A Table Is Set: A Lenten Reflection
Lucy Schulz, Terrain
Maundy Thursday, April 17, 2025
Growing up in a Christian home, Lent wasn’t just a liturgical season—it was a sacred journey. A slow, intentional walk toward the cross. One of the most foundational parts of this season in our home was the celebration of Passover. We are not Jewish, but my mom led us through it because of the compelling words of Psalm 78:
“That the next generation might know… so that they should set their hope in God and not forget the works of God.” (Psalm 78:6–7)
She believed that remembrance wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.
“We will not hide them from their children, but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the Lord, and his might, and the wonders that he has done.” (Psalm 78:4)
A sacred practice meant to keep our hearts awake to the sweeping story of redemption. And Passover? That was the table where memory became holy.
We created a whole Greek meal—pita bread, lamb, hummus, tzatziki, grape juice—breaking bread together as a family of six. We walked through the central part of the Seder, the ritual Passover meal. It held symbolic foods that represented the story of the Jewish people's exodus from Egypt. Of freedom. The plate typically contains a hard-boiled egg (beitza), a shank bone (zeroa), bitter herbs (maror and chazeret), a vegetable (karpas), lettuce, and a jam or fruit paste (charoset).
The table was set.
Candles flickered low. The clinking of glasses mixed with the smell of roasted lamb and warm pita. Tzatziki sat chilled in bowls beside parsley and grape juice, and we were all starving—in the best way. We’d waited for this meal all day, as my mom prepared it with quiet devotion. The kitchen buzzed with anticipation. She called us to the table like it was a holy place. And it was.
That night, we imagined the stillness of that first Passover, the hush of fear and hope mingling in the night air. We remembered that God passed over not because of our strength or merit, but because of the blood. And with paintbrushes in hand, we streaked our own front doorpost with red paint, remembering.
What began in Egypt would not end there. We saw that thread pull all the way forward—through the tabernacle and the temple, the prophets and the kings, the exile and return—until it found its completion in the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.
Jesus didn’t just appear in history. He pierced the veil between heaven and earth. The cross was not an isolated moment of sacrifice but the climax of a story that began before light was separated from darkness. It was the fulfillment of an age-to-age plan—a plan forged in love, carried through covenant, and sealed in blood. Lent was our time to remember that.
We sat, all six of us—my three siblings and I, wide-eyed and stirred by what we were tasting, reading, and witnessing. The meal slowed us down. It pulled us into the weight of waiting. The miracle of deliverance. The ache of sin. The necessity of the Lamb.
Lent is like that. We wait. We remember. We study the Word so we know what to look for. We see the Creator and Redeemer’s rescue plan woven through Genesis and Exodus, into the Psalms and Prophets, whispering always of a coming Messiah. And then, in the Gospels, He comes. Not in might, but in humility. Not with an army, but with a cross.
“For Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed.” (1 Corinthians 5:7)
So we wait now with groaning—not aimless, but anchored. We look ahead not to a holiday, but a kingdom. Easter is not a day—it’s a declaration that redemption spans generations. That heaven touched earth and made a way.
We hold onto that as a family. Even now, as we grow older and life scatters us in different directions, we remember those holy nights at the table. We remember that one day we’ll walk streets of gold—what our earthly hearts long for now will one day be beneath our feet. The dust Jesus walked will be our joy-filled path.
No more tears.
No more waiting.
No more 400 years.
Just sacred.
Holy.
True.
The Metaphysics of Fasting
Ava Malcolm, Terrain
Holy Sunday, April 13, 2025
If you’ve abstained (or tried to abstain) from any particular thing during this Lenten season, you know that fasting is hard. It’s hard to tolerate the absence of the thing itself; of not checking your Insta stories each morning, or missing your favorite snack food. For me though, the hardest part is the boredom. When I’m not allowed to fill my minutes with scrolling, or snacking, I’m forced to contend with the person I am without the mental crutch of those activities to get me through the day. In those moments of emptiness, I may struggle to see the use of it at all; why even bother, when I know I’ll just slip back into the same routines as soon as it ends?
I have some counsel from our cultural history, and from faith leaders. I hear about how fasting (specifically from food) has been a key practice for healing throughout nearly all history, especially in many religions. In modern Western culture, our level of consumption is a direct measure of our prosperity, and consuming is the common remedy for life’s challenges (who hasn’t reacted to a breakup or bad grade by bingeing on something)? It takes some significant deprogramming to start seeing how the opposite can be true; how strategically abstaining from consuming something could possibly make our lives better. Even more distracting, we can reason our way out of the spiritual reason for fasting; can’t we maintain our relationship with God whether we’re fasting or not? What’s so special about being in this state of hunger, can’t we rejoice in our faith when full too?
