God sees us – 1 Sam 16:1-13, John 9:1-41

Fourth Sunday of Lent, Year A; Holy Infant Parish.

Humans don’t see as God sees. Yet. As we put our first reading and gospel together, I think that’s what we’re left with. We have the negative confession: the humans don’t see as God sees. We have the good news that God sees in a world-changing way. And we have what excites us to hope: that God will transform how we see.

Christ brings the heavenly down the mountain for us – Matt 17:1-9; Gen 12:1-4a

2nd Sunday of Lent, Year A; Holy Infant.

“Luke, I am your father;” the de-masking at the close of the Marriage of Figaro; the transformation of the Beast into Belle’s prince; the quite frankly bizarre moment in more than one Shakespeare play when a woman lets down her hair and only then do the rest of the dramatis personae realize she’s not a boy: we’re fascinated by these kinds of scenes, where a character’s true identity, hidden from other characters or even from the reader, gets made visible, when the dramatic x-ray machine cuts through flesh and marrow and discloses bone.  This is the vision God granted these three disciples, a disclosure of the glorious light Christ was in their midst, in contrast to the hiddenness and homelessness with which he was more normally clothed.  But this is not just a revelation about Jesus with no relevance for the rest of humanity; this is a preview of the glory of resurrection that awaits us. It’s a re-echoing of the heavenly voice from Christ’s baptism, the unwavering assertion of his beloved sonship, and another invitation to hear that voice speaking to us.

Christ raises us to be who were created to be – Gen 2:7-9, Matt 4:1-11

1st Sunday of Lent, Year A; Holy Infant parish.

I have to admit that whenever I’m bored, one of my go-to “this’ll-distract-me” instincts is to pull out my phone. Of course, it doesn’t always work, and I have at times caught myself looking at something on my phone, still being bored at it, or frustrated at how slowly something’s loading, and realizing that my left hand is instinctively reaching down to my pocket to take out my phone. Forgetting what I’m doing makes me think that something’s going to satisfy me that isn’t, in this case that isn’t even there.  What’s much more dangerous though than forgetting what you’re doing is forgetting who you are.