Covet Not Thy Neighbor’s Roasted Chicken

Although I have stopped eating meat for Lent, I have no intention of imposing my spiritual disciplines on anyone else. In this way, I am a good little Protestant. (I don't even suggest you take on a Lenten discipline based on this blog; that should really be a decision you make in consultation with your Creator.) And, because I do most of the cooking at our house, I am really the only one inconvenienced by this spiritual journey. And although it's not a huge inconvenience, this does require some amount of planning. For example, did you know that the human animal's most direct source of protein is meat? Neither did I until a day or so before I started this fast. So going vegetarian in a household that is otherwise carnivorous, is more than just preparing meatless versions of what everyone else is having. It often involves adding other protein sources like beans or something; which often leads to an entirely different meal.

I've been on this fast for about a week and a half now and, for the most part, it's been working out fine. I am the one who does most of the cooking at our house because I'm a pretty good cook. So not only am I able to do a pretty good job of properly nourishing myself, I can make it taste pretty good too. In fact, so far there has only been one instance in which I've been jealous of what the rest of my family is eating. Hear my confession:

After church the other day, the kids and I drove down to Farmington to do some big-box shopping. As we were shopping, it occurred to me that by the time we got home, it would be time for dinner. So genius me, I decided to pick up a roasted chicken. When we got home I quickly make up some veggies and some macaroni & cheese to be their sides and as my mains. What I didn't count on is how much I apparently love roasted chicken. It surprised me, really; this hadn't happened before. Oh, there have been the fleeting memories of burgers gone by, but nothing that made me think, "Man, I want that."

The leftover chicken is still sitting in our fridge, mocking me.

My spiritual lesson came in a surprising way. I suppose I expected that there would be some sort of "resisting temptation" thing to learn, but it wasn't ultimately all that hard to resist; I wanted it, I just didn't put it in my mouth. I didn't have any grand revelation about my capacity to resist temptation, nor did I perceive a rush of God's power to help me to just say "no." Instead, I had dinner. I ate an adequate meal of macaroni & cheese and veggies (and some soybeans for more of that protein we were talking about). It tasted fine and it nourished me for the rest of the day. I felt good physically and I felt good spiritually, knowing that I had stuck with the commitment I had made.

Even without the things I crave, I am sustained by what God provides. And perhaps I'm better off.

Meat My Lenten Discipline

To answer the question no one has actually asked me: I have decided to give up meat for Lent.

Here are the parameters for my Lenten semi-fast: I'm not eating meat during Lent.

To further clarify: from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, I am not going to eat meat. I will not be taking any days off of this fast and I consider fish to be a form of meat.

I don't get this "fish isn't meat" thing. My understanding of the term "meat" is that meat is generally the part of the animal that moves that animal around; some would call it "muscle" (I know we eat other parts of animals, it's just that I don't usually eat those parts). We eat that meaty part of the fish. How is that not "meat?" And besides, I bet the fish would certainly have its own opinion about the subject. So I'm not eating fish either; I even switched to a different source of Omega-3 fatty acid for Lent.

So I've been on this fast for about a week now: so far so good. I'll write more about the lessons I'm learning as the weeks progress, but I will say that the major challenge isn't that I miss meat. At least not yet. By the end I'll probably be longing for a burger from Alice's, but for the moment I'm learning to be (albeit temporary) a vegetarian.

Failing

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths
for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff—
they comfort me. (Psalm 23:1-4)

If anyone is actually reading this, you may have noticed that – in spite of my Lenten resolution to post devotionally each week – last week’s post wasn’t put up until this week. I failed.

“Oh, that’s okay, Brian,” people might say. “No one is perfect.” “We all make mistakes.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” These sayings are heartfelt, comforting, and completely beside the point. I failed. I said I was going to do something and I didn’t. As a part of my journey through Lent, I felt called to reflect once weekly about some small thing that God was saying to me through Scriptures and I couldn’t get it done on time. And I don’t even have an excuse. I simply didn’t manage my time very well and, although I got started on it last week, I didn’t get it done until this week. Mission not-accomplished; there’s just no way around it.

