Learning to like Lent in Illness

I’ll be honest: I’ve never been a big fan of Lent.

Before I got sick, Lent often felt superficial. Yes, I sometimes gave up sugar or TV or social media, and since these things distracted me from listening to God and were generally unhealthy, that felt right and good. And yes, I sometimes took up an act of service, and since I, like all of us I’m sure, am generally self-focused, this also felt right and good, a way to turn my attention away from myself, from my ceaselessly demanding ego, and focus on the needs of my neighbor.

But mostly, Lent felt at best like a personal self-improvement project. Just one more thing in a long list of things I’m supposed to do to be a better human. At worst, it felt like a competition in holiness. Who’s giving up what? Let’s have a good long chat about it.

Then, I got sick. And I stayed sick, for a very long time.

I felt entirely free to pass over Lent, since my life already felt like one long practice in abnegation. I gave up gluten, dairy, sugar, and alcohol not for forty days, but for a year, then two years, now three. I didn’t need to feel hunger pains to know my dependence on God. The pain in my body was constant, an endless reminder that all was not well, and that I needed a savior. Self-discipline came in the form of homework from my doctor: daily sauna therapy, daily meditation, daily walk, daily eating of eight cups of veggies. The list went on and on. Lent came to me in the form of my body, and so I happily listened to my friends talk about their Lenten disciplines while I abstained.

Then, I started to get better. Lent rolled around again, as it always does, and I was suddenly angry. Angry because I felt well enough to participate, and angry because I didn’t want to join my peers. I wanted to celebrate my newfound health! While the people around me slowed down, took things out of their diets, spoke of creating emptiness in their lives to make room for God, I wanted to speed up, start eating dairy, add things to my schedule which had been barren for so long.

More than that, Lent felt mean. Why willingly add difficulty to a life that’s already so hard? Doesn’t Jesus offer healing and rest? Why the self-laceration when we are told Jesus loves us, when that love should be more than enough? My friends understood my reservations. Your life has been one long Lent, said one friend who encouraged me not to feel pressured to participate in this penitential season.

As I ruminated—or rather, brooded—on Lent, wondering to what extent if at all I should participate in this season, I felt a slow unravelling inside myself. Small dawnings occurred as I realized things about Lent I had not noticed.

For one, how Lent brings the rest of the church into the same space the sick (and the poor) occupy on a regular basis: dependence and need. For another, how Lent is not necessarily about trying to be more holy, but rather, experiencing the truth in our very bodies that we are all suffering and dying (Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return, says the priest at the beginning of Lent, on Ash Wednesday). The Lenten season creates space for lament, for speaking honestly to God about the ways our lives have not gone the ways we thought they would. From this acknowledgement of reality, we can open ourselves to the unexpected mystery of Jesus: that through suffering and death come the best things in the world. You must lose your life to find it, says Jesus. In Lent, we practice losing in a world that tells us the only way to thrive is to win. In Lent, the sick person’s life is elevated, because in this season we openly acknowledge that the way of abnegation, of suffering comes closest to the way of Christ.

More can and has been said about Lent, of course. I am only touching the tip of the iceberg. Lent may not be for you. Maybe it’s not even part of your spiritual tradition. You will receive full understanding from me if you ignore this season (and this letter) altogether. Perhaps, though, there is an invitation, an invitation to press into the challenging parts of being a human and expecting to find God there, just as there was such an invitation for me.

Originally published in the “a note from the desk of Elizabeth Hamilton” newsletter. Used with permission.