These
are common questions in the season of Lent. For years I used
to try to think of something that would require me to endure
some significant (I could even say faithful) deprivation, but
which would also have other desired benefits as well, such
as giving up sweets and snacks and thus losing weight, or working
out at the gym three days a week but also seeing my boyfriend
there. In retrospect, it seems that each of these was more
of an indulgence than a pious deprivation.
So
let's ask the question again. What is your Lenten discipline
this year, your Lenten discipline? The word is so
similar to the word disciple. They have a similar derivation,
and each of them implies a sense of intention and an obedience
in following a worthy purpose or person. So perhaps this year
during Lent, rather than trying to keep the rules of a particular
discipline, we would do better if we try instead to become
a disciple of Christ; rather than trying to follow a set of
rules, we can pursue the blessing of a relationship. We can
become disciples ourselves, students in dialogue with our teacher
as we walk along together towards Easter, that great day of
Resurrection.
I
suppose there'd be plenty for us to talk about as we walk through
this season together – about the people we know, the people
we love, those who have hurt us and those whom we have hurt.
We could talk about peace and war, about hope and fear, about
giving and receiving, about sin and redemption, about spring
coming like the keeping of an unforgotten promise to make all
things new.
Then
some of the time we would just go along in the intimacy of
silence, where no words are needed for understanding. Together
we'd feel the warmth of the sun on our faces and the breeze
in our hair. We'd listen together to the sounds and to the
silences. We'd hear the harmony of our hearts beating together,
drawing us together as one.
Then,
I imagine that we, like those first disciples, would also inevitably
recall some of the things that we're ashamed of, that cause
us sorrow to remember – times when we've hurt someone, or scarred
some of the natural beauty around us, or ignored a need that
we could have filled but didn't. So our words of regret come
tumbling out, because we need to talk with our companion about
these things as well.
A
friend of mine once told me of just such a talk. He said that
there were things he had done in his life that he regretted
profoundly and that to remember them caused him deep and piercing
sorrow. So, he said, he went to a priest who helped him prepare
for the sacrament of confession. “Spend some time alone,” the
priest had told him, “and think of all the things you have
done that still cause you such deep remorse. Then write them
down so you can see them for what they are. And when you've
done that, come back to me.”
So
my friend did this. And when the day came, he went back to
see the priest. The two prayed together first, and then my
friend talked for a long time of the things he had written.
When he had finished, he prayed the prayer of confession from
the Prayer Book. The priest discussed with him the various
things he had spoken of, and then said the strong and comforting
words of forgiveness. When my friend got up to go, the priest
asked for the paper where the things he had confessed were
written. Confused and reluctant, my friend gave him the list. “And
then,” he said, “the priest tore that list up, threw the pieces
away, and turned to me and said, “Go your way. Your sins are
forgiven.”
This,
I believe, is how Lent is meant to unfold. It's not so much
a time of deprivation as it is a time of deepening, not
a time of sorrow only but a time of gratitude as well, not
a time of solitude only but a time of companionship also, not
a time for discipline alone, but a time to become a disciple
and to walk along with Christ, together
in deep conversation.
Copyright ©2004 The Rev. Margaret Gunness