Frankly, it reminds me of a lot of other Lenten resolutions I’ve failed at in my life. In fact, there seems to be a reoccurring theme: I begin Lent with great and pious resolve to do something or fast from something and then fail at it part-way through. It makes me wonder if, maybe, that’s part of the point. Not that failure ought to be the goal of this kind of pilgrimage, but perhaps it should be at least expected. It seems a bit self-defeatist, but maybe I should have entered into Lent with some sort of plan in place for how I ought to respond when I (inevitably) fall short of my goal. Perhaps a sealed envelope with the words “TO BE OPENED IN CASE OF FAILURE” written on it and “All fall short of God’s glory (Romans 3:23)” written inside. You know, something to help me remember that this kind of thing happens in life and that I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. Or better yet, I should have Psalm 23 waiting for me.

In Psalm 23, the psalmist describes God as our shepherd… making us the sheep. We are these beloved, adorable, furry sheep who are also vulnerable, disobedient, and not bright enough to find our own food and water. If God is our shepherd it’s because we need a shepherd. At least spiritually speaking, we need someone who loves us enough to faithfully lead us where we may not always want to go on our own. And in my shortcomings, rather than feeling guilty or disregarding my failings as simply part of life, perhaps it would be better for me to use these failings as a reminder of the Shepherd who restores my soul and returns me to right paths. May we continue to find our Good Shepherd throughout our Lenten journey… even when we fail at it.

Labels

So Jesus came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon. A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” (John 4:5-10, NRSV)

Early in the week a coffee maker broke. I set it up to make a pot, and nothing happened: it didn’t gurgle; it didn’t steam up; it didn’t even get warm. Nothing. Now before you get worried about me, please note that we have several coffee pots at the church. I survived just fine.

But I didn’t want to be overly rash and just throw it out. I’ve made the mistake of throwing things away prematurely before (see “Moving Part 2”) so, although I’m far from being a packrat, I now pause for a bit before heading for the trash. So I left it on the counter in the hope that there might be some simple fix that someone handier than I might find. But, because I just left it on the counter and didn’t want anyone trying to make coffee with a broken coffee maker, I labeled it: “Broken.”

I immediately felt guilty for the label. I know that the coffee maker doesn’t care and would be just as happy if I threw it in the trash. But I’ve been labeled “broken” before. I know what happens with these labels: we may disregard them for a while, but they do eventually change the ways we see ourselves. Even beyond what might actually be true about a person, I think if you call them “broken” long enough they will begin to believe it at some point. Soon, we will wear these labels like nametags.

There are a lot of labels flying around in the Gospel lesson for the 3rd Sunday of Lent. Some of them are spoken: labels like “Jew,” “Samaritan,” “Messiah,” and “Living Water.” Some of them are not spoken because they’re not appropriate for polite company. The woman Jesus meets knows these labels. They define her. She presumably comes to draw water in the heat of the day because her presence would cause offence at a more common hour. Her labels shape who she is and even how she lives.

But Jesus doesn’t seem to notice her labels. He doesn’t seem to see what others see. He talks to her like he is supposed to be talking to her and not as someone labeled with “Samaritan,” “woman,” or “sinner.” And it strikes me that there is a labeling in this act as well, although I’m not sure what that new label might say. Perhaps it would say “child of God,” or “forgiven,” or maybe this conversation is Jesus’ way of offering her the label of “true worshiper.”

Whatever you’d call this new label it’s wonderful. It is wonderful because it is truer than all those other labels. It’s wonderful because it is the Maker’s label that was meant to be on us since the day we were born and will remain with us forever. The labels Jesus puts on us aren’t just some hopeful description of who we are meant to be, but who we truly are in him: labels like “redeemed,” “beloved,” and “called.”

