It would seem that browsing the blog world on Ash Wednesday is a guilt inducing project for someone who has boldly (if somewhat glibly and also prayerfully) declared that this year what they are giving up for Lent is, well, Lent. I've read post after challenging post this morning, detailing the intentions of some I know and some I don't for the next 40 days or so, as they seek to draw closer to God and prepare their hearts for Easter.
The truth is, the liturgical part of me, the part of me who spent five years at university basking in the history of the church and of the faith, feels just a bit longing today, as this Lenten season begins and I read of others entering into their chosen practices. A text message yesterday from a friend who (accurately based on past experience) assumed that I might be attending a service somewhere today, and asking if she could join me, left me in the awkward position of explaining that no, I didn't have any intentions of attending a service, or of particularly practicing Lent this year.
But the part of me that loves history and tradition feels a bit bereft today, even knowing that a minimal Lenten practice is right for my heart this year.
And the truth is, that bereft feeling is a good thing.
It answers a question I'd been asking. A question that is part of the reason for my decision to "give up Lent for Lent."
I'd been asking if that was truly a part of me, or if it was something I created in efforts to fit my surroundings and please others these last several years.
I'd remade myself in the image of others, in an image I perceived to be one that would gain me acceptance, love, and grace, and part of that remaking was an obsessive focus on the liturgical calendar and seasons.
There is a relief in that separating realization - that this thing that I'd claimed deeply part of me, truly is.
And so, this year, though I didn't eat pancakes last night, won't attend services today, and don't have any planned practices to span the next forty days, my heart will still engage with that.
I'll read blog posts and choose to feel joy for the authors - challenged and inspired by their chosen practices and sacrifices - rather than feel guilt for my own lack of outward sacrificial choices.
Tonight I'll go to a yoga class instead of a church service, and that will be okay, because yoga has been a gift to me in the quiet, peace and rest it has brought, the time to slow down and breathe and listen.
And I'll pray with attention, with intention, with joy and with peace, knowing that by choosing to "give up Lent" I am being obedient to the urging of God for my own heart, and that in this space, I will also be shaped and formed, though differently than other years.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Giving up Lent for Lent
"I'm giving up Lent for Lent."
It was a glib phrase that rolled off my tongue on Sunday night, as I was chatting with my brother's girlfriend. (She'd been telling me that she is giving up spending money for Lent, and in preparation has been on a spending spree the last several days, stocking up on items she knows she'll need to have on hand, and we were laughing over the irony of that.)
A glib phrase, yes, but one that's true for me this year.
I practiced Lent for the first time in my last year of high school, ten years ago exactly. I'd spent three years attending a Catholic high school, listening to my classmates bemoan their lack of chocolate or television or fast food for forty days in the late winter and early spring, and wondered what on earth this thing called Lent was (it wasn't exactly a practice familiar to my conservative evangelical upbringing). I asked a friend, my Young Life leader, and together we read a brief entry in a theological dictionary. She told me that she'd done it a few times, and nearly dared me to give it a shot. I did.
That year I gave up reading fiction and magazines. Brain candy reading, essentially. I made a trip to the library, picked up a stack of Christian classics, or titles authored by those whose faith I admired, and started reading. I think I only made it through one or two titles in the forty days (to this day I fly through novels, but tend to crawl through non-fiction), but the words that I read from thinkers as diverse as John Stott and Mother Teresa shaped and challenged me. I've repeated that particular choice of Lenten sacrifice several times over the last ten years. I've fasted desserts and sweets, experimented with more or less intentionality in the fasts, and even with adding something to my daily life, rather than subtracting. And by and large these brief periods of sacrifice have tended to end with benefits reaped and a faith deepened.
But the last several years, Lent has shifted for me. Instead of a worshipful meditation, it became a grinding obligation. A performance of good habits, for the sake of good habits. A dreaded interruption to my years. The benefits of the fasts seemed lost in the resentment I felt at the obligation, and at the brutal and painful way the season impacted me. There were reasons for that grinding painfulness that are too involved to share here.
