I write this in the late evening. It is as bitterly cold as I can remember ever experiencing in my 66 years. Regardless of the temperature, it has been my custom since the night of April 22nd, 2014, the day I got sober, to go out on my front porch alone and pray. Sometimes, when the weather is like it is tonight, my outdoor spiritual practice is brief, consisting of our Lord’s Prayer, the Nicene Creed, and two Hail Marys.

On nights like tonight, I find myself worrying over those of God’s creatures, many of whom we call pets. Tonight was unsurprisingly deathly quiet: no barking, no cats roaming the neighborhood, no sounds of birds; and no sirens that have come to mostly herald a sickening reminder of the ravages of the plague under which we have lived now far too long. At the worst of it—even at the latest hour of the night—the sound of sirens was virtually constant as were the sounds of the medivac helicopters headed either to Integris Baptist or OU Medical Center. Our home seemed to be in the flight path of both those hospitals and I tried, as best I could, to pray for those unknown persons in those ambulances and helicopters; but there were often too many to keep up with one at a time. I admit that I frequently gave up in despair.

Why is it during the season of Lent that we think we just aren’t doing it right (that Lenten “thing”), if we don’t stop doing something bad for us—for all of a whopping 40 days (46 if you count the Sabbath days when we get to cheat)? Back in my drinking days I made several attempts to give up drinking as though, by doing so, I would prove myself to be other than the alcoholic that I knew in my heart of hearts I really was. I once made it all of 2 ½ days and when I invariably failed, rationalized that Lent didn’t really matter anyway, and that I was needlessly torturing myself. It was to be a very long time before I knew that my condition was, at its core, a spiritual disease with a survival rate of just about zero.

In the ensuing years, I heard that Lent did not have to be about giving up anything, but rather the “taking up”. So, mostly out of guilt rather than faith and grace, I gave it a couple of tries. I think subconsciously that I perceived those efforts as some sort of redemption. I certainly did not understand at the time that they were really the infant beginnings of a journey to Jesus, a journey to the cross, a journey to Easter.

My first attempt involved an effort to do all of those things that Christ taught us we should be doing as disciples. I accomplished a few of them, although I never could figure out how to go about visiting someone in prison. Mind you by that point I was sober, and in AA. I could have jumped through enough hoops to actually be a part of taking a meeting to a prison. But in hindsight, I had not developed the sort of spiritual courage that would have been necessary to do it.

Another time, I decided that I was going to try to become a daily communicant but discovered that was logistically more complicated than I was prepared for. However, I did manage to receive communion about 30 times that Lent; and I now realize it was a sign that real spiritual growth was finally beginning. Of course, that practice would currently be a practical impossibility, due to Covid.

Now, years later, I am a Candidate for Holy Orders and stand on the threshold of ordination as a transitional deacon and, God willing, a priest. I grew up in a faith tradition in which Lent might as well have not even existed. All of my experiences with Lent came much later in life—and all those that really meant something, in only the last few years.

So, what does it all mean to me now? Forgiveness, repentance, alms-giving and all of the traditional practices are well and good…but they do not prepare us to be disciples. They do not prepare us for the cross, for the resurrection or for whatever comes after that—not just until the next Lent but for the rest of our lives. Rather, for me lent is an opportunity to begin yet another critical journey—a journey into true discipleship as preached by our Lord in the Sermon on the Mount and throughout the Gospels. It is a time to decide whether to make that great leap of faith; and having so decided, to begin preparations for the changes that will inevitably confront me, and all of us. If Lent is a time of reflection, these are the things upon which we should not merely reflect but plan to put into action.

Several years ago I made a serious effort to help a young homeless man named Michael and his girlfriend that everyone called “Pinky”. Michael and Pinky had the usual issues that drive homelessness, including mental illness and addiction. There were times that I thought that Pinky was going to make it, but ultimately, she was dragged back into the cycle of despair and both of them remained on the streets. I can’t remember how many times in the fall of each year I would encounter them outside the courthouse (one of their favorite places to beg) that they told me, “I hope I can make it through another winter”.

I think I’ll go back outside for a few more minutes and say a short prayer for the abused animals suffering in the cold, but add a prayer that Michael and Pinky survive this brutal night. And maybe, just maybe, a Lenten plan will begin to take shape.

—Dave Thomas, Candidate for Holy Orders

School of IONA