As we continue through this Lenten journey, let us seek to remove those other labels from ourselves and one another. Let us be named by Jesus alone and let us live into the wonderful labels he gives us.

Labels

Reflection for the Second Week of Lent

Jesus answered Nicodemus, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Nicodemus said to Jesus, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” (John 3:3-4 NRSV)

Before I became a father, men who had traveled the parenting road before me described the birthing process as “magical.” I now know what they meant. You see, “magical” is a euphemism. It’s a kind of code they used because, if they had described it for what it was, I might have been scared off. Don’t get me wrong, “magical” is the perfect word to describe it. “Magical” is so spot-on because it only tells the soon-to-be father that it’s important, perhaps even holy. And anything else about the event that could be described probably shouldn’t be. It’s a way of saying, “Be there; be ready for the mysterious; don’t run away; and you’ll figure out the rest as you go.”

And I suppose, if the newly-born had the capacity to understand those trembling fathers’ words, “magical” might well describe all of the baby’s following days as well. The rest of our days can be pretty “magical” too, if you think about it. Of course, we don’t like to think about it, do we? We like to think that tomorrow will be much like yesterday, and today will hold no surprises. We like to think that the rain that falls from the sky only brings life and pretty flowers. We like to think that the earth beneath our feet is there to stay. We like to think that our days of being born – with all their terror, pain, and ugliness – are far behind us. But some days are “magical.” Some days, the skies take whole towns from our maps. Some days, the earth on which we are “grounded” flings us into the air like a marble on a fluffed-up sheet. Some days, we get born all over again.

When Nicodemus goes to visit Jesus under the cover of night, we get the impression that he’s testing Jesus’ kingdom out – not unlike the way we might dip a toe into a pool before going for a swim. He seems attracted to what Jesus has to offer, but he wants to approach it in a safe way. But it’s not safe. In fact it’s full-blown “magical.” One does not take a quick dip into the kingdom of God; one is born anew into it. Born like people are born: into a life of uncertainty and messiness.

For those of us who have chosen to live in Jesus’ kingdom, we must remember that it holds no promises for success, prosperity, or even safety; but it is the promise of life. We are born into a life that, although abundant and eternal, is also “magical.” So let us greet this new-born life in the spirit with which we entered into the old one: be there; be ready for the mysterious; don’t run away; and you’ll figure out the rest (by God’s Spirit) as you go.

Reflection for the First Week of Lent

So I'm cheating a bit with my first Lenten reflection, as the article below is from the latest Calvary Quarterly. But unlike a newsletter, a blog gives us an opportunity to offer feedback. I look forward to hearing from you.



I think Lent is generally self-serving. I said it.

Now, if you're wondering how I might come to describe Lent—a season beginning in ashes and “celebrated” by fasting—as self-serving, just hear me out: Lent, the “40 day” season that leads us to Easter, is often seen in the light of Easter. I mean, that's a difficult light to ignore. After all, Easter is the central celebration of our faith. The Resurrection changes everything: every moment, every interaction, every single thing we do is now seen through the lens of Resurrection. It would be ridiculous to expect that we could somehow set this lens aside for over a month. For the follower of Jesus, the Resurrection is impossible to ignore; Jesus emerging from the tomb on Easter morning changes everything... for US.

And rightly so! Don't get me wrong, the resurrection should shape every aspect of our lives. The Apostle Paul writes, “Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life” (1 Corinthians 6:4); out of his resurrected life, we now begin ours. That is life-changing good news for us. Because we have received this impossibly wonderful gift, what else could we do but live gratitude-filled lives into eternity?

And so, during Lent, we seek to reshape those lives. We seek, through self-reflection and self-sacrifice, to let God reshape our-selves into the God-serving creations that Jesus died and rose to create. And there is a lot of “self” in that; although not at all in a bad way. The end result is to make us into God-serving creatures, but to get there the “self” needs some work. Which is what makes Lent so self-serving: we are striving to be those God-centered people of Resurrection, so we use this time to do what we can to become those people.

