Homily for the First Sunday in Lent 2026

Genesis 2:7–9; 3:1–7 • Psalm 51 • Romans 5:12–19 • Matthew 4:1–11 “What We Do With Hunger” Lent always begins in the wilderness. Not with a crowd. Not with certainty. Not with answers. It begins with Jesus alone, hungry, and exposed. The Gospel tells us that Jesus is led by the Spirit into the desert . This is not an accident. Not a punishment. The wilderness is not where Jesus goes because He has failed—it is where He goes because something true is about to be revealed. And here is where this Gospel meets us in a particular way. We do not have to imagine the desert. We live in one. Every day we move through the stark beauty of the Sonoran Desert—through heat, distance, and open sky. This land is honest. It strips away illusion. Life here survives differently. Roots go deep. Water is precious. Nothing is wasted. That is the kind of place where the Spirit leads Jesus. The desert reveals what is essential—and what is not. Beginning Lent: Ashes in the West, Forgiveness in the East In the Western Church, we began this journey on Ash Wednesday. Ashes were placed on our foreheads with the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It is a moment of humility. A reminder of our mortality. A call to repentance—not as shame, but as truth-telling about who we are before God. But in the Christian East, Lent begins a little differently. Before the fast begins, the Church gathers for what is called Forgiveness Vespers on the evening before the first day of Lent. It is one of the most moving liturgies in the entire year. At the end of the service, something extraordinary happens. The priest steps down from the altar and stands before the people—not as one above them, but as one among them. And he says to them: “Forgive me, a sinner.” And the people respond: “As God forgives, I forgive.” Then each person turns to one another—every single person. Priest to parishioner. Friend to stranger. Parent to child. Even infants are carried into the exchange. One by one, the entire community asks forgiveness of everyone else. “Forgive me, a sinner.” “As God forgives, I forgive.” It can take a long time. It is not efficient. It is not symbolic only. It is relational. Concrete. Human. Why does the Church do this? Because before we go into the desert, we do not go alone. We go reconciled with mother, father, brother, sister, our neighbor, and the stranger. . The spiritual purpose is simple and profound: Lent is not about private self-improvement. It is about restored communion—with God and with one another. The East understands that resentment, injury, pride, and unspoken wounds weigh down the soul. So before the fast begins, the Church does what we might call a “cleaning of the spiritual closet.” We start fresh. Nothing carried unnecessarily. Nothing hidden. Nothing clung to. For me, this is one of the most beautiful ways to begin Lent. Because the wilderness is hard enough without dragging old burdens into it. Hunger Is Not the Enemy The Gospel tells us that after forty days, Jesus is hungry. That hunger matters. Temptation rarely comes when life feels abundant. It comes when we are tired, uncertain, empty, or afraid. Hunger reveals what we rely on. The first temptation: “If you are the Son of God, turn these stones into bread.” Fix the discomfort. Fill the emptiness. Make it go away. We recognize that voice. We live in a world that teaches us to silence hunger immediately—through distraction, consumption, or control. But Jesus refuses. Not because bread is bad. But because this moment is not about bread. Much of what we call temptation is misdirected longing. We are hungry for God, but we try to feed on things that cannot sustain us. A Desert of Noise Our modern wilderness is not only geographical—it is spiritual. We are surrounded by noise. Constant information. Endless urgency. And yet many feel profoundly empty. We reach for distraction the way the tempter invited Jesus to reach for bread—quick relief instead of true nourishment. Lent invites us to rediscover silence. To put things down. To stop filling every space. To allow ourselves to feel the hunger that leads us back to God. Because if we never feel the hunger, we never discover what truly feeds us.

The Temptation of Control The final temptation offered Jesus power without vulnerability. Control without trust. Security without love. That temptation is alive today. We want guarantees. Predictability. Certainty about the future. But deserts teach something different. You cannot control the desert. You learn to depend. And Lent teaches us the same. To pray instead of panic. To trust instead of grasp. To walk with God rather than trying to outrun uncertainty. Returning to Genesis The fall in Genesis began with a fracture of trust: “Did God really say…?” Fear followed. Shame followed. Humanity began hiding. But God never stopped seeking. Lent is not primarily our search for God. It is God calling us out from hiding. What Lent Is Really About Lent is not punishment. It is not spiritual performance. It is not proving strength. Lent is learning how to live truthfully with our hunger—and letting God meet us there. Like the Rite of Forgiveness teaches us: we begin by laying things down, by reconciling, by making space. Only then can we walk into the wilderness freely. The Promise The Gospel says that after the temptations, angels came and ministered to Jesus. The promise is not that we avoid the desert. The promise is that God meets us within it. May this season be for us a true beginning: a clearing of the heart, a reconciliation with one another, a walking lightly into the desert— trusting that God is already there. Amen.