It’s unsurprising, then, that we might lose sight of our reason to fast while we’re in the thick of it. I’m most prone to this purposelessness when I get into my head too much, and forget that I am a body, not just that I have a body. The mind and soul can’t be separated from the organs and blood vessels and miles of membrane, not until you pass on from this life to the next. Until then, the things we watch, the way we hold our shoulders, the foods we eat, will all determine the state of our hearts, even if we don’t acknowledge it.
Optimistically, this fact means that knowing our bodies, the activities of our cells, our neural processes, our biological tendencies, etc. helps us understand and heal our hearts by analogy. Even if we rebel against God’s instructions for how to live, our cells can’t help but follow the instructions written in our genes. Deviating from this purpose causes death on the cellular, physical, and spiritual levels all at once. With this in mind, then, what can our bodies reveal about the purpose of fasting?
These biological reasons to abstain (specifically from food, for periods longer than the “physiological fast” that happens while we sleep) have been implicitly known by healers since at least the time of Hippocrates. Over the last two decades, modern science has not only confirmed many of the known effects of fasting, but has illuminated the mechanism by which our body ceases getting energy from food and begins to rely entirely on stored energy. In a nutshell, when we begin fasting and our bodies clear the glucose out of our bloodstream, our adipocytes (fat-storing cells) begin to release their energy stores into our bloodstream, molecules known as ketone bodies which they’ve been holding onto for a long time, waiting for a need to be released. Additionally, small amounts of other tissues are broken down to add to the stored-up fuel now floating through the bloodstream. These provisions make their way to mitochondria all over the body, where they are synthesized into energy for as long as there is fuel to be circulated. Poetically, the first tissues which are taken apart to be used as fuel are the most damaged tissues, the ones needing to be recycled or disposed of before they start causing harm. In this sense, when you are in a fasted state (typically starting ~12 hours after your last meal), your body is rejuvenating itself, applying just enough stress to disassemble the rickety walls of your body’s tiny little cell houses in order to make new ones.
Throughout my own life, my greatest periods of growing in my relationship with the Lord have been the times when I felt out of control, not able to rely on my own means or any established systems to set my path. The fasting mechanism proves this: only during periods of lacking can our weakest habits, thought patterns, and ideas be tested and removed. Only when we can no longer count on our energy and comfort to come from our own food (whether that be concrete food or the spiritual food of our favorite social media) can God’s plans written in our DNA and in his Scriptures come into action. He illustrates over and over again how we can trust Him to take over the burden of sustaining ourselves, provided that we make the commitment to die to our short-term desires.
So, during this last week of Lent, I pray that we are reminded not only of the glory of the Lord’s provision for each and every one of us, but that we may hold strong in our battle against those things which lead us further from Him.
References
Visioli F, Mucignat-Caretta C, Anile F, Panaite SA. Traditional and Medical Applications of Fasting. Nutrients. 2022 Jan 19;14(3):433. doi: 10.3390/nu14030433. PMID: 35276792; PMCID: PMC8838777.
Wang Y, Wu R. The Effect of Fasting on Human Metabolism and Psychological Health. Dis Markers. 2022 Jan 5;2022:5653739. doi: 10.1155/2022/5653739. PMID: 35035610; PMCID: PMC8754590.
Longo VD, Mattson MP. Fasting: molecular mechanisms and clinical applications. Cell Metab. 2014 Feb 4;19(2):181-92. doi: 10.1016/j.cmet.2013.12.008. Epub 2014 Jan 16. PMID: 24440038; PMCID: PMC3946160.
Sanvictores T, Casale J, Huecker MR. Physiology, Fasting. [Updated 2023 Jul 24]. In: StatPearls [Internet]. Treasure Island (FL): StatPearls Publishing; 2025 Jan-. Available from: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK534877/
You’re Going to Skim This: Hurrying Through Lent
Sarah Roberts, RUF
April 8, 2025
I’m obsessed with efficiency.
My hourly planner looks like a game of Tetris: different commitments stacked and squeezed, so much so that I once boxed off “talk to friends” for a fifteen-minute increment… on a Saturday. I even pray for efficiency. God, deliver me through this season; God, get me through this semester; God, change my heart to be kinder to others – and the unspoken postscript – I want it right now.