But here's the thing: when we mentally skip ahead to what those people are supposed to be like, what do we see? We see a people who have become more and more like Jesus, don’t we? We see a people who not only act like he did, but are actually like him. We see a people who have his understanding of how the world is supposed to be; a people who share his priorities and passions; a people who love as he loved and for the same reasons. And if we know what we’re supposed to be like at the end of Lent, why not seek to begin it with that same Christ-like perspective? In other words, we know that Jesus endured the hardships that he did for the sake of others. We know that our lives are meant to take on that same devotion to others. And so, as we “endure” the solemn sacrifices and disciplines of Lent, what if we could focus our attention on someone other than ourselves?

For example, you know how the Resurrection is life-changing good news for us? Well, if becoming more Christ-like means having his same devotion to others, are we not struck by the notion that there are people in our lives every day that don’t know that news; people who don’t have the same perspective-changing joy that we have; there are people all around us every day who, though Jesus rose for them as well, do not share our Easter perspective.

And so, however you “celebrate” Lent—whatever disciplines, fasts, or acts of charity that you employ that God might mold you—may we also let those “hardships” turn our attention toward others. May we indeed better know the heart and mind of God, and in that knowledge, yearn to share the Easter joy with the world.

Lenten Reflection, Holy Week

I'm always caught off guard by the term "Holy Week." It implies a consecration that this week certainly calls for, but may not always be tangibly perceived. We begin the week with waving palms and shouts of alleluias and, much like the first Palm Sunday crowds, we return to our ordinary routines on Monday. With some minor exceptions, I don't think I did anything on Monday of Holy Week that I didn't do the Monday before.

But that is an important facet to holiness: this is a week set apart for sacred use, and yet in many ways it doesn't seem different from any other. Of course it's holy because of what it represents and what it draws us to remember, not because these seven days are anything more than seven days. It's holy because of what God has done, will do, and is doing in, around, and through some rather mundane things. This week is holy in the same way that we are holy: it speaks more to the work of Christ than it does to our efforts toward holiness. We are not perfect, but we are perfected in him. You and I are no more or less than any other person on the planet, but at the same time we embody the same Holy Week message that points to the extraordinary work of God. We live these mundane lives from day to day as sacred signposts to God's grace.

Of course there is no small significance in the fact that the Holy Week events happened in the context of the Passover celebration. This sacred remembrance gives birth to and frames our understanding of this week, but in a deeper way so does the ordinaryness of these days. The work of God happens in the context of everyday life: our joyous celebrations, our daily grind, our mealtimes, our discord, our temptations, and even our mortality and our heartaches are all caught up in the salvation story. We look at the whole of Holy Week and we see that almost every moment of our ordinary lives gets caught up in what God is doing in Christ.

God's extraordinary mercy is exhibited in the midst of our ordinary days and through our ordinary lives. May we continue to find the holiness that God has placed on us in this and all our weeks.

Lenten Reflection, Week Five

Good news: Sherry decided to heat up a frozen pizza because I was off at a meeting and couldn't cook dinner.

Bad news: As she preheated the oven the house began filling up with smoke.

Good news: It was merely burning dog food. The next day I took the floor out of the oven and found it down in with the heating element.

Bad news: The dog food was put into the oven by mice.

Good news: I now have a new favorite metaphor for sin.

I know our house has mice. Now that I know it, the evidence is irrefutable. Those scratching noises that my son heard months ago in the walls of his room, are now more than just his six-year-old imagination. Those little black specks of something that I saw behind the stove when I was investigating the problem, are now clearly droppings. I know we have mice. I know it and I have never seen a single one of them.

