A Downward Ascent

Lent can be a drag.

All the fasting, all the penitence, all the introspection. Denying self is never as much fun as gratifying self, nor is challenging as coddling. The Lenten season is one that pushes back against my flesh and asks me to consider the hard questions that I would far rather ignore.

So why even engage this lousy season? After all, aren't we to live in the victory of Christ and rejoice in His grace? Am I not already fully forgiven?

"Yes," I answer my pathetic, coddled self. "Already forgiven."

"But forgiven of what, again, exactly?"

We live in an age where "sin," if spoken of at all, is a vague, impersonal idea. It's something to be conquered, for sure, but something that has already been conquered like the Babylonian empire or maybe the Nazi regime. It was wrong and it was evil... and it was also long ago and far away. Rarely do we take the time--or the pain--to recognize that sin is not just a vague, impersonal concept, but it's an ever-present and quite personal aspect of me. Oh, of each one of us for sure, but that doesn't quite strike to the core like when I realize it's me.

The try-harder gospel message of the self-help era says that we need to work harder to be better. We need to change our perspective and embrace the happy-slappy joyful life that we've been given in Christ. This is despite the nagging sense that we're not really what we should be and the world hasn't made it their yet either. A toothy grin just doesn't seem to do in response to a cancer diagnosis, or another beheading, or the economic inequity that leads to starvation, disease, and various forms of injustice. When my friend's marriage is falling apart... or my own feels strained... more grinning just doesn't cut it.

Jesus didn't come that we would reform our old selves into better, happier versions. He didn't suffer and die so that I might implement an eight step process toward becoming a kinder person. His very real death must not simply point me toward a battle that is long ago and far away. Rather, it must point me to a daily battle; one that is ever present, and one that will stubbornly not go away. And if I'm honest, one that I would far rather ignore.

Yes, I joyfully announce that I have been given new life in Christ. There is a new life that has sprung up in me, through absolutely no choice or work of my own. This pure work of grace came before I ever had the chance to be sick of my old nature and long before I would ever be willing or able to ask. I can see (and I pray others do as well), the signs of the new nature. Like blooms which will ultimately push out of the snow covered beds I can see out my window, the signs of new life are within me.

But so is my old self. Although I would rather pretend it doesn't exist, it's there. And here's the thing: My sinful nature can not and will not be reformed. It's not getting any better. The new life in Christ is wonderful, but if I'm honest, it only acts as a contrast to the evil that's within me. The solution is not that I should reform my old nature--it cannot and will not reform. The only solution? My old self must die. Not just once, at a point in time, but again and again. I must kill it--no, not I, but Christ, for it is only His nature within me that has even the slightest desire for the old self to die.

Lent is about understanding of what I've been forgiven. It's about continuing the siege on my old, sinful heart that I pray will someday starve it out completely. While I recognize that the battle will continue in various forms until I'm face to face with Jesus Himself, I long to see real victory in the battle. Or, to state it more accurately, I long to long to see it.

That's the reality of Lent, this season that Edna Hong accurately termed the "downward ascent." By denying self, by admitting brokenness, Lent arouses in me the sense of sin that I all to often and all too easily cover up in my coddled and comfortable life.

As I was reminded this weekend, the Good News of the gospel is that in the midst of suffering and pain, we have a King. That King is not simply the King of the day--He is the King of the night as well. It is through the downward ascent of Lent, just as it is through the suffering and pain of our real and ever-present lives, that we engage the depth of the presence of our great King.