Shine on Those Who Dwell in Darkness and the Shadow of Death

This weekend, I read something by a good friend on the topic of Lent. He reflected on a memory of running in his church clothes, trying to get to an Ash Wednesday service on time. His experience was a real-life metaphor. I finished reading, reflected about my own preparation for Lent, kissed my wife, plugged in my phone, and went to bed. 

And then I awoke to my own real-life metaphor. 

It was dark, quiet, still. An unnatural stillness, one that I hadn't experienced in a while. No cars, no motors at all actually, even the kind that run in appliances... 

I tapped my phone. 6:25am, 53% battery. The power was out. 

Thus began two uncomfortable days. It wasn't apocalyptic; there was never a point where my environment caused me to abandon a previous moral code in order to survive. I didn't have to kill, or steal. 

But there were uncomfortable moments; like a Cormac McCarthy children's book. The power was out, ice on everything, food rotted in the fridge, devices without a full charge, car snowed in, and cell service unusually spotty. To be honest, most of the time was spent reading books, but there were also aimless walks in the ice to find food, any food. 

It wasn't 40 days, but it was a Lent nonetheless. We spent days in darkness, pregnant with meaning, and on the third day the light returned. 

There was Resurrection in that first shower. I spent two days in my own filth--using a cold sponge under my armpits doesn't really do the trick. The warm water washed me, and I emerged feeling like a new man. A true novus homo, reborn into a fresh way of life. 

But the real Lent in this experience was a little more abstract. It wasn't one experience, it was a line running through all the experiences, twisting through us to spell out the meaning of the season. We spent most moments with a sharp sense of now, concerned with the maintenance of heat, and food. We made mistakes and regretted them, and lived each moment in the momentum of the last moment. 

But each moment also contained a bit of the future, with us peering through the darkness expecting to be rescued by the light. Squinting, dreaming, hoping. We knew the power would return, even as we fumbled around with smaller things. We anticipated the light. We expected it. 

God told us that he is Love. The little we've tasted of love causes us to expect things from him. Love is faithful through darkness; love brings warmth. Love begets life, doesn't forget life. 

The Resurrection is God making good on a promise to be love. Lent is time spent with that on our minds, fumbling with small things and peering toward the horizon. Waiting for sonrise. 

Just like my real-life metaphor.