I am disgusted by the thought of mice in my house; I want them gone. I've started taking precautions to discourage the mice like not leaving the dog's food out overnight. We've called the landlord who will be sending an exterminator. But I am aware that, more than disgusted, what I'm really feeling is violated. If the mice had tried to store the dog food anywhere else, I may not have ever been alerted to their presence. Fortunately, the mice had no idea that their happy-warm new storage area would cause their stash to catch fire. But I am troubled by the thought that they could have just as easily gotten away with it.

Of course the mice are the sin in our lives. The mice represent those things that should not be there. They need not always be the harmful things that we have invited in, but they must also be removed just the same. The problem is, they don't always cause our houses to fill with smoke. Often they go unnoticed by those around us and sometimes even by us. It scurries around in the darkness because, as Jesus said, it fears the light.

I'm not sure how far I want to extend the metaphor; I suppose God could be the Great Exterminator or something. All I'm really trying to say is this: as we near the end of the Lenten season, part of the value of these seasons is in shining light on our lives. We don't need a house filled with smoke to know that we may be living with things that shouldn't be there. So we take this time to let the Spirit illuminate the nooks and crannies of our lives. We let God "clean house," as it were.

Let us, in all the seasons of our lives, seek to walk in the light of Christ, in whom there is no darkness at all.

Lenten Reflection, Week Four

Here's how it works in theory: we reflect Christ more fully when we gather as the larger Church than we do as individuals. Individually we are created in God's image, loved eternally, and redeemed in Christ. But the work of Christ that we were created, loved, and redeemed to do is not fully realized until we find ourselves in the Body of Christ, the Church. In theory, we discern God's will better as a group. In theory, the Church holds its members accountable in practice and mission. In theory we are somehow less fallible as the Church than we are by ourselves. That's the theory anyway.

During many of my college years I worked at a Christian summer camp. These were some of my fondest memories and many of my closest friends today were people I worked with then. It was there that I first saw a clear image of Christ's Church. The camp was a refuge from The World for us and for the young people who were brought to us. Without our usual distractions and temptations, we could be more attentive to the moving of the Spirit. We were all followers of Christ, serving him with common purpose and celebrating his kingdom being built before our eyes. It is that kind of community of nurture and service that I strive to build in the church today. It was a illustration, for three months a year in an isolated spot in the mountains, of what the Church is meant to be. At least in theory.

In the office one summer, there was a guy named Bernie. Everyone loved Bernie because Bernie loved everyone: he was outgoing and cheerful, funny and generous. As I remember him, he was the life of the party even when there was no party. And to top it all off, Bernie had a car.

The camp was about a half-hour drive from the nearest town. Sometimes after work, we'd pile into cars and head to town to go shopping, get some pizza, or see a movie. The drive to town involved a curvy dirt road to a curvy paved road to a mercifully straight highway.

There were a lot of reasons why we drove too fast down those roads. Sometimes we were simply in a hurry. Sometimes we'd get to thinking we were so used to the roads that we'd conquered them somehow. Mostly we drove too fast because we were still dumb kids. At least that's what happened that night.

Bernie was in a joyous mood, as always. We piled as many guys into the car as Bernie had seat belts (at least we were that smart) and we headed down the curvy dirt road toward town. Bernie was driving too fast and we were all cheering him on. All of us were laughing and screaming like we were speeding down the tracks of a roller coaster. Only at one point, the roller coaster turned right and we found ourselves once again on a dirt road, sliding into a tree.

After a quick inspection we realized that we were, for the most part, not hurt. Of course Bernie's car did not fare so well. And what is etched into my memory, aside from the tree, is listening to Bernie call his dad to report the accident. Bernie took all responsibility: he alone dealt with the broken car and he alone dealt with furious parents. He wouldn't even accept our apologies for cheering him on. And even though he was behind the wheel and, as he put it, didn't have to listen to us, I don't think Bernie crashed that car by himself. I believe that, along with everyone else in that car that night, I helped to drive that car into the tree.

