“If today you hear His voice, harden not your hearts.” — Psalm 95:8

This is the “Verse before the Gospel” for the liturgy of Thursday of the fifth week of Lent. To grasp its full weight, however, you have to look at both verses 7 and 8 together:

“Oh, that today you would hear his voice: Do not harden your hearts as at Meribah, as on the day of Massah in the desert.”

The first half of this passage is a longing desire that we pay attention to God’s call: “Oh, that today you would hear his voice…” If you sit with those words for a few minutes and let them echo in your mind, you can almost hear the divine desire reaching out for you.

Then comes the warning: “Do not harden your hearts as at Meribah… as on the day of Massah in the desert.” Meribah is the place of quarreling with God; Massah is the place of testing Him.

This reference to the Israelite experience in the desert during their forty years of Exodus closely mirrors our own forty days of Lent—one day for every year wandering in the wilderness. As we journey through this Lenten season, we travel alongside the Israelites. How many times have we encountered our own Meribah and Massah? I hope, perhaps counterintuitively, at least a few. That confrontation of the whole person with the Divine implies an authentic relationship. It reflects the deep meaning behind the name Israel: we are the people who wrestle and quarrel with God. We are the people who love God so much that we get angry with Him, shouting like a child at a parent, “Why?! I don’t understand!”

Over the past couple of months, we have experienced our share of loss. A good friend and pillar of the Prep community, Chris Lynch, was taken from us at the young age of 55. That same week, I lost my Uncle Richard, who was also my godfather. It is also during Lent that I remember the loss my father, my grandmothers, my aunts, and my sister.

Because of this, the liturgical season carries a heavy weight of memory and meaning for me. The journey of Lent implies loss. It isn’t for nothing that it is framed as a journey through a desert: arid, unforgiving, and desolate. It is here, in the quiet emptiness, that God is often the hardest to hear—and exactly where we need Him the most.

That is why today’s Gospel reading from John is so difficult for me. Jesus says: “Amen, amen, I say to you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.” The people challenge Him, replying, “Abraham died, as did the prophets, yet you say, ‘Whoever keeps my word will never taste death.’” 
When I read this, I hear my own voice challenging Him: “Chris died, as did my father, my grandfathers and grandmothers, my uncles, aunts, cousins, and my sister. Yet You say, ‘Whoever keeps my word will never taste death.'”

This is my Meribah. This is my Massah.

But then, if you listen closely, you can hear Jesus speak elsewhere in that same Gospel: “They are asleep… They will rise.”(John 11:11, 23).

That is the promise of Easter. 
It brings to mind the Jewish evening prayer, Ahavat Olam. I am particularly moved by the Platt Brothers’ rendition, where they weave a beautiful English refrain right into the traditional Hebrew text: “When we lie down, when we rise up, this joy will last forever.” This lyric is a direct, poetic reflection of the ancient Hebrew words: b’shochbeinu u’v’kumeinu (when we lie down and when we rise up) and v’nismach… l’olam va’ed (and we will rejoice… forever and ever).

So, when we find ourselves stranded in our own Meribah and Massah, experiencing the profound desolation of loss, let us try to hear His voice. Let us remember that they are only asleep.

When we lie down, and when we rise up, this joy will last forever.