Over twenty years ago now, as a student, I developed one of my major works around the thesis that the liturgy -- in particular, daily prayer and the church year -- is perhaps the greatest untapped resource for congregational renewal that churches have, and I utilized John Wesley's Sunday Service of the Methodists in North America as an expression of how that might look for particular congregations. In that thesis, I argued that Lent, not Advent, was the proper beginning of the church year.
Congregations that live comfortably in North America need Lent more often than they know, and pastors are uniquely placed to reclaim the season in a congregation's spiritual life. Of all the seasons in the Church's calendar, none preaches more forcefully against bourgeois complacency. Lent spurns contentment, celebrates self-discipline, and sanctifies self-knowledge. We all need Lent more than we know.
Sadly, too many clergy are confused -- or worse, lazy. They coddle their parishioners with the false comfort that taking something on for Lent is equivalent to giving something up. But I tell you the truth: In the so-called first world, we are already guilty of overconsumption. If Lent becomes yet another opportunity to consume still more, it will only be lost amid habits long cultivated by unbridled appetites. The logic, as I've heard it over recent years, seems to indicate that the classic understanding of Lent -- as a season for penitence and reflection on our shared human mortality -- is just too heavy. That's bunk! And pastors, of all people, in the West ought to know that.
Still others claim that during Lent we may direct our activities to other ends, such as environmental stewardship or charitable deeds. But these are good if and only if they so force us out of our comfort zones that we begin to recognize how our desires rebel against our commitments. Only then will the words of the Apostle become our own: "I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate". Only then can we cry out with the same, "Who will rescue me from this body of death?" (Romans 7.15, 24). I f you've never pleaded before God with this question, you know neither yourself nor the Lord.
At the time, my own profs bristled a bit at my understanding of the church year. I recall more than one being a little unsure if I had understood the logic of the church's year, or whether I had the pastoral sensitivities enough to foster congregational growth. But over these intervening years, I think I was right on both counts -- and I'm more convinced in 2019 than I was in 1999.
Congregational growth is Easter faith. But there is no Easter faith without the cross.
"Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return" is that cruciform in faith in 2019. Lent is the lament of creation; it is an unfinished melody, vitiated and tattered and torn. Easter isn't the culmination of Lent but the beginning of something new, an unflinching interruption by divine fiat. But we who are human need contrasts. We understand light only after we have known darkness. If we can't -- or, worse, won't -- live into this season, how can we truly know what comes after?
Congregations need Lent. You and I need Ash Wednesday. In humbling ourselves, in knowing our waywardness and rebellion, we acknowledge the truth of our days: We can't get there on our own. That requires God's intervention and new creation.
We clergy needn't apologize Lent. Lent explains us.
Congregations that live comfortably in North America need Lent more often than they know, and pastors are uniquely placed to reclaim the season in a congregation's spiritual life. Of all the seasons in the Church's calendar, none preaches more forcefully against bourgeois complacency. Lent spurns contentment, celebrates self-discipline, and sanctifies self-knowledge. We all need Lent more than we know.
Sadly, too many clergy are confused -- or worse, lazy. They coddle their parishioners with the false comfort that taking something on for Lent is equivalent to giving something up. But I tell you the truth: In the so-called first world, we are already guilty of overconsumption. If Lent becomes yet another opportunity to consume still more, it will only be lost amid habits long cultivated by unbridled appetites. The logic, as I've heard it over recent years, seems to indicate that the classic understanding of Lent -- as a season for penitence and reflection on our shared human mortality -- is just too heavy. That's bunk! And pastors, of all people, in the West ought to know that.
Still others claim that during Lent we may direct our activities to other ends, such as environmental stewardship or charitable deeds. But these are good if and only if they so force us out of our comfort zones that we begin to recognize how our desires rebel against our commitments. Only then will the words of the Apostle become our own: "I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate". Only then can we cry out with the same, "Who will rescue me from this body of death?" (Romans 7.15, 24). I f you've never pleaded before God with this question, you know neither yourself nor the Lord.
At the time, my own profs bristled a bit at my understanding of the church year. I recall more than one being a little unsure if I had understood the logic of the church's year, or whether I had the pastoral sensitivities enough to foster congregational growth. But over these intervening years, I think I was right on both counts -- and I'm more convinced in 2019 than I was in 1999.
Congregational growth is Easter faith. But there is no Easter faith without the cross.
"Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return" is that cruciform in faith in 2019. Lent is the lament of creation; it is an unfinished melody, vitiated and tattered and torn. Easter isn't the culmination of Lent but the beginning of something new, an unflinching interruption by divine fiat. But we who are human need contrasts. We understand light only after we have known darkness. If we can't -- or, worse, won't -- live into this season, how can we truly know what comes after?
Congregations need Lent. You and I need Ash Wednesday. In humbling ourselves, in knowing our waywardness and rebellion, we acknowledge the truth of our days: We can't get there on our own. That requires God's intervention and new creation.
We clergy needn't apologize Lent. Lent explains us.