The Love of God and the Lull of Lent

by Chris Findley

The other day at Mass I saw something that really spoke to my heart. It was simple, so simple that I almost missed it. As we were waiting for our time to go up to receive the Sacrament, I was watching the people rise and file out of their pews. It was then that I saw her.

She was about 7 years old, with sandy-blonde hair and fair skin. She was asleep, limp, totally out and being carried by her father forward toward the altar. There was something in that sight, that spoke to my heart, as if God was saying, “That’s the way you should rest and trust me.”

Consider for a moment what you must feel before you can rest. You must feel secure. I go through my ritual every night of shutting down the house, of checking all the doors, of making sure all the lights are out, of setting the alarm. Why? Security. We sleep best when we are secure. When we do not feel secure, we fight sleep and are on guard, listening for threats.

But here, in a very public setting, she felt secure. She was secure in her Father.

The temptation of Lent is that we can focus way too much on ourselves, on our failings and on our sin. If we give in to this temptation, we are lulled into thinking that it is all about us. We can all too easily move from healthy awareness and sorrow for sin into neurotic scrupulosity about our failures.

Lent should lead us to the place where we see with blinding clarity that this little girl’s posture in the arms of her father is the posture, and the only posture, we have with our Father. Remember Jesus’ words:

“I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children.” Matthew 11:25

“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 18:3

My self-examination during Lent shouldn’t drive me to despair, but to collapse. It should remind me that the only thing I can do is surrender myself to the God who carries me. It is to become a little child again, not childish, but child-like. It is the call to utter dependence and joy and security in the Father’s love and provision, especially his provision in dealing with the sin that entangles me and at times, overwhelms me.

Can we trust like that? Can we rest like that little girl? Do we dare realize that our union with God is dependent primarily on his faithfulness, generosity and love? Can that realization give us the security we usually seek by our own effort?

Lent’s time of preparation and observance must lead us deeper into this mystery, deeper into restful trust of God. This may be the most difficult task of our Lenten observance, letting go of ourselves and falling into Him.