Lent - The Invitation to Remember, Reflect and Reorient

Maybe Lent can lead us through the hardest parts of being human toward the ultimate hope of our reality in Christ.

“I hate everything!” he snapped, scowling at me through rainbow unicorn sunglasses perched on his face. His black snow suit contrasted sharply with the colourful glasses but matched his dark mood.

It had been one of those mornings. It was a struggle to pull on his snowsuit and get his mittens tucked into his sleeves the way he preferred. His pant legs kept sliding up under the snowsuit which made him feel itchy around his ankles. Boots were kicked off multiple times, big sighs and exclamations were had and my own patience wore thin. The air outside was damp and cold, and the stretch of independence I’d asked of him this morning was just a little outside his window of tolerance.

“Are you feeling grumpy?” I asked him, trying to hide my rueful smile as I surveyed the furrowed brow behind the gaudy glasses.

He nodded.

“I not like Winter!” he glowered. “It’s too cold!”

Truthfully, at this point of February we all feel a bit like this. The novelty of snow, skating, sledding and building snow forts has long worn off. The weather has been unpredictable lately; the cold has been mixed with the odd mild day where icicles drip and glimmer in rare sunshine and the driveway becomes a minefield of patchy ice, dirt and snow.

Photo by Marium Qureshi on Unsplash

“Do you need a hug?” I asked, fighting off the urge to correct his dramatic language and instead leaning into compassion. I really wasn’t that much more excited than he was about standing out here waiting for the school bus in the damp, cold wind at 8:20 am.

He nodded and a reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as I wrapped him in a tight hug.

“Who is this grumpy boy?” I teased, giving him a little squeeze and shake. He erupted in giggles and I chased him across the driveway. This turned into a game of chasing away “Grumpy Boy” and cheering every time we saw “Happy Boy” return. By the time the schoolbus arrived he was back to his cheerful little self.

This past Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, which marked the beginning of Lent. The term Lent comes from the Old English word lencten, which means “Spring” or “the lengthening of days.” This forty-day Christian tradition includes various practices among different denominational groups including fasting, prayer, abstaining from luxuries and focus on spiritual renewal. It is rooted in some of the earliest practices of the early Christian church.

Lent begins six and a half weeks before Easter each year, which places it in the middle of February. Here in Canada, it’s fitting that mid-way through February some would find themselves lining up to recieve a smudge of ash on their foreheads as the cold seeps into our bones and the snow turns brown along the ridges of snowbanks that line the streets. The dusty smudge of ash is meant to symbolize repentance, mourning and acknowledgment of our mortality.

Photo by Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash

I didn’t grow up in a Christian tradition that typically observed Lent. Mennonites have their own set of rituals and traditions rooted in symbolism but this was not one of them. I remember feeling curious as a teenager when I first overheard a Catholic co-worker describing her choice to abstain from chocolate for the Lenten season. While I still don’t practise Lent in the traditional way, my curiosity was kindled this week as I was reminded of Lent and all it symbolizes.

Kate Bowler, in her typically honest and tender fashion, said,

“Lent tells the truth about being human.”

Well, that resonates.

Just as all our January resolutions are fading and we bump face first into our own capacity limits, lack of discipline and weariness….here comes Lent to remind us of our own fragility in the world and our inability to measure up to the bar of holiness that is set before us.

Ironically, I’m also about to jump into the book of Leviticus in my Bible reading plan. To be honest, it isn’t the most motivating thought to pull me out of bed at 6am every morning…but maybe it’s just what my heart needs. Leviticus - the book of rules, feasts, rituals and traditions.

This is the part where God teaches the Israelite nation - fresh out of Egypt’s polytheism - exactly what is required of them to be in relationship with this One Holy God who has rescued and chosen them to be His own. Amidst the rules, the bloody rituals and the detailed procedures for communion with this God, there is narrative work at play here. Every feast ordained, every rhythm set is planting an internal clock inside the minds and hearts of these people.

It’s saying, “Remember, remember, remember.”

Remember who I am and what I have done for you. Remember how deeply I desire to be close to you. Remember how faithful and generous I have been toward you. Remember how often you have fallen away. Remember how fearful and helpless you were. Remember how I showed up. Every. Single. Time.

I think Lent can do the same. Remind us of who we are, who He is and what He’s done in the past.

Maybe, like me, you’re aching a little in this season. Maybe the reality that life is fragile, that sin is persistent and that repentance is messy is not difficult for you to resonate with.

I feel like I’ve been waffling between hopelessness and peace lately.

On one hand, the world looks pretty chaotic. There is constant hurt, dysfunction, fear and pain warring for space in my mind and the world around me. I feel like I am recognizing a weariness and consistent overwhelm amongst my peers signalling that we have reached middle age. Here in the trenches of reality, it’s hard not to side eye optimism a bit while simultaneously envying it’s naivety. I’m well aware there are few guarantees in life.

On the other hand, the more life I live, the more evidence stacks up that God really is who He says He is. He just keeps showing up, and the longer I walk with Him the less essential I feel. Not in an insignificant way, but in a relieving “Oh, this weight actually doesn’t rest on me” kind of way. I believe in His sovereignty more than I ever have, while also bowing to the reality that He has the right to do whatever He wishes with whomever He wants.

I feel small in the best of ways, but also vulnerable to a power I don’t fully understand and still struggle to trust at times.

I believe He is good in this all encompassing sort of way, but it’s harder to discipline my heart to believe that all of His actions are good. I’m not always as excited about the all encompassing plan He’s working out as I am about my own short term well being and comfort.

Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash

I went back to therapy last week to bemoan my own small window of tolerance and inability to demonstrate resilience. I needed help trying to sort out my thoughts, my rhythms and my nervous system.

“I felt like I was doing so well!” I admitted. “I thought I was more resilient than this.”

It felt a bit like my own “I hate everything” moment.

She nodded and gently prompted,

“So what shifted? What have you stopped doing?”

I sighed and sank back into the couch cushions. There was a laundry list in my mind of tiny ways I’d stopped pouring into my own well being, but they all sounded so insignificant until I admitted them out loud into the space of the room. I was surprised by the weight of their impact. Set on a scale opposite the stressors, grief, nervous system tension and seasonal realities it was no surprise I wasn’t thriving.

The reality is, resilience is both built and dismantled through small, cumulative actions.

Kind of like sin. We fall into sinful patterns along the way through these micro shifts that feel insignificant at the time but slowly bind us. In the same way, resilience and freedom can be established in us bit by bit through these tiny acts of intentionality and faith.

Lent, in this season, feels like an invitation to me.

It’s like an external prompt to reorient us internally.

Most Evangelicals observe Lent by focusing on spiritual growth and practises, dedicating extra time to study, serving or prayer.

It’s Leviticus all over again.

“Come close,” He says. “Remember who I am and how I keep showing up for you.”

If you want to do some Lent reflective journalling, here are some prompts for you.

Where do I feel the fragility of life stamping it’s presence on my forehead, ash and all?

What sins and unholy habits are keeping me separated from His presence?

What do I want to be set free of?

In six weeks we will celebrate Easter.

Maybe Lent can lead us gently through the hardest parts of being human toward the ultimate hope of our reality in Christ. There is a grand, majestic conclusion to this mess we’re in. We just need to hold on a wee bit longer.

-AF

Note: The reflections shared here are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views or positions of CareImpact.