The associated reading for this reflection can be found in your Every Sacred Sunday Mass journal or online here.
What's the worst lie you've ever told? Did it hurt a loved one? Maybe it changed your family, a friendship or a work relationship – it’s so easy to lie, right? When someone asks how we're doing, we often lie with a glib, “Fine, thanks.” But inside, we’re screaming about an incredibly frustrating morning, or how the kids were truly difficult last night and we didn’t sleep, or the dark cloud we won’t talk about that’s only growing darker overhead.
These little lies, the small ones that we think don’t affect anyone, snowball into bigger lies that quietly change ourselves. They numb our senses, clouding our vision to see and share Truth and Love in our lives. And then we go to Mass. Maybe it's been a while, or maybe you just went today for Ash Wednesday. We go through the motions, sit, stand, kneel. A priest tells us, “Repent, and believe in the Gospel” or “The Body of Christ.”
I’ll quietly reply, “Amen.” Another lie. I know I’ve told this lie to God many times before. Back at the pew, I’ll pray, nearly questioning myself if I really believed.
I’m always unprepared when Lent arrives. My Lenten commitments are usually toast by the first Friday, and I just end up giving up for Lent. And that’s exactly what I’m doing for Lent this year: I’m giving up. But I’m giving up trying to do everything right. A wise priest once told me in confession, “You won’t do everything right when you walk out of this confessional. Just pick two things, and then another few, and soon you’re in a better place.”
Today, on Ash Wednesday, when I’m reminded of my mortality, I won’t believe the lie that I tell myself: that there is no joy left in this pandemic life. I’ll loudly echo David’s cry for God’s forgiveness after he believed his own lie and scandal, having slept with Bathsheba: “Give me back the joy of your salvation and a willing spirit sustain in me.”
I know my greatest lies that I’ve told and believed – and yours, too – are washed away by God’s “gracious and merciful” Truth. For the next 46 days – Easter is on April 4 – we have 46 new chances to quiet those lies, and choose Truth and do a few things right and well and let our lives say: “Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall proclaim your praise.”
James Ramos is a Texas-based photo-journalist and designer. He loves swimming, ice cream, a solid TikTok and anything by Father Henri Nouwen. Follow him on Instagram for more of his writing and photography.