A little something I shared over on Substack about tomorrow’s gospel.


I posted this over at my Substack account at the beginning of Lent, and it continues to accrue a lot of likes and restacking since then. I ask myself why.
I recently saw an article entitled, “Already dropped your Lent resolution? Consider this.” You start seeing these kind of articles pretty frequently this time of Lent. Nothing really wrong with what was said in the article and also not surprising. Lenten resolutions can be so similar to New Year’s resolutions. They usually don’t last very long. Full confession: I do neither—and for this simple reason: the focus.
Lent can be all about what you’re doing—many times out of a good heart. You want to show God you’re serious about your life, about your faults and imperfections. Or all you’ve ever known or heard about Lent is “giving something up.” So you either pick something random or something that you really like or are addicted to—sometimes to the detriment of others, especially if it’s coffee. (St. Josemaría Escrivá said, “Choose mortifications that don’t mortify others.”)
Or because you’re not really sure what to do, you jump into one of the 40 Day challenges that are being offered somewhere out there and hopefully last more than a week.
As I’ve already said, nothing really wrong about that.
But what if there might be a different way of looking at Lent?
What if you just simply, as Catherine Doherty describes so well, lay your head on Christ’s heart in order to hear God’s heartbeats and trusted that the more you do that, the more you will really change?
What if you lay your head on his heart and you rest there? You let yourself be held and embraced. You surrender like a little child that has fussed and whimpered and finally gives up. And you wait.
God is always initiating.
If you rest there and listen to his heartbeats, you won’t miss what he has for you, what he wants to do in your life.
Perhaps the first thing he wants—and honestly, I think this can be the hardest for so many of us—is for you to hear what his heartbeats are saying. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” With each heartbeat.
For God, that’s always the starting point for each of us. Not just at the beginning of our spiritual lives, but the starting point of each day, of each minute.
The essence of the life of the Trinity is the embrace of the three Persons. The Father embraces his Son, the Son returns this embrace which is, in truth, the Holy Spirit.
The Son is perpetually leaning his head against the heart of the Father. By baptism, we are introduced into this embrace. So, in truth, that is where we are. John the Beloved knew this as he wrote his gospel. He referred to himself as “the one Jesus loved” not just as a way of referring to himself, but also so each of us could see ourselves as “the one Jesus loved”.
So remind yourself that this is your starting place. If that is the only thing you do during Lent, it will be the most important thing that you do.
Jesus knew his identity as the beloved Son of the Father before he went into the wilderness. The Father spoke over him when he was baptized, “This is my beloved Son.” It was after that that he went into the wilderness, led by the Holy Spirit, the love between him and the Father.
So start there—and stay there. Consider whether your lenten resolutions or programs that you are struggling with are resulting from listening to his heartbeats or just something you feel that you have to do in order to have a successful Lent.
Be like Jesus. Lean on his heart before you go rushing out into the wilderness.
P.S. And speaking of the wilderness, read this.
Praying for you.

I’m struck this morning, in reading the second reading from the Office of Readings for Ash Wednesday, by this verse: “Tell the sons of my people: If their sins should reach from earth to heaven, if they are brighter than scarlet and blacker than sackcloth, you need only turn to me with your whole heart and say, ‘Father,’ and I will listen to you as a holy people.”
God, first and foremost, wants relationship with us. That’s why he said to Adam and Eve immediately after they had sinned, “Where are you?” He felt the loss of relationship. He didn’t want any separation from them. And he feels it with us as well. He wants union and intimacy with us. That is what drives all that he does with each of us personally. His desire to have full and complete intimacy with us.
And he makes it so easy. We need only turn to him with our whole heart and say “Father!” He wants each of us to know him as Father, not taskmaster, not even master, but Father. A tender Father of mercies.
This is the point of Lent. This is the point of making space in our lives, of putting aside things, of fasting. It’s all to help our hearts, to quiet our hearts in order to turn to him and say “Father.”
Our prayers do not need to be long. He’s just asking one word of us said with our whole heart: “Father.”
If I could write up something to sum up my thoughts about how to approach Lent, it would be this.
“If Lent is a battlefield, the goal is victory. If it is a self-improvement cycle, the goal is progress. But if the wilderness is courtship, the goal is intimacy. The stripping is not about proving discipline; it is about clearing space.”
Do read the whole piece by clicking on the image below.

We in the midwest—as well as other parts of the country—have weathered a pretty brutal winter this year. Consequently, many of us are affected by the lack of sun during these hard months. Hence, when I happened upon this sonnet by the venerable Malcolm Guite, I just knew that I had to share it this Sunday.

Because We Hunkered Down
These bleak and freezing seasons may mean grace
When they are memory. In time to come
When we speak truth, then they will have their place,
Telling the story of our journey home,
Through dark December and stark January
With all its disappointments, through the murk
And dreariness of frozen February,
When even breathing seemed unwelcome work.
Because through all of these we held together,
Because we shunned the impulse to let go,
Because we hunkered down through our dark weather,
And trusted to the soil beneath the snow,
Slowly, slowly, turning a cold key,
Spring will unlock our hearts and set us free.
I have been pondering the importance of living in the present moment, being attentive to where God is there. In this Sunday poem, James Crews explores the experience of a winter morning—which so many of us are facing this year—and being grateful for it.

Winter Morning
When I can no longer say thank you
for this new day and the waking into it,
for the cold scrape of the kitchen chair
and the ticking of the space heater blowing
orange as it warms the floor near m feet,
I know it is because I have been fooled again
by the selfish, unruly man that lives within me
and believe he only deserves safety
and comfort. But if I pause as I do now,
and watch the street lights outside winking
off one by one like old men closing their
cloudy eyes, if I listen to my tired neighbors
slamming car doors hard against the morning
an see the steaming coffee in their mugs
kissing their chapped lips as they sip and
exhale each of their worries white into
the icy air around their faces—then I can
remember this one life is a gift each of us
was handed and told to open: Untie the bow
and tear off the paper, look inside
and be grateful for whatever you find
even if it is only the scent of a tangerine
that lingers on the fingers long after
you’ve finished eating it.
James Crews
Instead of a Sunday poem, I thought I would reshare this from many years ago about the Presentation of the Lord.
If you would like a Sunday poem, you can visit my substack for today.