This year’s season of Lent is going to be weird.
Don’t get me wrong, the yearly reminder on Ash Wednesday of being put “in the mind of the message of pardon and absolution set forth in the Gospel of our Savior, and of the need which all Christians continually have to renew their repentance and faith,” (BCP 265) has always carried unique weight upon my faith journey. The season of Lent, for me, has always been more about intentionally leaning into the wilderness—often of my own cultivating—that must be travailed in order to live fully into the joy and celebration of Easter. Taking a serious look at the things that have been stumbling blocks in my path, the distractions and shortcomings that have stood between myself and our loving God have always been a wilderness I must admit that I look forward to traversing each Lent.
But this year, it doesn’t feel like I have the luxury of this wilderness to explore, come Ash Wednesday. Because let’s be honest, it’s been a wilderness since last March! A new season of hope, deferred yet still promised, seems silly in light of the Covid pandemic, in the face of so much unfathomable loss. By the time you’re reading, this more than two and a half million people will have died worldwide; millions of jobs have been lost; countless businesses shuttered for good; unspeakable grief and suffering; and an abiding loneliness for so, so many.
We are all in the wilderness, and have been for a long time.
We have been there much like the Israelites in Exodus, all the way through to Joshua—who travailed and waited for the promised hope. Much like the crowds who flocked to the wilderness to hear John’s new preaching, we have been waiting for these promises of hope to be fulfilled. We have lost friends and loved ones, we have faced the reality that so much has changed and continues to change outside of our control. With the rollout of the various vaccines—which hopefully many of you have received—I can’t help but feel as though we are Joshua, or the whole host of Israelites, standing on the banks of the Jordan waiting to enter the promised land. We wait with a profound sense of hope, albeit it mingled with loss; knowing that, like Moses, many in our midst did not get the chance to cross those muddy waters.
How fitting is it then that, as we embark on the season of Lent, the first public act in which we partake includes ashes, an historic symbol of lament. Let us lean into this lament. It is imperative that we focus on what and who we have lost. In so doing, we recognize the important roles and places they once held and continue to hold in our lives. When we lament, we allow ourselves to grieve and then in turn open ourselves to God’s healing presence in our lives. Because even in the face of loss, we acknowledge our loved ones are still, in many ways, with us. Even in our darkest moments, God’s light and love still illumines our path. We are never alone.
As we are still wrapping our minds around what we have lost this past year, may we remain ever focused on how—even in our darkness—God has been with us. It was true in the wilderness, and it is true today. As we prepare to leave this year’s wilderness for the wilderness of Lent, remember God’s promise. God is with us now and has been with us every step of the way. In our loss, God is there. In our grief, God is there. In our fear, God is there. My prayer for us this Lent is that in the midst of the ash, loss, and pain of our current wilderness, that we will take a closer look for the smallest shoots of green, those signs of new life, those signs of God’s presence. They are there when we take the time to see them, even when we may or may not feel like we have the eyes to see them.
The Rev. Jeff Huston
Campus Minister, Oklahoma State University