I've made a lot of changes in my life over the last six months or so, and this year, I'm giving up practicing Lent as I work to continue the process of healing that I've been experiencing.
I may come back to it at some point in the future, but I want to approach the acknowledgment of the season with joy and desire, not anger, hostility and obligation. I want to do it because it is something that has a positive impact on my life, not because it seems necessary, or because others I know are practicing it. I'm not interested in suffering simply for the sake of suffering, or discipline for the sake of discipline, and this year, as I prayerfully considered the approach of the Lenten season (and I did prayerfully consider it, out of a decade's worth of habit, if nothing else), my sense was that I am simply to rest. That I can sit this one out. The God who has been speaking peace in places I didn't know it could exist, is speaking peace and stillness to this too. Not a season of suffering and groaning. Because honestly, I don't think I could face that right now. Not something to dread (and I did dread it these last several years). Not something to worry and obsess about. Not something to be driven by, this need to appropriately prepare and move relentlessly through a season of suffering, towards a crucifixion. No, in this season, I hear stillness, peace, joy, resurrection.
So I'm giving up Lent for Lent this year. And I'm excited to meet Jesus in a place that need not be dreaded or avoided, but one that can be joyful, bring healing, and new life.
It was a glib phrase that rolled off my tongue on Sunday night, as I was chatting with my brother's girlfriend. (She'd been telling me that she is giving up spending money for Lent, and in preparation has been on a spending spree the last several days, stocking up on items she knows she'll need to have on hand, and we were laughing over the irony of that.)
A glib phrase, yes, but one that's true for me this year.
I practiced Lent for the first time in my last year of high school, ten years ago exactly. I'd spent three years attending a Catholic high school, listening to my classmates bemoan their lack of chocolate or television or fast food for forty days in the late winter and early spring, and wondered what on earth this thing called Lent was (it wasn't exactly a practice familiar to my conservative evangelical upbringing). I asked a friend, my Young Life leader, and together we read a brief entry in a theological dictionary. She told me that she'd done it a few times, and nearly dared me to give it a shot. I did.
That year I gave up reading fiction and magazines. Brain candy reading, essentially. I made a trip to the library, picked up a stack of Christian classics, or titles authored by those whose faith I admired, and started reading. I think I only made it through one or two titles in the forty days (to this day I fly through novels, but tend to crawl through non-fiction), but the words that I read from thinkers as diverse as John Stott and Mother Teresa shaped and challenged me. I've repeated that particular choice of Lenten sacrifice several times over the last ten years. I've fasted desserts and sweets, experimented with more or less intentionality in the fasts, and even with adding something to my daily life, rather than subtracting. And by and large these brief periods of sacrifice have tended to end with benefits reaped and a faith deepened.
But the last several years, Lent has shifted for me. Instead of a worshipful meditation, it became a grinding obligation. A performance of good habits, for the sake of good habits. A dreaded interruption to my years. The benefits of the fasts seemed lost in the resentment I felt at the obligation, and at the brutal and painful way the season impacted me. There were reasons for that grinding painfulness that are too involved to share here.
I've made a lot of changes in my life over the last six months or so, and this year, I'm giving up practicing Lent as I work to continue the process of healing that I've been experiencing.
I may come back to it at some point in the future, but I want to approach the acknowledgment of the season with joy and desire, not anger, hostility and obligation. I want to do it because it is something that has a positive impact on my life, not because it seems necessary, or because others I know are practicing it. I'm not interested in suffering simply for the sake of suffering, or discipline for the sake of discipline, and this year, as I prayerfully considered the approach of the Lenten season (and I did prayerfully consider it, out of a decade's worth of habit, if nothing else), my sense was that I am simply to rest. That I can sit this one out. The God who has been speaking peace in places I didn't know it could exist, is speaking peace and stillness to this too. Not a season of suffering and groaning. Because honestly, I don't think I could face that right now. Not something to dread (and I did dread it these last several years). Not something to worry and obsess about. Not something to be driven by, this need to appropriately prepare and move relentlessly through a season of suffering, towards a crucifixion. No, in this season, I hear stillness, peace, joy, resurrection.
