Lent

February 17, 2021

“That’s too Catholic!” My step-grandfather was by his own definition, “an old German square head,” by which he meant not only the shape of his cranium, but the stubbornness of his convictions. He was old school Baptist, and anything that smacked of liturgy, ritual, or vestments was strictly off limits as far as he was concerned. A man wearing a cross around his neck was over the edge in his book. I always listened carefully and considered his opinions with utmost seriousness, after all, it was he who led me to Christ.

So it was that I never observed Ash Wednesday and Lent until later in life, as a Methodist. the story of that transition is a long one best left for another time, but tonight I am thinking about the ashes on my forehead. We have just gotten home from our church’s Ash Wednesday service. It was simple—mostly sitting in silence as the pianist played softly. It was designed to be a rather reflective service, but I have a hard time focusing my thoughts when there is any sort of distraction, and for me, music is definitely a distraction. I spent a good part of the day assembling beehive frames, and my mind kept drifting to how I could do a better job of it. I had to expend quite a bit of mental energy corralling these thoughts that kept breaking loose and catapulting themselves across the landscape of my mind. It wasn’t until we got home and I was able to sit in silence that I could meaningfully reflect.

I’ve been reading some of the Orthodox fathers, and have been quite impressed at their attention to repentance and confession. I suspect I am not alone in struggling with these disciplines. How many times and in how many ways can I go over the same ground? I’ve been a Christian for many years; the more noticeable sins of life are for the most part behind me. At nearly 72, much of the allure of the flesh has faded, so what is there left to repent of? It is only in the silence that I remember my pride; like the Pharisee of old, “I am not like this publican.” I look at my callousness about other people’s salvation; how little I pray for people to come to Christ, and how often I am silent when God gives me the opportunity to witness. 

Why is it such a chore to spend an hour in prayer? Why is it that the sermons, books, and songs that stir others’ faith leave me flatlined? Why do I get so upset over the foolishness going on in Washington or Albany, and fail to see the blessings that surround me from one day to the next? Where is my gratitude?

I am grateful for Ash Wednesday and Lent. They offer me an opportunity to slow down, re-evaluate my habits, and reorient my life. In a world that thrives on almost ceaseless activity, seasons like this are gifts from a loving Heavenly Father that help keep my heart from sliding off what is a very slippery and narrow path. So I sit in solitude, thinking, praying, repenting, and seeking the forgiveness that is so freely offered in Christ. I trust I shall be ready for Holy Week, Good Friday, and Easter, my dull heart honed to a razor’s edge by this age-old discipline of Lent. Tonight, it begins, and I am thankful for it.