When I pray, I have no time for anything less than immediate results. After twenty minutes of scheduled Bible Time in the morning, I rarely give Jesus a second thought. When would I? After class from 10 to 11? Before the meeting from 11 to 12:15? Definitely not while I ate lunch from 12:15 to 12:30.
I can’t imagine how many answered prayers have slipped through the narrow cracks of my jam-packed schedule. My relationship with God feels like talking to my parents in college: if I need them, I’ll call; if I’m free, I’ll answer.
This year, I was stressed about Lent. My plate was so full it was sagging, and the night before Ash Wednesday, I tossed and turned in bed, dreading adding another task to my day.
Luke wrote of two sisters, Mary and Martha, who welcomed Jesus and his disciples into their home. Martha ran about, fussing and cleaning for their guests, while Mary sat at Jesus’ feet and listened to him speak. Martha became frustrated, pleading, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work alone?” (Luke 10:40)
Her exclamation to Jesus looked precisely like my prayers; I call out to the Lord and beg for salvation from the struggle of my own doing. My to-do list is long, and my planner is chock-full, but my pen fills it in. And yet, I call on God to relieve me from my suffering!
“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one.” (Luke 10:41)
When we hurry, we almost always miss out on the Peace of the Lord. We get road rage at a Waymo on Guad, snap at our roommates who forgot to rinse their dishes, and groan in the mirror at our outfit if it doesn’t look quite right. In my hurry, I forget that God loves and wants us just as we are. I am so “locked in” to my days that I forget to look up and see Him reaching out to me.
It's easy to become like Martha at UT, but turning away from everyone just to maximize success is incompatible with the Lord's call: “Few things are needed– or indeed only one.” When I try to engineer my own salvation, I forget that I have a God who has already sent His son for me. If righteousness comes by the law (or my actions), then Christ is dead in vain. (Galatians 2:21)
This season of Lent, I am working to clear my planner. There are things I may need to do– eat, sleep, class– but to become closer to the Lord, we must leave our perfectionism at the door. Our Savior sits in our home while we run about our days, waiting for us to lay down the Google Calendar, to-do lists, and color-coded planners and sit at his feet.
Observing Lent
Noah Thomason, Terrain and RUF
April 2, 2025
For forty days, the earth was drowned, submerged (1),
And Moses, cleansed that he might bear Your laws (2).
Elijah persevered, by angels urged (3),
And You, prepared to start your heav’nly cause (4).
For You, O Lord, to justify us all,
Resisted Satan’s promised worldly might,
Defeating sin, You did not yield or fall,
And offered men Your everlasting Light.
From the Israelites we try to learn.
We cede our idols to th’Almighty Lord,
For we are dust, and t’dust we shall return.
Observing Lent, we act in one accord.
Yet Lent is not the end. To intercede,
You conquered death, for You are ris’n indeed!
References
Genesis 7:12
Exodus 34:28
1 Kings 19:8
Matthew 4:1-11
Pause
Anna Thielmann, RUF
April 2, 2025
When we want to remember something important, we pause.
I’ve seen the movie Saving Private Ryan too many times to count. Yet every time, I am captivated: from the chilling opening scene depicting the D-Day Invasion into Normandy to the weight of the words “earn this” as the captain of the mission sacrifices his life in the final scene. Every time the credits flood the screen, I am glued in place. I pause, afraid to miss the gravity of such a powerful depiction of sacrifice.
We know the story of Christ’s death and resurrection better than any other story in the Bible. Not only because it is horrifically disturbing, but because the resurrection story is the crux of Christianity. The entirety of our faith and belief system hinges on its truth.
Because of that, we pause before telling it. We want it to sink in. We want to prepare our hearts for the story so we don’t hear it the same way as last year. Lent is a season to pause in preparation for Easter. Just like we can’t understand grace without sin, we can’t grasp the resurrection without Lent. Why care about a rescue story without recognizing we need a way out of our brokenness?
Jesus models this act of pausing in preparation for such an unbelievable act of sacrificial love. Before entering public ministry, Jesus retreated to the wilderness to fast and pray. During those forty days, he experienced loneliness, hunger, and temptation, yet never sinned. Knowing what was about to take place, he took time to reflect in the calm before the impending storm.
