twelve::ten

(a homily)

The world, our land, is a desert. It is dry, and easily do the sands shift. Easily are promises forgotten, dreams scattered, ideas proven unsustainable. Yes, winter is the most honest of seasons with fallen leaves and dreary days, a looking glass by which we can view, an atmosphere in which we can feel the inward parts of the world.

But a garden is germinating. A spring is beginning to gurgle. The gray clouds are emptying their reservoirs of rain. A light is preparing to dawn.

From this garden's fruits we are given sustenance. The spring's waters, refreshment. As the clouds perform their task and part, the light shines down to reveal that God has prepared a new way. This way goes through the desert, and it gives hope to those who travel it. It bids sinners to walk with new steps, to think with a renewed mind, to dream holy dreams.

We are taking such steps as we approach the table before us. We taste the fruits of a garden that grows in a desert when we eat the bread and drink the wine. Even in these dark and honest days of winter it is revealed to us that a deeper truth exists, one that penetrates the darkness, for it is the foundation of all that is good.

If we taste this truth, if we hear the bubbling spring of life, if we feel the light shining down on us, let us go from this place exposed and transformed. And let us learn to invite others to travel the highway with us, even if we or they must be transported on a stretcher, for Christ will heal us so we may walk. The Spirit will strengthen us and enlighten us to live faithfully in the midst of a desert.

(Isaiah 35:1-10, Psalm 85:9-14, Luke 5:17-26)