Good God, Lent again. We just had Advent, of the ill-fated Advent wreath and the dashed hopes that accompanied it, and all of the strife that the end of the year embodied. And now, Lent.
In my innermost self, I desire time alone with the Lord. In fact, all my time should be time with the Lord. As if. (As if that good intention will not evaporate in face of the unrelenting drain of daily demands and the overwhelming toxicity of society.) The unfortunate overlay on wholesome and holy desire, however, is an internalized, childish, yet difficult to deny and dislodge, demand that I become “good.” “Good” according to some Girl Scout definition, always smiling and servile, sacrificing all for some construct of poverty and social justice. I am reminded that, not unlike our beloved Mae West, Jesus announced that, in essence, goodness has nothing to do with it. My guy And today he ripped in to the rules people.
That out of the way, what is it that I seek this Lent? Some openness to the Lord, some availability to all that is offered. And what is offered is all that might be desired. So I will start with that.
The picture inserted here is not terribly pretty, not terribly well shaped. Lacking in color, depth, and definition. Chosen specifically to illustrate the sort of interior brambles, sparked with a little color here and there, not unpleasing in hue, that marks this beginning of the season.