lenten void

Every year, I write about Lent. The idea of the observance fascinates me since I wasn't born into a flavor of faith which acknowledged its existence. As Pentecostals, we spring from the very mind of God. (Humbly and speaking in tongues, of course.)

Our Lent came most notably, every time the Spirit told us to let witnessing lead. Those so led by the Spirit would stand, telling of darkness and redemption, addiction, sin. Their pasts offered to the congregation like clear foreheads; our acceptance and love marking them as changed, like soul-deep ashes.

The closest Pentecostal Lent service I found usually rolled around on New Year's Eve. That night looked like a vanilla version of Mardi Gras: playing games in the gym that's never be street-legal, kids running amok ludicrously high on sugar and the freedom of deferred bedtimes; women putting out food and gossiping, erm "sharing possible prayer concerns about fellow members of the community"; men sweat-stained from overly competitive basketball games.

Until the solemnness roiled in.

Then the gym, cleared of most of the sports equipment, filled with families. Hands held, heads bowed, the first thought of every year prayed softly in a incongruously starkly sacred space.

Lent in the Methodist tradition tastes almost like a christian-flavored candy now. From what I've gathered, most attend Ash Wednesday service because it appears in the bulletin under Happening This Week. Some thing surrendered for forty days usually takes the form of food or drink. (This being the South, most commonly Dr. Pepper and/or chocolate.) And the space the thing leaves remains like a subtle void, either filled with the thing again after Easter, or... left.

Those of a sturdier stuff, those faith lights-on-the-horizons fill that space with prayers of gratitude for the chance to experience the thing, or more authentic wishes for those who have not, who are not free to, who may never know such simple pleasures to find comfort.

That prayer feeds my Lenten reverence: that the space created through sacrifice, no matter how seemingly small farmers on the outside, still, and always will allow for inspiring possibility.

This year, rather than dwelling on surrendering, God nudged me towards taking on. In the past, He requested I do all sorts of weirdness: give up being late, break up with my fiancé, stop being afraid.

And while Lent jumpstarted me down the respective paths away from those seeming insurmountable challenges, I still wrestle with them. (Not so much the fiancé; that was by far the most definitively completed. Gold star: me!)

Now, in the interest of transparency, I should confess: I'm completely fuzzed on what I'm adding. And I could be Hallmark card christian/hippie chick and say that's fine... But it's not. Lent officially started, the ashes crossed, I should have a plan. Really, I should have planned and I should be sacrificing.

But... I got nuthin'.

Just a void, created by past years' sacrifice. And the centering faith found in eerily sacred gymnasiums.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Who is Christ Jesus my Lord.
Sacred Lent, blessed journey to you.