And therein lies the theory's fatal flaw. In theory, we are shaped more perfectly into the image of Christ as we gather as the Church. But in reality, we collectively drive Christ into trees all the time. In reality, even as the Church we are still only a collection of flawed individuals; redeemed individuals who are called by Christ to his service, but not perfect. In reality, discerning God's will and holding one another accountable in practice and mission don't just happen automatically. In reality, being that Christ-like Church involves our being perfected by Christ individually and our working with Christ in co-creating that larger Body.

May God shape us this season into more than good people. May God shape us collectively into the image of Christ in this world. Let Paul's words from Ephesians 4:1-6 be our prayer:

Help us, O God, to lead a life worthy of the calling to which we have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, ³making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. ⁴There is one body and one Spirit, just as we were called to the one hope of our calling, ⁵one Lord, one faith, one baptism, ⁶one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all. Amen.

Lenten Reflection, Week Three

I Just cleaned my office.

You may be wondering why this is news, but it's important to me. Things have been getting a bit out of hand lately. You see, as it turned out, I was only mostly moved into my office: books were in place; computer arranged; coffee pot set up (actually, that was the first thing I did). However, not until today I had gone so far as to set up a filing system. As a result, I had kind of a make-shift system on my desk. Some would call it "piles," but trust me there was a system. Not a very tidy system, but a system.

And so today I can see the top of my desk. My coffee mug sits faithfully to my right and not teetering on a tower of papers. I now have a specific place for the books I am currently reading (five of them if you're keeping score) that is apart from the books that I simply need to keep on hand. I have a clear view of the lovely pictures of my lovely wife that is unobstructed with paper piles. But even more important than these things, I feel I can actually get something done. The clutter has been cleared away and my desk can once again be used for the purpose it was created: as a work-space. I believe I think more coherently with an organized office. If nothing else, I am now more comfortable having company in my office than I was before.

Spiritual growth is like this. As I was reminded during our last Sunday school class, in the renovation of our lives into the Christ-image we are created to be, often the process begins with destruction. In the case of my desk, the former filing (or should I say "piling") system had to go: papers had to be moved and sorted and old behaviors had to be abandoned. In the case of our walk with Christ, the process is often the same. Whether it be our individual spirituality or a renovation of who we are as a congregation, we at least begin with clearing out the clutter. And sometimes there is even call for full-blown demolition.

As uncomfortable, messy, and overwhelming as this process can be, it is still an expression of God's love. That's probably not the message we hear in the midst of the proverbial bulldozers crashing through our lives, but it is God's love for us. The removal of those things in us and in our congregation that keep us from being Christ's Body to the world need to be removed so that God can build in us who we were made to be. It's put much better in the book of Jeremiah:

See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms,
to pluck up and to pull down,
to destroy and to overthrow,
to build and to plant. (Jeremiah 1:10, NRSV)

The building and the planting is the end result. But building and planting without plucking up and pulling down, destroying and overthrowing, would be pointless. But neither is the demolition the point. God does not point out and correct our faults and inappropriate ways simply because they're wrong for us; God does this to build something better in its place. God does this because God loves us.

As we continue to seek our Savior's tender care to shape us more and more into his likeness, may the Spirit remove those things that get in the way of our being shaped into that body.

Lenten Reflection, Week Two

When Jesus saw Nathanael coming toward him, he said of him, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!” Nathanael asked him, “Where did you get to know me?” Jesus answered, “I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.” Nathanael replied, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!” (John 1:47-49, NRSV)

When I say that I used to be a runner, that doesn't mean that I can't run. It just means that I currently lack proper motivation... like being chased by a bear.

There is, of course, a lot to be said for being properly motivated and a number of ways to be motivated. But it seems to me that those things that motivate us can be split into two general categories: internal and external motivators. External motivators are like bears. They demand a reactive response from us; they merely and temporarily change our behavior. External motivators are compelling, but only immediately; they only change our lives until the crisis has passed.

But internal motivators are quite different. Often those deeper motivations have nothing to do with our circumstances: there is no crisis, there is only the drive to be better; or better yet, the working of the Spirit pulling us more and more toward Christ's likeness.

