And so it begins
Lent is the annual reminder that we can always begin again.
By now we’ve all started simmering down from last Friday’s epic fiasco in the Oval Office. Absorbing what happened, thinking about it, reflecting on it took the better part of quite a few days. The clash will continue, of course, and it will intensify: both sides are suited up for battle and neither is backing down. And by “both sides,” I refer not so much to Trump and Zelenskyy as I do to Trump and his entire program and entourage, on the one hand, and all the others who oppose them, on the other: these others are rousing from their defeat last November, and they are spoiling for a fight. The only solution both sides envision is total victory, which means not just the defeat but the utter humiliation of the other, lest the other think, many years hence, of raising its head from the dust. The time for compromise is over.
What a terrible situation. It is likely to get worse, and unhappiness and blame are likely to soar.
Lent has also begun. Catholics and other Christians who observe the season know there is another war underway, the war between our higher and our lower selves, or, as the New Testament puts it, the Old Creation, marred by sin, and the The New Creation, bestowed in baptism, activated by faith, and fed by hope and love. The outcome of this war is not at all clear in this life: we battle until the very end. But those who practice the Faith know that mighty helps are placed at our disposal and those use them tip the scales in their favor in a mighty way.
The three ancient practices are prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. These practices are not, of course, confined solely to Lent; they are meant to be our way of life on earth. In Lent, however, we intensify these practices, because as we seek to prepare for Easter by becoming more like Him who redeems us, Heaven pours down especially abundant graces so that we may face themselves, find ourselves wanting, and make the amends that make it possible for us to return to the Way or continue on it with fewer and less significant deviations.
Prayer is the mortification of the mind. We open ourselves to God in prayer and allow Him space in our minds and souls so that He may fill them with His thoughts and with His very Self. Out with vainglory, vengeance, vindictiveness, and spite! In with love for our enemies — real or perceived — compassion for others in their weaknesses, acceptance of our incapacity to mend our deepest flaws, and reliance upon grace to do for us what we can never do for ourselves. We open ourselves to God so that He may fill us with his Word, a word that always gives life and peace, even if at first it brings reproach, — a Word that brings healing, even if painful.
Fasting is the mortification of the body. We like to think when we fast that we are giving up what we need; isn’t it rather that we are giving up what we like? Most of us reading this piece are well-fed, financially secure, or secure enough; and well-housed. The body demands ever more comfort, no matter how much it has. We may not all be gluttons, or clothes-horses, or whatever else may be your vice or your tendency: most of us have enough natural virtue, and enough experience of life, to know that unrestrained appetite lead to ruin. But we do like to indulge appetite, forgetting all the ways our brothers and sisters who go without. Going without voluntarily unites us to those who go without perforce; done properly, going without opens compassion.
Alsmgiving is, I suggest, the mortification of our external projection. Money is power, and who doesn’t want to be or like being powerful? We build our self-worth on how others perceive us — and we writhe in pain and pride when they don’t perceive us as we wish. We give so that we may be noticed — be honest here: in the annual reports, how many “Anonymous” donors do you really see? No, we like to be acknowledged for our well-doing and generosity, but the question is whether our giving actually cuts to the bone: are we giving up things not only that we may want, but things that maybe we need, or think we do? Or else we give to the poor for the tax deduction, using their plight to our advantage — unless we use the deduction for yet more giving, I suggest. What about giving without any expectation whatever of recognition or reward? When we give alms, we forego the power to procure what we like in order that others may procure what they need.
The Church puts these ancient practices before us because they work. When we practice them assiduously — sacrificially — we have purer minds and intentions, increased self-control and compassion, and greater freedom from self and for the needs of others. Something else happens: we become happier — but only if we don’t seek happiness in practicing them. It is God whom we seek, and we seek to put aside everything that stands between Him and us.
In possessing purer minds, better-governed bodies, and fewer resources, we become more like God, Who is Supreme and Infinite Happiness in Himself and who gives Himself without reserve to the entire universe. All we need do is lay aside ourselves, our ideas, our wants, maybe even our needs, in favor of others who need more. Then the Lord comes rushing in. The only thing stopping us is ourselves.
Think for a moment of the Prodigal Son, who insulted his father to his very face and then squandered his inheritance on the filth of the world until the deepest filth was all that he had. The Father was waiting for his return, and when he did return, his father with joy restored to him all that he had squandered. Do you suppose that the son, sunk in his shame, nevertheless experienced growing hope and joy as he approached his father’s house? And what of him when he saw his father’s unabated, boundless joy at the return of him who was lost? That’s us, if we but tread the path.
Lent and its practices — or, better, its intensification of practices that should already cleanse us — prepare us for Holy Week, when we commemorate the Son’s giving of His very life for the praise and glory of the Father and for the salvation of the world. “He is not willing that any should perish.” But Jesus tells us repeatedly that there are those who will. Those who accept the promise and heed the warning, using the means, find themselves — imperceptibly at first—, growing in joy as they grow in holiness, unaware that the work of grace is conforming them day by day more and more into the image of the Son in whom alone the Father is well pleased. We need only do our part.
An unopened gift is still a gift, even if the recipient doesn’t benefit from or enjoy it. The ancient means, together with a frequenting of the sacraments, are the means that open the gift, and in its opening we find that there is always more to open as we make our way and take others with us to a joy that is unending, unspeakable, and indescribable.
I wish you a joyous Lent.