FAITH
Well, it’s the season of Lent. Again.
Lots of folks look at Lent as a period of time during which they’re obligated to abstain from something meaningful as a means of proving themselves as Christians. And about this time of the year, I usually try to give something up–coffee, alcohol, fried food, Facebook, etc.
Sure, my doctor probably thinks it’s a decent idea for me to eat less fried chicken, even if only for a period of time before Easter. But it probably doesn’t bring me closer to God.
I’ve long appreciated liturgy. The downside of liturgical seasons is that, over time, they might start to feel rote. Worn out. Tired. Like you’ve been here before. Celebrate the birth of Christ, put away the Christmas tree, and soon it’s time to roll out the purple again and rub ashes on our foreheads.
Well, it’s the season of Lent. Again*.
The trick is to remember that liturgy is scaffolding–a framework that allows us to climb out of our daily routines and grow to something more spiritual. And Lent gives us an opportunity to change from the regular to the irregular, a shove off our normal starting blocks, beginning on Ash Wednesday with the jolting, existential reminder that we will die and turn to dust.
Christians often associate Lent with a journey following Christ to the cross. But the length–forty days–is modeled on Jesus’s temptation in the wilderness, during which he prepared for his life of ministry, and I’ve found myself contemplating how that shapes my observance of Lent.
Following his Jordan River baptism by John the Baptist, Jesus was “full of the Holy Spirit” and departed for a journey into the wilderness. The devil preyed upon his vulnerabilities:
Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, left the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, 2 where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing during those days, and at the end of them he was hungry. 3 The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, tell this stone to become bread.” 4 Jesus answered, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone.’”
luke 4:1-4
There’s something so human about how the devil first approaches Christ because he is hungry. He’s probably starving. So, the devil challenges Jesus to turn a stone into something to eat. Jesus, weakened by his hunger, doesn’t come up with an original response. He simply quotes Old Testament scripture to the devil.
Christ allowed himself to become vulnerable. He subjected himself to temptation. And he relied upon his training to carry him through.
Lent isn’t about giving up something you already should because your doctor is concerned about your cholesterol. It’s about removing the artificial barriers that separate you from temptation, leaving only God in the space between.
It seems counterintuitive to tear down any walls that seem to safeguard us from temptation. Why would we seek it out? Why would we let it get so close? Temptation, though, is as much a part of being human as anything.
Paul understood this, especially as he wrote letters to various groups of Christians who constituted the early church. They struggled, as we all do, with how to do this Jesus-following thing. Paul offered this warm bit of encouragement:
13 No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.
i corinthians 10:13
My study reference here notes that in the original Greek, the word temptation is often seen as interchangeable with the word test. Which is to say, God will not let you be tested beyond what you can bear, and when you are tested, God will provide a way out.
Tests aren’t fun–I typically try to avoid them–and this one isn’t necessarily meant to be, either. But it’s a useful opportunity to measure what we’ve learned.
Lent, then, offers us a chance to test ourselves: to run the forty day race, to purposefully let down the barriers that separate us from the darkness lurking beyond, to bravely stare it down, to remember the foundations of our faith, to remember you are sealed within it, to trust you can endure it.
*Author’s note: Yes, I couldn’t resist a reference to the classic film Groundhog Day. There are more than enough think pieces about Harold Ramis’s ode to a small town’s celebration of a subterranean rodent meteorologist and Phil Connors’ personal journey of redemption. Maybe one day I’ll add mine.
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