A Meditation for Wednesday in Holy Week
Joy in Lent
By Brad Embry
Most people are aware that they have committed some moral wrong in their life at some point. Thinking about such things within a framework of relationality with God, Christians call this sin. Most people, even Christians, may not fret like a desert father about their sin, but any serious, self-aware Christian would work both to amend for sins and to mitigate future waywardness. Such is a discipline of the Christian life, to be in constant vigil over one’s carnal self.
Some Christians I know find the routine recollection of sins unnecessary, and certainly the modern, post-Christian culture that defines portions of the West hardly has room for the practice. Even for those committed to Christian piety in its liturgical strains, taking an inventory of sin is neither fun nor easy. Yet, we do it a lot–privately, publicly, and daily. We even set aside an entire six-week season to engage the practice: Lent. Preparation for Easter comes each year by depriving ourselves of certain luxuries and by preparing our hearts through an inventory of what we have “done and ought to have done.” Lent can be difficult.
Part of the difficulty is the circularity of it all. We sin, repent, live, and sin again (speaking autobiographically). In his poem “Sin’s Round,” George Herbert, like a Christian Sisyphus, reflects on this circularity. He laments his sins in “thought, word, and deed” only to circle back to his sorrow and begin the process afresh. And yet, despite his dismay, Herbert’s poem is touched, too, by a sense of hope and wonder (themes many of Herbert’s other poems convey). In that, Herbert has, I think, caught the heart (and not just the letter) of Lent. He also captures the heart of the author of one of today’s lessons on the subject – St. Paul. The apostle knows his own sinfulness only too well, as his reflections in Romans 7:14-25 illustrate. But Paul is hardly giving up; he is just being honest. In a letter that will dramatically shape Christianity to come, that is high praise for taking an honest inventory of oneself. Difficult, yes. But necessary too.
Indeed, Lent could be a starting point for Christian piety: while sinners, Christ died for us (Rom 5:8 or John 3:16; historically, the admission of converts on Easter speaks to this). In our sins, we remain lovely to the Lord and, powerfully, the object of God’s soteriological nature. If God, perfect and holy, is a God who saves, we, imperfect and sinful, are the objects of God’s salvific activity. Lent is a reminder not only of our sinful state, but of the trajectory of God’s love that lurks beneath the surface of human sinfulness. In this way, Lent flips the script of Christians as fussbudgets about sin. If sin crouches at Cain’s door, salvation crouches too. What we are really fussy about is not sin, but atonement – real life and real freedom. If careful policing of our desires helps mitigate sin, maybe careful accounting of sins helps invite restoration. A season of attention to sin, Lent positions us accurately within the register of God’s grace and love. You were not all that great when Jesus died for you, which means you were loved tremendously. Lingering over and attending to our sinfulness through this season places us, therefore, not on the cusp of tragedy but comedy, not towards condemnation but forgiveness. And God’s capacity to forgive, if we believe Scripture, is transcendent. One of Christianity’s great (potential) gifts to the modern world may rest in Lent, as in it we articulate a constructive way to face guilt and deal with wickedness. Three thoughts stood out from the morning readings on this point, especially from 2 Corinthians.
First, between the confession for sin, the song of penitence, and Lamentations 2:1-9, 14-17, there is ample space in the Office to reflect on our sinfulness. That is good. Stopping there, however, invites caricature. The reading from 2 Corinthians is not about punishment but forgiveness “in the presence of Christ” (2 Cor 2:10) “lest perhaps such a one should be swallowed up with overmuch sorrow” (2 Cor 2:7) and “lest Satan should get an advantage of us . . . ” (2 Cor 2:11). Remembering your sins is good; dwelling on them without forgiveness in view is not. Indeed, the first words of the Eucharist service in Lent sound this note: “Bless the Lord, who forgives all our sins.”
Second, the readings express a dialectic tension fundamental to the Christian life and which Lent exemplifies. We are forgiven sinners who continue to sin and to be forgiven. Destined for punishment, we are saved. The emphasis is on “tension”: until united fully with God this tension will remain. This is hardly permission to continue to sin (far from it!). But being mindful of our sinfulness is healthy. There is something compassionate,too, to the human condition about Lent, about giving space and time, attending to our sinfulness, and calling this Christian piety and worship. Another way to put this is to imagine Lent as a parade towards Easter in which we festoon our wagons with our sins. It amplifies the significance of what occurs in Holy Week.
Finally, liturgical seasons create their own contextual identity, exerting thereby a control over the texts we read. Paul’s note about forgiveness operates within Paul’s greater message of disappointment with the Corinthian church over many issues (division, sexual immorality, improper Eucharistic practices). I daresay Paul would have endorsed a season of Lent for the Corinthian community! Forgiveness is Paul’s reminder to the community that living a Christian life is not just about proper practices, but a proper understanding of what makes those practices efficacious. Without the possibility of forgiveness, Paul blusters.
But 2 Corinthians 1:23-2:11 also must be read in light of Lent itself. In this register, a text on forgiveness can appear to read against the grain. But it is precisely in Lent that the Church, in its Spirit-led wisdom, sounds a note on forgiveness. Such cross-grained reading is not unprecedented. For example, Luke 21:20- 28, the year 1, Monday evening Gospel lesson read in the first week of Advent, refers to the end of the ages in apocalyptic and distressing ways. (I would not expect a Christmas card line from Hallmark on these texts anytime soon.) Such cross-graining articulates the richness of Christian spirituality. Christ’s birth brings hope and calamity all at once (several of T.S. Eliot’s Ariel poems are helpful here). That balancing of opposing features is part of Lent, too. Sin and forgiveness, condemnation and atonement. This tension speaks to an important covenantal ideal that can only be seen when thinking about our sinfulness: you have broken covenant with God. You are lost, however, only if your understanding of covenantal relationship is flattened out to keeping the law perfectly (and Paul is clear on what that leads to). Covenantal life is premised on God’s capacity to forgive and to make atonement possible. Thus, awareness of one’s sin sits at the center of a right relationship with God. Atonement, and not perfect living, is what makes relationship with God possible. Lent fosters just such a preparation, “lest Satan should get an advantage of us” (2 Cor 2:11).
Brad Embry is currently a part-time student at Nashotah House. Born and raised in Fort Wayne, Indiana, Brad and his wife, Kori, have four boys and have lived most recently in Virginia before moving to Wisconsin. Brad has a PhD in Theology (Durham University, UK) and taught for 15 years in higher education in the area of Old Testament studies. He is a carpenter by trade and enjoys woodworking. The readings for the preceding devotional may be located here from Forward Movement.
