I’m failing at my Lenten intentions. Again.
Every year I set a standard for how I will live the next 40 days, and without fail, I never do it just right. This year my plan was to drink four litres of water a day, and with every glass of water, to pray over a specific need in my life. I haven’t made it yet. I am drinking more water than I normally would, and I am consistently praying, but I have not yet finished those four litres by the end of the day.
Admittedly I’m not a very competitive person, but I am a very focused person. In general, if I set a goal, I keep working until I reach it. It bothers me that I’m so bad at sacrificing, especially when the sacrifice is so small. That remembering to finish my water every day — remembering to pray every time I pour my glass — is really this hard. It bothers me to recognize how undisciplined I really am.
It bothers me, but I keep going. Every day I start fresh, hoping for the best. Just like every year I participate in Lent, knowing I am never very good at it. Because nobody truly fails at Lent.
Lent is a chance for us to acknowledge our human weakness. To strip away the things that insulate us, to accept discomfort as a part of normal life. In every other area of my life, I work and work until I reach my goal. But in Lent I acknowledge how frail and small I really am. And Christ meets me there.
I find it interesting that the Lenten Gospel readings seem to centre around Christ’s humanity. The moments when he was sweaty and tired, leaning against the side of a well, or when he wept with his friends by a tomb. On Sunday my minister said Christ’s glory is most revealed in his ability to feel what we feel — and then to do something about it. A friend can weep with us, but only Christ can call someone out of the grave. Christ is stirred by our humanity. It motivates him to act on our behalf.
If I am honest, most of the time I try very hard not to be human. I am forever pushing myself, working to produce more efficiently and feel less discomfort. When sickness or negative emotions do come up, I quickly push past the vulnerability of pain. Almost instantly I become sad-and-angry, or sad-and-defensive. Most of the year, I work hard not to just feel sad, and out of that honest frail place, to say to Jesus, “If you had only been here …”
Lent is a time to strip away pretense. It is my moment to set aside my defences, to give up my attempts at success. In Lent I simply acknowledge — I am a human. And I need you, Jesus.
When I do, I hear the very real, human heart of Christ in response. I see his love and compassion, and I see him moved to act. Not because I am good at sacrificing, but because he loves me most when I am vulnerable with Him.
I have not yet met my daily goals for Lent, and there’s a chance I never will. But Lent has been a success in my life. And as hard as it is to sit in weakness and vulnerability, I love this season.
Photo (Flickr CC) by Lars Kasper
