Tuesday of the Fifth Week of Lent, April 8, 2025

Today’s Readings, from the USCCB:

Reading 1

Numbers 21:4-9

From Mount Hor the children of Israel set out on the Red Sea road, to bypass the land of Edom. But with their patience worn out by the journey, the people complained against God and Moses, "Why have you brought us up from Egypt to die in this desert, where there is no food or water? We are disgusted with this wretched food!"

In punishment the LORD sent among the people saraph serpents, which bit the people so that many of them died. Then the people came to Moses and said, "We have sinned in complaining against the LORD and you. Pray the LORD to take the serpents away from us." So Moses prayed for the people, and the LORD said to Moses, "Make a saraph and mount it on a pole, and whoever looks at it after being bitten will live." Moses accordingly made a bronze serpent and mounted it on a pole, and whenever anyone who had been bitten by a serpent looked at the bronze serpent, he lived.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 102:2-3, 16-18, 19-21

R. O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you.

O LORD, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you. Hide not your face from me in the day of my distress. Incline your ear to me; in the day when I call, answer me speedily.

R. O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you.

The nations shall revere your name, O LORD, and all the kings of the earth your glory, When the LORD has rebuilt Zion and appeared in his glory; When he has regarded the prayer of the destitute, and not despised their prayer.

R. O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you.

Let this be written for the generation to come, and let his future creatures praise the LORD: "The LORD looked down from his holy height, from heaven he beheld the earth, To hear the groaning of the prisoners, o release those doomed to die."

R. O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you.

Verse Before the Gospel

The seed is the word of God, Christ is the sower; all who come to him will live for ever.

Gospel

John 8:21-30

Jesus said to the Pharisees: "I am going away and you will look for me, but you will die in your sin. Where I am going you cannot come." So the Jews said, "He is not going to kill himself, is he, because he said, 'Where I am going you cannot come'?" He said to them, "You belong to what is below, I belong to what is above. You belong to this world, but I do not belong to this world. That is why I told you that you will die in your sins. For if you do not believe that I AM, you will die in your sins." So they said to him, "Who are you?" Jesus said to them, "What I told you from the beginning. I have much to say about you in condemnation. But the one who sent me is true, and what I heard from him I tell the world." They did not realize that he was speaking to them of the Father. So Jesus said to them, "When you lift up the Son of Man, then you will realize that I AM, and that I do nothing on my own, but I say only what the Father taught me. The one who sent me is with me. He has not left me alone, because I always do what is pleasing to him." Because he spoke this way, many came to believe in him.

The Fire, the Serpent, and the Savior

“Why have you brought us up from Egypt to die in this desert?”

The Israelites had been rescued from slavery, sustained with manna, led by cloud and flame – and yet here they are again…complaining. Bitter. Worn down. Ready to trade freedom for familiarity.

And I get it. I do.

Because it’s not just their story. It’s mine.

I’ve asked that same question in different words.

Why did You bring me this far just to leave me here?

Why does it feel like You’re silent now, when I actually need to hear You the most?

Why did I give up dreams, joy, comfort…only to feel stuck, forgotten, or worse – punished?

The desert is disorienting.

It turns blessings into burdens when they don’t look the way you expected.

It messes with your memory, rewrites history, and whispers that Egypt – your former chains – might’ve been better than this uncertainty.

It brings out your truest prayers, not the polished ones. The raw ones. The ones you’re afraid to say out loud.

And when I’m honest, I’ve said them…

“I’m tired of trusting when nothing changes.”

“I’m tired of believing when I feel let down.”

“I’m tired of walking forward when You feel so far behind me.”

Bitten by the Serpent of My Own Bitterness

In today’s reading, God sends serpents into the camp. And part of me flinches at that – why would a loving God do that? Why add more pain to an already weary people?

But then I look closer…

The serpents were already there. Maybe not literal ones. But the poison? It had already taken root.
In their words.

In their hearts.

In their forgetfulness.

In their failure to trust.

And it makes me ask, What’s been biting me?

What have I allowed to slither into my spirit?

Is it resentment for the people who judged me without knowing the full story?

Is it regret for the dreams I gave up and the parts of myself I buried for the sake of being “responsible”?

Is it the silent ache of being the youngest, always seen as the wild card – like I had something to prove but could never quite win?

Is it that unshakable feeling that my mistake – that one moment – might’ve helped break my father’s heart, and I’ll never be free of that cross?

Yeah. That’s poison.

And it spreads.

Quietly.

Consistently.

Until you wake up one day and you don’t just feel lost – you feel bitten.

When Healing Looks Like the Very Thing That Hurt You

 

God tells Moses to make a bronze serpent – the very image of the pain – and put it on a pole. He doesn’t remove the serpents. He doesn’t rewind time. He gives them a strange remedy – Look at what wounded you. Stare at it. And trust Me anyway.

That’s wild.

Because I’ve spent most of my life trying not to look at the things that hurt.

The gossip that tore apart my sense of belonging.

The silence that followed my mistakes – how some people turned it into their opportunity to judge, exclude, and condemn.

The way my faith feels more like a fight than a comfort sometimes.

The way I can volunteer as Santa, coach, friend – and still wonder if any of it is “enough.”

The way I can show up for others and still carry the weight of wondering whether God will ever show up for me.

But here’s the hard truth…

Sometimes the path to healing runs straight through the hurt.

Sometimes the thing that makes us whole is staring right at the part of us we’d rather bury.

And that bronze serpent? It points to a bigger truth…

 “When You Lift Up the Son of Man…” – John 8:28

 

Jesus knew exactly what He was doing when He said those words. He was connecting the dots. From the desert…to the cross.

The serpent lifted on the pole was the shadow. The cross is the substance.

The antidote for sin isn’t avoidance – it’s Jesus lifted high.

But that’s where it hurts.

Because if I’m being honest, I still struggle with believing the cross was for me.

Not just in some general, everybody’s-saved kind of way.

But in the “He saw me – mess, shame, regret, ache – and still thought I was worth it” kind of way.

That’s hard to believe when you still carry guilt like it’s sacred.

When your past feels louder than your prayers.

When the cross you drag behind you feels heavier than the one He hung on.

But here’s what today’s Gospel reminds me of…

Jesus didn’t wait for me to clean myself up.

He didn’t say, “Prove you’re worthy, then I’ll save you.”

He said, Look at Me.

Not at your mistakes.

Not at the scars they left.

Not at the people who abandoned you.

Look at Me.

Because I AM.

Not just the name of God, but the answer to every question I’ve been too afraid to ask.

So Here’s Where I Am Today…

I’m in the desert.

Still aching.

Still doubting.

Still carrying things I don’t know how to let go of.

But I’m also looking up.

At the Savior lifted high.

At the cross that reminds me I don’t have to earn what He already gave.

At the kind of mercy that says, “Yes, you were bitten… but you’re not going to die here.”

And maybe that’s what healing begins to look like.

Not an instant cure.

Not a perfectly scripted redemption.

But the slow, stubborn act of turning my eyes – again and again – to the One who says…

I have not left you alone.

I am with you in this wilderness.

And when you lift your eyes to Me…

You will live.