Contrary to the gloom and doom atmosphere that sometimes is assumed to be the proper mood of this season, the word Lent comes from the word meaning to lengthen and refers to the coming of springtime, the coming of more and more daylight. Admittedly, it is not the sunny season of summer. But nor is it the stripped, frigid, and dark season of winter from which it springs forth. It is the season of soul searching and penitence and preparation and yearning and readiness and promise. Our work in this season is nothing that makes the full light of summer come. Rather, it is meant to wake us up to what is and to prepare us to receive what will be. The late Jesuit priest Anthony de Mello captures this in a simple parable called “Vigilance.”

“Is there anything I can do to make myself enlightened?”
“As little as you can do to make the sun rise in the morning.”
“Then of what use are the spiritual exercises you prescribe?”
“To make sure you are not asleep when the sun begins to rise.”

In addition to cultivating love, every authentic spiritual practice is intended to do one of two things: wake us up or keep us awake. During Lent, in particular, spiritual practices are intended to make us ready to receive the sun when it does come up, to make us ready to receive the hungry stranger when she comes, to make us ready to receive suffering when it comes, to make us “ooh” and aah” when the sublime mystery of life comes breaking our hearts open with a moon rise or a neighbor in need or a cherry tree in blossom or a thoughtful gift received or a grandchild’s embrace or an experience of where Jesus is being crucified today or where resurrection is happening.

Just as winter holds the seeds of spring, the buds and lengthening light of spring hold the hope for the blazing light of Christ risen and the full blossom of Easter. What makes Lent unique is that it is a season that holds the tension of opposites. It holds the memories and sometimes the extended weather of winter while it coaxes us to lean into the first glimmer of hope, the hope that was hibernating along with the light in the long season that never seemed to pass.

This metaphor may be harder for us in the West and South to relate to, fathom, or take seriously than those of you in the northern latitudes. But, anyone who has experienced the cold climates, the turbulent storms, and the seemingly endless dark nights of life and soul, has enough material to know the breath-catching hope of first light and first bud, and to understand the value and the means for keeping the fire burning until the sun can completely take over and the bud give itself over to blossoming.

For Reflection:

Like a bird on a limb, Lent is perched between darkness and light, between the winter of our discontent and the easy-living of summertime, between dying and rising.

Lest we think spring is easy, Lent is a season of courage, for in the longing for light comes the acceptance of the dying that alone can bring it forth.

Genuine trust looks nothing like resignation. To trust is to let go of situations and circumstances that are beyond our control and to dare to surrender to the audacious truth that— in the words of Julian of Norwich—

All shall be well, and all shall be well.
All manner of things shall be well.

The practice of Lent is the practice of spring— namely, the audacity to carry the hope of light in the face of the shadow of death.

QUESTIONS?
How am I carrying and how can I carry the light?

Am I able to trust
that the darkness
is neither final nor empty
but instead
holds the seed
that holds the limb
that holds the blossom of life?♦

In hope,
Dan