead (or in addition to) this year, we thought about Lenten lights or Lenten lamps that we are lighting to provide a little hope? Where could you find the space in your own life to do that? 

There’s an image that I’ve been thinking about this week. The image is of a sofa in a living room crowded with stuff, as if the residents are moving. Perhaps close your eyes and imagine your own sofa or bed, piled high with books, magazines, throw pillows, blankets, and maybe a couple pairs of socks. But there’s this one corner, this one little tiny corner of the sofa that is empty. And along comes a cat. And as cats do, it picks around the blankets and the socks and the magazines, and it sees this one space, hardly big enough for a cat. But it lands right there, sinks down, closes its eyes, and relaxes. 

In all of the stuff of your life, the workload and the family, or the lack of work and loneliness, in all of that mess, where is the space that you can create for this season of Lent? Where is the space that you can carve out and just rest? 

Maybe it’s just sitting in silence for a minute a day, or maybe it’s listening to 4 minutes of Gregorian chant, or working on a watercolor. Maybe it’s using the Lenten Mite Box reflections put together by the Service and Social Justice Board. Maybe it’s carrying small bills to give away or taking 5 deep breaths before you walk in the front door. 

My prayer for us this Lent is that we remember temptation and tests don’t last forever, and that we can create light and space to see our way through. To quote another theologian, Kate Bowler, “May rest find you–a small pocket of quiet when your strength is gone. Amen.”