The Crucible

Tomorrow is it, the day I’ve been waiting for.  Tomorrow, I take my newly-carved feet out to the track for a running workout. 

Well, alright, I won’t be exactly running.  More like shuffling.  And I only get ten minutes on my feet.  But it’s a start.  It’s the open door back to the life I love.

I’m pretty excited!

I’ve been in this incubator for a long time now. 

It’s got me thinking about those periods that come to all of us, when we’re, for one reason or another, unable to live the life we want.  Grief, illness, injury, loss of a job or a friend.  Something is taken away and we’re startled to find ourselves living at half-mast.

I remember days in my surgery recovery, waking up in the morning, and groaning!  Every day was so much work; just getting bathed and dressed took most of my day’s allotment of energy.  And then I had to face another day of doing precisely none of the things that I am accustomed to doing.  (Yes, it was fun for a few days, but the luster wore off quickly.)

Brave friends tried to tell me that the universe had something to teach me, that I would look back on those days as “privileged.”  I didn’t bite any heads off, but I didn’t exactly believe them, either. 

Brave friends, you were right!  From the other side, I can see that it genuinely was a great privilege, one that most people never get (and wouldn't ask for): the experience of being stripped down.  When you can’t DO anything, you have to come to grips with your simple BEING. 

I don’t say that it’s comfortable, but it’s an experience I now see as priceless. 

Two great men who, in their ways, changed the world for the better were formed by periods of forced bedrest: Francis of Assisi and Ignatius of Loyola.  Both were military men, understanding themselves as men of action.  That was their self-identity, and self-identity is a painful thing to be stripped of, more painful than losing a foot or a leg. 

Everyone knows Francis and the legacy of love he left.  Ignatius became a deeply religious man, whose “spiritual exercises” have formed millions of people over the last 450 years.  The society that grew up around him, the Jesuits, gave the world a fine man we now know as Pope Francis. 

Both Francis of Assisi and Ignatius of Loyola were shaped in the crucible of injury or illness.  They entered the sickroom as soldiers; they emerged as something quite different. 

The “sickroom” is a good teacher.  It takes away so many of our props that we are forced to look at our hidden foundations. 

As grateful as I am for my period of recuperation, I don’t recommend surgery as a journey of spiritual awakening!  No, there is something less costly and closer to hand. 

It’s called Lent.  And it begins this Wednesday.

Lent is a deliberate submission to a stripping-down of your person.  We give up some pleasure or crutch in an offering that says, “I’m a little nervous that I  may not be able to function without this thing, but I'm open to possibilities.  I’m ready to be taught more about who I really am, though I may not like the answer entirely.  I'm willing to rely more on goodness and love, and less on myself.”

Some of you have been practicing Lent your whole lives; others may have stopped after childhood, and some may have never practiced it at all. 

I encourage you to think about it.  It can be a transformative experience.  It’s not really about giving up a particular “thing”; it’s more about simply giving up.  Giving yourself up to what God wants for you: richness, blessing, love.  Giving up the urge to control some small aspect of your life. 

I don’t know the significance of me getting my run back on Tuesday, the very eve of the season of self-denial.  Just as I’m preparing to enter 40 days of austerity, I’m receiving an extravagant gift.  It’s one more lesson in giving up control.  Our God of love knows better than I. 

I wish you all a wonderful Lent, whether it is your tradition or not.  Use this season of blessing.  Let Love in.