Lent goes far deeper than just giving something up after Fat Tuesday. It’s not about this pass or fail mentality when abstaining from sweets or scrolling Instagram. Lent is about God captivating our heart through the story of the resurrection. For forty days, we mirror Jesus’ walk through the wilderness by tangibly stripping away the clutter in our lives. By peeling back our idols, we can finally focus.
The Anglo Saxon word for Lent is “Spring,” the time of year where the days lengthen. In a similar way, Lent “lengthens” the time we spend in God’s presence. However, it makes sense why this kind of stillness is uncomfortable. Every facet of culture counteracts it. As college students, we are hard-wired to sprint on a treadmill, desperately filling every second of our day with bite-sized reels and conversations. Lent is begging us to stop and reflect. To pause and focus.
I do, however, believe there is a deeper reason behind refusing to reflect (even beyond distraction). It forces us to be sad. To grieve the death of someone we love. Lent spins us around, looks us in the eye, and tells us over and over again, “Someone died so you could live.” Lent puts us into a posture of dependency. A blameless death was the only way to rescue us from our need, to give us a grace we could never deserve or repay. I don’t know about you, but the heaviness of that always makes me shift in my seat.
This is where we arrive at Easter, face to face with the effects of this awe-inspiring gift of sacrifice.
In the pivotal final scene of Saving Private Ryan, an elderly Private Ryan stands among a sea of white crosses. He lingers in front of one in particular: John H. Miller, the officer who sacrificed his life to retrieve Ryan from war. “I hope at least in your eyes,” he says with his family in the backdrop, “I’ve earned what all of you have done for me.” At these words, you can feel the pressure to pay off an insurmountable debt that has haunted him for his entire life.
Our story looks different. Jesus puts his hand on our shoulder and reminds us, “Because I love you, you don’t have to earn it.” I hope Lent slows us down just enough to glimpse that freedom.
On Failing Lent
March 25, 2025
After the twenty-four-hour fast I took to recenter myself before Lent, a time of abstinence, reflection, and repentance, I was on a spiritual high. It resembled the feeling of starting a new diet when the infatuation with the image of your future self causes you to overlook the daily choices and agonizing discipline that will actually get you there.
I had never observed Lent before, and I was excited to hit the spiritual reset button and be born anew after forty days. I decided I would abstain from mirrors–an attempt to battle my own vanity. I scribbled down verses onto ripped-up lined paper and messily taped them over all the mirrors in my small apartment. I pictured myself on Easter morning, tenderly pulling away the notes plastered over my reflection and slowly making eye contact with the girl across from me. The look in her eyes would be different, as if she was seeing herself but was no longer interested in the vain cares that once plagued her.
Then, less than two days into Lent, I failed.
Then I failed again, and then again, and then again.
Instead of rereading the verses covering my complexion, my eyes would skim over the torn-out pages and simply find the parts of myself I could look at–my hair, my outfit, my shoes. Every time I walked past a reflective building and instinctively cocked my head to observe myself, an arrow of shame shot through me. I thought Lent was a time to repent for the sins you already committed, ideally, before Lent, but soon it became a time for repentance for failing to repent.
Over the days, as my insufficiency became more apparent, I abandoned the practical application of my undoubtedly unrealistic fast and simply rode on the perceived pure-heartedness of my intentions. For a little while, I continued to dwell in the delusion that I could redeem my tainted fast and reap the benefits. I found comfort in thinking that at least I was being more mindful. Then, that mindfulness turned into guilt.
I coincidentally spiraled into shame and disappointment at how pathetically human I was. Lurking beneath my self-identified vanity lay an unnoticed and much more threatening entity–my perfectionism.
In Sunday school, they often spoke of man’s sinful nature and imperfect state. As a child, I woke up on certain days and decided I would try to be “perfect.” I normally failed by mid-morning. Nevertheless, I would continually attempt to succeed in this challenge as if perfection is something you just simply need to set your mind to.
Lent had become a diet plan, a course to spiritual success and closeness to God. Instead of drawing closer in my brokenness and desperation, I attempted to move closer to Him by proving I could finally do it right this time. In some ways, I achieved one thing I sought out. Instead of dwelling on vanity, I was dwelling on my failure.
Ultimately, this was the point. How ironic it is that my failure to carry out Lent successfully was another reminder of my insufficiency, my helplessly sinful nature, and my tendency to rely on my own strength. Yearning to be better isn’t enough. Striving to be better isn’t enough. It is only through acceptance of the utter vapidness of my tainted yearning and ill-founded striving that true closeness with God becomes attainable. The less of me, the more of Him.
