What is Lent all about anyway? Why do we “give things up?" What’s with the fish? Why do we throw this huge slow-down into the year, just when spring is beginning to show its little green head from the soil? Why do we always have to talk about death?
Good questions.
Questions for which I don’t have ready answers. Google can help with some of them I suppose. And this year, after a long and difficult winter, it is perhaps doubly exasperating to have a late Easter -- which drags Lent on WELL into April.
Last week’s blog by Jen is so eloquent. She is clear about what she likes about Lent. I fear I am not so clear, but lately I have been finding some resonance in the idea that life is a series of little deaths and resurrections. I am more aware of my own anyway.
Here are some:
The death of my prejudicial ideas about people who were different than me when I went into the “big city” for college and met folks of all ethnicities, gender, sexual orientations and religions. The more I spoke with them the more I embraced the idea that we are all children of God and are all unique conduits for God’s love.
The death of my need to define myself by my job title or my annual salary when I chucked them both to start over after hitting burnout. I discovered I didn’t need the externals to define myself and found what mattered most to me was not achievable by title or money.
The death of my belief that I was invincible when my body turned against me and left me in a hospital for a week with no discernable cause. I was a little more humble and a little more careful in how I pushed myself.
There have been a few more deaths and resurrections along the way as well, along with the knowledge that there are some things that I …… perhaps need to work on killing! There are still some rough edges on the ego that could die. There is a rush to judgment that could be jettisoned. And more…
Every Lent, I feel challenged to set down and walk away from the burdens that weigh me down and to let them die at the foot of the cross. So I embrace the Lenten journey, not so much to deny myself, but to defy my ‘self’ and resurrect more of the love of God into my daily life.
Paul S.
I admit it. I am a Lent and Holy Week junkie. A lot of people embrace the quiet, watchful, yet softly joyful season of Advent. They rejoice at Christmas to finally announce “Born is the King of Israel! Christ the Savior is Born!” Easter brings the triumphant return of Lord – “He is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!” But for whatever reason, Lent and Holy Week … well, they don’t go by ignored, although I don’t imagine a lot of folks out there revel in the season of Lent like I do.
I love everything about Lent. The somberness: gathering for midweek worship in a darkened sanctuary in the quiet evening. The physical: the mark of ashes, giving up (or adding something in) for these weeks, the waving of palms, the washing of feet. (Although I do NOT love the always annoying McDonald’s fish sandwich commercials.) I probably love these things because the season of Lent goes along nicely with my winter blues. I feel as though I can embrace my melancholy and depression; it’s welcomed here. Jesus is suffering right along with me… being faced with temptations, hungering in the wilderness, and finally, the heroic finale of giving his life.
When they came to the hill and crucified Jesus along with the criminals, Jesus prayed. “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing.” They threw dice for his clothes, taunted him, toasted him with sour wine. “So you’re King of the Jews! Save yourself!” One criminal beside Jesus cursed him. The other criminal shut him up, asking if he had no fear of God, telling him that they deserved this fate, but that Jesus did not. Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you enter your kingdom.” Jesus said, “Don’t worry, I will. Today you will join me in paradise.” (Luke 23:42-43)
This confessed thief likely did not know scripture, understand theology, had probably never recited a creed nor joined a church or been baptized. At this point, he was incapable of turning his life around. He simply asked Jesus to remember him.
Our midweek worship theme is “If I Only Had Six Weeks to Live.” Thinking about death is not fun by any stretch of the imagination. Making plans, preparing your family (given the chance), wondering what legacy you’re leaving behind. Do you wonder what you’re learning? What your mission is? If you’re leaving behind something meaningful for your loved ones?
Most of us struggle with this… constantly wondering if we’re doing the right things, saying the right things, feeling the right things. I panic at not knowing my mission, and somehow missing it. Especially being a mom, I’m pretty sure I’m screwing something up. As a child, sister, niece, friend, colleague, stranger – yep, pretty sure I’m screwing up stuff there too. I constantly wonder, after I’m gone, what exactly people will remember about me. What is my legacy? Have I done anything worthwhile? I don’t feel like I’ve done or been anything great. I’m over here, leading my humdrum life, hiding in the corner, not wanting to be noticed. Yes, I do good and wonderful things with and in my life, but I know it’s not enough. I can do better. As for the few good and wonderful things I do, I’m sure there are MORE than enough not so good things to balance it out.
But as a Child of God, I am perfect. Jesus knows my imperfections and chooses to look the other way; grace is freely given, not earned. Even in the darkest days of Lent and melancholy, when I’m not sure I’ll make it through, Jesus does notice me. He comforts me, even when he’s the one I’m mourning. I am that criminal beside him. Jesus will remember me.
If you’re questioning whether or not Jesus will remember you when that time comes, fear not. Jesus knows you. All of you. Every freckle on your face, every thought you have, every deed you do. He knows your legacy, and your loved ones will too (even if you never figured it out for yourself!). “Don’t worry, I will remember you,” Jesus says. He will welcome you with open arms in paradise.
Amen.
~Jen
The softly lit room sheltered the gentle chatter of folks lounging around the dinner table, as others sat nearby on a scattering of small benches, waiting. I found myself in this room quietly sitting on a wooden bench, facing this man whose eyes gently gazed back at me. A white towel rested on his knee as he placed an earthen bowl of water on the ground between us. I sat there, still, and somewhat puzzled by my resistance. Why did I so resist removing my sandals? This quiet man only wished to wash my feet. Yet I just sat there glancing down at the sewn straps which shielded my skin, as he patiently waited. In the next moment the call of a bell broke through my trance, beckoning me to open my eyes and join our Sunday church forum group. This out-of-time scene had emerged in my mind during our group prayer meditation. Yet it stayed with me as I drove home and on afterwards.
Why had I been so resistant to baring my feet? And why this scene at the beginning of Lent? Could it have been the simple notion of not wanting to bare my imperfections? (On a minor scale, I often walk barefoot around the house, in and out, in warmer weather.) In my meditative vision, the eyes gazing back at me had been those of the man from Nazareth. Surely he knew me well. Tossing around the possibility of this idea as my reason became futile.
During these 40 days of Lent, I tend to journey between Jesus’ day trips with the disciples through town and country, and his time spent in the desert. And now I pondered; what if this year I took off those sandals to follow Jesus footsteps more closely? What if my resistance had been about entering into the unknown? This questioning thought has left me with an awe….. and a little fear. Yet I cannot do otherwise.
Sometimes it seems our ‘giving things up’ for Lent is almost like making a New Year’s resolution. We give something up for 40 days... and then what? While our intentions are good… we are still in control. Several Sundays ago at English Lutheran, we had the chance to listen to author Brene Brown talk about the power and gift of being vulnerable. Not always an easy place to live into.
Yet within this place of unknowing, where we may not be in control, we are gifted with the journey of opening ourselves into the mystery of God’s grace and gifts. We are invited to explore a depth within our spirits we may not have imagined. It is a lifelong exploration so worth the venture even with all our possible trepidations.
St. John of the Cross writes about the journey into one’s interior… into the whole of our being, with all our beauty and imperfections, through all our loves and sufferings. It is here that we come face to face with our vulnerability, where we gain the courage and/or calling to take off our sandals, and where we face once again the awesome mystery of God’s loving grace. St. John writes, “When you regarded me, your eyes imprinted your grace in me. In this you loved me again, and thus my eyes merited to also love what you see in me. Let us go forth together, to see ourselves in Your beauty.”
And so I leave you here with this song and prayers for your Lenten journey.
Shalom,
Susan
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