A Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent          

           I’ve trained quite a few horses in my life. Some of them left an impression, literally. Just ask my x-ray technician.
           I remember, in particular, a colt named Moonshine. He appeared calm when that his owner dropped him off at my place. But the next day, when I slipped a halter across his ears, Moonshine reared, landed a hoof on my chest and sent me flying!
           Later, his owner mentioned that Moonshine once caught his halter on a nail and spent an entire day snagged tight to post, unable to move.
           "He's a bit touchy around the ears," said his owner. 
           (Thanks for the info, boss.)
           Well, like Moonshine, we're all "touchy." We all have sensitive areas deep within, places where we’ve taken-a-hit, spiritual "puncture wounds" that appear healed on the surface but remain tender to the touch...like that time when your boss berated you or a co-worker shunned you or a friend betrayed you or a a family member shamed you. 
           Such encounters turn us into nervous colts. Like Moonshine, we either strike out in defense...or bolt in fear.
           Given the lasting impact that such experiences impart, I suggest that we consider the opening weeks of Lent as a type of desensitizing period. A time in which the Lord draws us to himself, then slowly coaxers us to move pass ghosts from the past. Horse trainers call this process "gentling." A slow, gradual process of building trust for the purpose of dismantling fear and the knee-jerk reactions that flow from traumatic events.
           Lent isn't about “giving up chocolate,” it's about mustering courage to explore parts of the soul that are sore—in sore need—of God’s healing and restoration.
           This is why St. Paul’s message today is critical: If God is for us, who can be against us?
           Ponder that phrase for a moment. If God is for us then, indeed, we have nothing to fear. Nothing from the past, nothing in the present, nothing on the road up ahead.
           Like a trainer approaching a nervous colt, Christ beckons us to the center of the ring. There, He extends his hand to massage memories where nerves remain raw and fear holds sway.
           Like a good trainer, His movements are slow, his voice is soft. “Easy, now,” he whispers. “Easy.”