This is not to say that we shouldn’t try. Only through trying might we fail, and only through failing might we fully appreciate the grace of a God who chooses us knowing we will continue to choose against him. Before we see the full picture of Christ’s perfect nature and grace, we need first to come to terms with our human failure–in the past, present, and future. Besides, I never was good at following a diet.
Analise Pickerrell, Terrain
Steps of Surrender: Finding God in Lent
Esmée Campbell, RUF
March 24, 2025
Until recently, Lent was something I only ever watched others do. Growing up in a non-traditional Christian household, we didn’t go to church every Sunday, give something up for Lent, or strictly follow religious rituals. But I was taught about God and always believed in Him. I knew my life was in His hands.
Coming to college, my understanding of faith began to shift. Surrounded by many different Christian communities—Hill House, RUF, Revive, and small groups—I found myself wondering: Am I really living out my faith, or just going through the motions? For the first time, I was challenged to define what following Jesus looked like for me outside of my family’s influence.
Initially, I wasn’t sure how to incorporate practices, such as Lent, into my life. I saw people around me fasting, committing to daily prayer, and giving up meaningful things as an act of sacrifice. It felt unfamiliar, almost intimidating. Was I doing it “right”? Did it even count if I had never done it before?
I struggled with feeling like an outsider, as if I was behind in my faith because I hadn’t grown up practicing these traditions. But as I spent more time in these communities, I began to see faith differently. The people I met came from all kinds of Christian backgrounds—some deeply rooted in tradition, others more like me. Yet what united them wasn’t how perfectly they practiced their faith, but how openly they shared it. Through honest conversations, and mutual encouragement, I realized that faith isn’t about checking off boxes or following a set of rules. It’s about showing up, being real, and seeking God in the everyday.
This year, I decided to participate in Lent for the first time by giving up sweets. At first, it felt trivial compared to what others were sacrificing. But as more days in this season have passed, I’ve come to see that it is less about what I’m giving up and more about what I am gaining: discipline, mindfulness, and a deeper dependence on God. Each time I crave something sweet, I’m reminded to pause and pray.
What do I pray for in those moments? Sometimes it’s simple: strength to stay committed, patience with myself, gratitude for grace. Other times, it's deeper: “God, help me surrender what I’m clinging to.” I find myself praying for release from perfectionism, fear of judgment, and the pressure to perform. I ask God to help me trust that His love isn't conditional on how "good" I am at practicing my faith.
In this surrender, I reflect on Christ’s ultimate sacrifice. If Jesus gave up everything out of love for us, then surely, I can learn to let go—of sugar, yes, but also of my need to have it all together. His sacrifice reminds me that surrender isn’t weakness; it’s a doorway to freedom.
It hasn’t been easy. There have been moments when I wanted to justify breaking my commitment, moments when I questioned whether it even mattered. But through these struggles, I am learning that Lent isn’t about perfection; it’s about intention. It’s about creating space for God in a way that is meaningful to me, even if it looks different from how others practice their faith.
Through this season, I am learning that at its core, being a Christian isn’t about rituals—it’s about learning to fully depend on God. Not just in moments of sacrifice or need, but in every moment of life, trusting that He is enough. As I continue this journey, I am realizing that faith isn’t something I have to fit into a mold; it’s something I am growing into, one step at a time.
Contending with God: A Reflection on Ashes
Maddie Hajovsky, Terrain
March 12, 2025
My first Ash Wednesday service, I couldn’t find the parking garage. It was about a block away from the cathedral itself. After circling West-Campus's labyrinthine one-ways, I finally traced the source of the pious-looking foot traffic, parked my car, and joined the stream.
I was a freshman in college. Back then, I thought if I could have struck my evangelical Christian upbringing with a mallet, it would have rung hollow. I didn’t feel like the Church of my youth had taught me anything worth remembering. Maybe a few truisms, but nothing to change my life. And I wanted it to change. I wanted something outside of my head to substantiate all of the agonizing over right and wrong that I had grown accustomed to, something to assure me that this struggle with myself was good for something. The ashes, at least, I thought, could tangibly change me—a physical marker of my anxious self-contending.
I pulled back my hair. The pad of the alms bearer's thumb was startlingly soft as she applied the flaky soot. It had been worn smooth with repetition. “Repent and believe the Gospel,” she said. To the person behind me, I heard her pronounce in the same low tone, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Again and again, alternating from person to person, she repeated, repent and believe, remember that you are dust, repent and believe, remember that you are dust.
