Like many Catholic children, I gave up sweets for the forty-plus days of Lent. I remember creeping downstairs on Easter morning, hoping to be greeted by a marvelous, solid-chocolate Palmer's bunny. After surviving the torturous season of sacrifice, I could barely wait to nibble the cottontail's long, delicious ears.
I would sometimes be disappointed to find a hollow chocolate cross in my basket in place of the preferred bunny. Propped in green plastic grass and surrounded by pastel jelly beans stood a milk chocolate version of my Savior's object of torture. In place of Christ's broken body, the cross bore a pink and yellow flower made of sugar. I couldn't eat it. It felt blasphemous to do so. While it was almost impossible to endure the long, sweet-less days of Lent, the triviality of my "sacrifice" always shocked me when I was confronted by that chocolate cross on Easter morning. Even a child wrestles with the reality of Christ's ultimate sacrifice.
The annual season of Lent is puzzling to many. Denying ourselves our favorite treats or habits - even for a short time - seems unnecessarily archaic in our I-want-it-now culture. Lent is a plodding, definitive crescendo that leads up to the cacophonous noise of Good Friday and the gorgeous aria of Easter Sunday. It's a season marked by deliberateness and intentionality.
But we often get in the way of our own best intentions. When fasting from food or technology (or whatever else captures our hearts and threatens to take the place that only God can fill) we might be tempted to feel a sense of pride or arrogance about our sacrifice. The very thing we relinquish sometimes clamors inside us as a "need" to be met. Instead of focusing on Jesus Christ, our attention can dangerously be drawn to the very thing we've voluntarily surrendered.
Even so, the practice of Lent can be a valuable discipline. It's difficult to comprehend what our continual sense of entitlement does to our bodies and souls. Our culture worships at the feet of pleasure, deeply bowing to all its delicious offerings. As we "shovel it in," we can become desensitized to our needs - the real hungers - in our lives. Observing Lent can help us wrestle with the reasons behind our perpetual consumption. When we decide to relinquish that thing that fails to truly satisfy, we come face-to-face with some tough questions. Can we believe Jesus when he says, "People do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God"? How can we make room for the Savior in our buried and burdened lives? Can we grasp the reality of Good Friday and live within its irony?
Lent challenges us to consider the honest answers to these and other soul-searching questions. It invites us to voluntarily jump off the hamster wheel of consumption and experience the pinch of abstaining from continual, thoughtless indulgence. It has the potential to give our frenetic material selves a much-needed break.
Like many believers, I hold fast to the annual discipline of Lent and continue to give up something that I consume. I treasure the season of abstinence, seeking, and revelation. Every year, I learn something new.
Perhaps I was - and still am - offended by a hollow chocolate cross because it signifies what is too often true about our spiritual lives: What we see on the outside might look pretty, but we can be tragically empty. Occasionally, the reality of Jesus Christ's sacrifice and the power of his love break through our hardened hearts. The realization, like a splash of freezing water on our tired faces, causes us to gasp. The hollow parts of our souls can be filled.
I would sometimes be disappointed to find a hollow chocolate cross in my basket in place of the preferred bunny. Propped in green plastic grass and surrounded by pastel jelly beans stood a milk chocolate version of my Savior's object of torture. In place of Christ's broken body, the cross bore a pink and yellow flower made of sugar. I couldn't eat it. It felt blasphemous to do so. While it was almost impossible to endure the long, sweet-less days of Lent, the triviality of my "sacrifice" always shocked me when I was confronted by that chocolate cross on Easter morning. Even a child wrestles with the reality of Christ's ultimate sacrifice.
The annual season of Lent is puzzling to many. Denying ourselves our favorite treats or habits - even for a short time - seems unnecessarily archaic in our I-want-it-now culture. Lent is a plodding, definitive crescendo that leads up to the cacophonous noise of Good Friday and the gorgeous aria of Easter Sunday. It's a season marked by deliberateness and intentionality.
But we often get in the way of our own best intentions. When fasting from food or technology (or whatever else captures our hearts and threatens to take the place that only God can fill) we might be tempted to feel a sense of pride or arrogance about our sacrifice. The very thing we relinquish sometimes clamors inside us as a "need" to be met. Instead of focusing on Jesus Christ, our attention can dangerously be drawn to the very thing we've voluntarily surrendered.
Even so, the practice of Lent can be a valuable discipline. It's difficult to comprehend what our continual sense of entitlement does to our bodies and souls. Our culture worships at the feet of pleasure, deeply bowing to all its delicious offerings. As we "shovel it in," we can become desensitized to our needs - the real hungers - in our lives. Observing Lent can help us wrestle with the reasons behind our perpetual consumption. When we decide to relinquish that thing that fails to truly satisfy, we come face-to-face with some tough questions. Can we believe Jesus when he says, "People do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God"? How can we make room for the Savior in our buried and burdened lives? Can we grasp the reality of Good Friday and live within its irony?
Lent challenges us to consider the honest answers to these and other soul-searching questions. It invites us to voluntarily jump off the hamster wheel of consumption and experience the pinch of abstaining from continual, thoughtless indulgence. It has the potential to give our frenetic material selves a much-needed break.
Like many believers, I hold fast to the annual discipline of Lent and continue to give up something that I consume. I treasure the season of abstinence, seeking, and revelation. Every year, I learn something new.
Perhaps I was - and still am - offended by a hollow chocolate cross because it signifies what is too often true about our spiritual lives: What we see on the outside might look pretty, but we can be tragically empty. Occasionally, the reality of Jesus Christ's sacrifice and the power of his love break through our hardened hearts. The realization, like a splash of freezing water on our tired faces, causes us to gasp. The hollow parts of our souls can be filled.