So I'm giving up Lent for Lent this year. And I'm excited to meet Jesus in a place that need not be dreaded or avoided, but one that can be joyful, bring healing, and new life.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Daily 5 - Year 2, Day 204
Today's Daily 5:
- Sun glinting through icicles
- a scarf I love and a cute hat
- a nectarine
- One last hug from L. at the airport drop-off
- comfy worn-in jeans
- scooping hot noodles into my mouth with chopsticks (I love eating with chopsticks!)
- making progress on some reading I'm trying to get done
- a book that is leaving me breathless with the truth it's conveying
- a good natural health treatment
- plowing through a whole bunch of school related work today
New Look
You may have noticed that my blog looks a bit different today. My old template developed some errors yesterday, and while I loved (and still love) it, the errors were making it unreadable for the moment. If the errors end up being resolved, I may still go back to it. But, in the meantime, I've gone ahead and put this new look in place. Let me know if you have any problems with any of the links, please, as it will be a work in progress for a few days while I carve out the time to make all of the necessary adjustments that come with a change like this.
Reverb 11 - March
Some of you will remember that for the month of December I participated in a daily blogging project called Reverb10.
So, here's the monthly prompt for Reverb 11 - March:
If March 2011 was your last month to live, how would you live it?
If March 2011 was my last month to live, (and money was somehow suddenly no object, and health wasn't confining me), I'd travel. I'd visit Morocco, and Europe and Peru and probably Disney Land. I'd find some place with palm trees and sun, and stay there. And I'd do it with friends and loved ones - making memories that would last for them well-beyond the end of my life.
But, if money was a problem, and health was confining, I'd simply invite all those loved ones to come to me. I would quite honestly spend my days having the important conversations. Making sure that the people I love deeply, the ones who have positively impacted my life, know it. I'd spend my time laughing, and eating great food, and probably crying. I'd talk with Jesus a lot as I prepared to meet him face to face. I'd write letters to those loved ones, to leave behind. I'd probably write a lot more of my story down on paper, so that it would last beyond me.
I'm not all that fussed about life ending, and most days, I try to live fully even now. But, I suppose that if I knew the end was coming, I'd soak up even more of life, I'd pour out more love. I'd laugh and cry and eat just about whatever I wanted. And, to quote a lyric penned by Carolyn Arends and performed by Steve Bell, I'd spend time "getting ready for glory."
So, here's the monthly prompt for Reverb 11 - March:
If March 2011 was your last month to live, how would you live it?
If March 2011 was my last month to live, (and money was somehow suddenly no object, and health wasn't confining me), I'd travel. I'd visit Morocco, and Europe and Peru and probably Disney Land. I'd find some place with palm trees and sun, and stay there. And I'd do it with friends and loved ones - making memories that would last for them well-beyond the end of my life.
But, if money was a problem, and health was confining, I'd simply invite all those loved ones to come to me. I would quite honestly spend my days having the important conversations. Making sure that the people I love deeply, the ones who have positively impacted my life, know it. I'd spend my time laughing, and eating great food, and probably crying. I'd talk with Jesus a lot as I prepared to meet him face to face. I'd write letters to those loved ones, to leave behind. I'd probably write a lot more of my story down on paper, so that it would last beyond me.
I'm not all that fussed about life ending, and most days, I try to live fully even now. But, I suppose that if I knew the end was coming, I'd soak up even more of life, I'd pour out more love. I'd laugh and cry and eat just about whatever I wanted. And, to quote a lyric penned by Carolyn Arends and performed by Steve Bell, I'd spend time "getting ready for glory."
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