It's these motivations that come from within that interested me most. My interest is partly due to a new pastorate and being especially conscious of not continuing in bad habits; partly because of Lent; and partly because I'm out of shape. I want to be a better person, inside and out. I want to be a better pastor, I want to follow Christ more faithfully, and I want to be healthier in a number of ways. And I need to let the Spirit show me why.

As we journey through this Lenten season, what do we anticipate? Are we seeking that God-centered motivation to direct us toward growth? Or are we continuing to react to situations and routines that only change us on the outside?

May the Spirit continue to guide you and bless you as we anticipate our Risen Savior.

Lenten Reflection, Week One

As we begin the season of Lent, I'm struck by the irony of this blog: I commit myself to writing more consistently, but the post immidiately preceding this one contains pictures of people in Santa-hats. Clearly my resolve to do a thing does not always mean it's going to get done. Perhaps you can relate; we mean well, but too often our intentions are not ultimately lived out in reality. But consistency is not necessarily a hallmark of the Christian Religion; and Lent is a fine example of this.

We've worked into the liturgical year these seasons of preparation for the major days on our calendar: Christmas has Advent and Easter has Lent. While there isn't much solemn about the weeks leading up to our celebration of the birth of Christ, that's not so true with Lent. We remember Christ's forty days of fasting and praying in the wilderness; forty days of being forged in the desert for the sacrifice he would undergo for our salvation. We remember Lent's pinnacle, Holy Week; a week which began for him with cheering crowds and ended in his execution. As followers of Christ, Lent is a celebration of sacrifice and self-denial. We meditate on Christ's work for us by, for a season, taking on disciplines that might focus us on that work. Lent is sober and quiet. Lent is uncomfortable on purpose. Lent is a season of intentional spiritual growth... and on the eve of this season we party like it's the last chance we'll ever get!

Fat Tuesday. Shrove Tuesday. Mardi Gras. Whatever you call it you have to admit it sends a mixed message. My guess is that those who celebrate Mardi Gras are not necessarily the same people who clelebrate Lent. Certainly the excesses of Ash Wednesday-Eve are imbibed with a great degree of variation: from drunken debauchery to having pancakes for dinner. But it does make me question if we really understand Lent. Who do we think Lent is for? Are we only seeking in our Lenten disciplines to impress God? Do we delude ourselves into thinking that God notices only the sacrifices we make and never the excesses?

King David knew a thing or two about both a life of excess (when we pretend that God's not watching) and about spending time in the wilderness (when we truly begin to know the heart of God). When he was caught in one such moment of excess and then driven by God into a "wilderness time," he came out of that experience to write Psalm 51 (a familliar psalm to those who know the Lenten journey). Here we see the inconsistency of our faith at its very best. By anyone's measure of the word, David had sinned. And yet he clearly knows the heart of God. He writes:

O Lord, open my lips and my mouth will declare your praise.
For you have no delight in sacrifice;
if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased.
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
(Psalm 51:15-17, NRSV)

Here is David, the fornicating murderer. He cannot hide who he is. Real experiences of God will lay you bare like that. But they also illuminate God as well. It is in this naked honesty that he finds, not simply his sinfulness, but God's true heart. He finds that God doesn't want his stuff, God wants David. God doesn't want his pain (though the process might sting a bit), God wants David. God doesn't want the pretense of purity, God wants David. It is the heart that God is after, and although our outward practices might facilitate that end, if they do not turn out hearts toward God's, they are not really worth doing.

Please note that I'm not trying to discourage you from any Lenten practice; quite the opposite. Let's just start by honestly recognizing our inconsistencies in the light of God's constant love, shown to us in Christ. By all means, make your fasts, read your Bible, devote yourselves to prayer, commit yourselves to service; but let us also remember that it's you that God is after. May this Lenten season, by whatever ways we celebrate it, help us to truly give our hearts to God.