To repent is to regret something deeply (1). In modern languages, the distinction between this and mere regret is that repentance prompts a change in behavior. The soul is so deeply grieved for its errors that redirection becomes an almost instinctual consequence. Every Ash Wednesday, though, I find myself wondering what mortality has to do with this.
Here is my best guess: there have been moments in my life that my helplessness, in grief or uncertainty or otherwise, has brought me to a state of paralysis. I lie in bed or put my head on the table and enter into a wordless reverie that teeters on the edge of sleep. I don’t know how to explain what happens in that state. My body shuts down. All that’s left are some essential faculties—and desperation. The part of me I call a soul goes to work on an answer to my helplessness, in a mixture of reason, recollection, and speechless outcry.
The greatest release I have ever found in a state like this is when I come to the end of myself. I turn over every leaf of memory and every stone of my emotional landscape until I realize there is no answer to be found within me. I can do nothing. It’s at this point I wake from my stupor, clinging to God.
Repentance is like this. It is a grief so deep that it propels us to the very edge of our awareness, to the very edge of our self-sufficiency, where we realize that we lack something. Usually, when it comes to repentance, that thing is love.
But we are fickle. We forget that we are helpless—that we are going to die, that our bodies are in constant need of tending, that there is no answer inside of us to grief or uncertainty. Lent is a season of intentionally drawing close to the ways that we are not sufficient for ourselves. We fast for forty days, abstaining from a physical pleasure like dairy or coffee, to remind ourselves of our physical neediness. In doing so, we attempt to become more aware of our spiritual, moral, or mental deficits. In response, there is nowhere to turn but away from ourselves and into our need for a Savior.
There is no better change in life than this. There is none more honest. It is a movement from self-contending to contending with God. So much, at least, is what I’ve learned from ashes.
Notes
1. Latin: re- (an intensifier) penitire (to regret)
Lent 101: Rediscovering Christ
Ethan Christopher, RUF
March 5, 2025
“For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.”
As Lent nears on the Church calendar, I invite you to rediscover its meaning and observe it with heightened fervor this year. I say this for your spiritual well-being. If Lent is familiar to you, resist the temptation to coast through by haphazardly giving up chocolate for forty days, which you barely enjoy in the first place. If Lent is new to you, I urge you to partake in this ancient practice of the Church where we are called to deepen our remembrance and witness of Christ in our daily lives. To remember the one who never forgets us.
What is Lent?
To this latter group, a basic outline of what Lent is may be helpful. Lent is often confused and misrepresented by popular culture, and perhaps even by those professing the Christian faith. Lent is the forty days leading up to Easter which mimics Jesus’ time spent fasting in the desert and being tempted by the devil after his baptism. We celebrate Lent, like all seasons in the Church calendar, to follow the life of Jesus. In Lent, we are called to take our prayer life, our reading of Scripture, our tithing and almsgiving, and most distinctively, our fasting more seriously. Fasting is perhaps the most often forgotten spiritual discipline in our modern day. The practice of fasting, giving something up (often food), is used in the Bible and throughout redemptive history as a custom to help one grow closer to God. In fasting, one realizes more fully that he is ultimately, solely dependent on God for all his needs. Fasting is not something to boast about. Rather, it is something to hide (Matthew 6:16-18), yet the goal of fasting, the further transformation of our lives, is a fruit that may be observable by others.
Why Lent?
Lent draws us closer to Christ through fasting, more attentive prayer and scripture reading, and repentance. Lent is not about how many days you can go without eating chocolate. Lent is not about flaunting the ashes imposed on your forehead to show others you are a Christian. Lent is about being united to Christ and bearing fruit by shedding what hinders us. As T.S. Eliot writes in his poem “Ash Wednesday,” we celebrate Lent, “because I do not hope to turn again.” We resolve to stop circling back on our old ways and to grow anew. Bearing fruit is essential in the Christian life. Lent provides us with the opportunity to be pruned willingly.
How to Lent
Lent isn’t a checklist or a formula. Start by reflecting on your spiritual life: What pulls you away from God? What may you give up to seek God more? How may you go without food, as Christ did, this Lent? Take full advantage of all the venues the Church has to offer this season for increased attention to your spiritual life and more importantly: the life of Christ. Do not brag about your practices, but live a humble, transformed, life which may confuse your peers. This Lent, take your witness to Christ more seriously. Consider these words from Emmanuel Suhard:
“To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.”