Author Archives: Greg Johnston

Examining Antisemitism this Lent

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The Church’s emphasis during Lent on repentance and self-examination can sometimes feel individualistic. But Lent is about more than admitting our individual faults and being forgiven by God: it is a call to be reconciled to one another. In our Confession of Sin every Sunday, we confess “that we have sinned” against God, “in thought, word, and deed.” This “we” does mean the collection of individuals: and it also means the collective, the whole community. There are many ways in which the Church has sinned over time, and for which we need to repent: of all these, the sin of antisemitism has been one of the most deadly.

This Sunday we read the well-known story of the Cleansing of the Temple, when Jesus drives people and animals alike out of the Temple. In a few weeks, on Good Friday, we’ll hear again the Passion According to Saint John. In our state, and across our country, antisemitic incidents are on the rise. There’s an opportunity here to connect the dots, and to ask the question: How do the ways we read and mis-read our own Bible perpetuate antisemitism?

I want to share brief thoughts on three areas where we, even as well-intentioned Christians, can verge into antisemitic or anti-Jewish readings.

Accidentally reading later stereotypes into the New Testament. I think of this one every year, when we read John’s story of the Cleansing of the Temple in church, in which Jesus went to the Temple and “found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves, and the money changers seated at their tables.” (John 2:14) I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this accidentally misremembered as “Jesus driving the moneylenders out of the Temple.” Do you see the difference? “Money changers” carried out an important function, allowing pilgrims traveling to the Temple to exchange foreign coins for the half-shekel coin used to make an offering for the Temple tax. Likewise, the animals are sold to be used in sacrificial worship, by worshipers coming from too far to bring animals or who don’t raise them themselves! The accidental “money lenders” here comes from a thousand years later, when Christian rulers forbid their Jewish subjects from working in many trades other than finance, and encouraged violence against them by Christians unhappy with economic conditions. When Jesus “cleanses the Temple,” he’s not making an anachronistic and antisemitic attack on a corrupt financial system by throwing out “money lenders”; he’s putting a stop to the ordinary course of worship by kicking out “money changers,” perhaps as a symbol of the way in which he himself is the Temple of God on earth.

Confusing ethnic/regional/religious terminology. This comes up most frequently in the Gospel of John, and especially in the Passion narrative. John customarily refers to Jesus’ rivals, opponents, and critics as “the Jews”: in Greek, hoi Ioudaioi. For example, when Jesus heals a man in Jerusalem on the Sabbath, John writes, “so the Jews said to the man who had been cured, ‘It is the sabbath; it is not lawful for you to carry your mat.’” (John 3:10) This is inherently an odd way to put it: everyone in this story is a Jew, from the critics of Jesus’ actions, to the man who’s been healed, to Jesus himself! Some scholars propose that the best way to translate or interpret John’s Ioudaioi is as “the Judeans,” since he clearly means a specific set of critics of Jesus in Judea, but never uses the term for Jesus or his Galilean Jewish disciples. Others say this is a kind of whitewashing or attempt to hide the legacy of Christian antisemitism and anti-Judaism. Whatever we choose, we need to reckon with and repent for the fact that Good Friday sermons and the Passion Gospel associated with them were used to whip up antisemitic mobs for centuries, and to remember that “the Jews” were not uniformly opposed to Jesus, nor were “the Jews” responsible for Jesus’ death; only the Roman authorities had the power to execute someone.

Jesus, and all his disciples, were Jews. This simple fact can be the easiest to forget. Jesus was not “born a Jew,” or “raised a Jew.” Jesus was—depending on how you understand the Resurrection, perhaps it’s even best to say that Jesus is—a Jew. Jesus, and every one of his disciples and apostles, was Jewish. Modern Christianity and modern Judaism exist as something like cousins, but the story of early Christianity is one of the expansion of the people of God, not of replacement: we believe that Christ was the one through whom the promises of salvation God made to the Jewish people came to encompass us Gentiles, all the other people of the world.

When we forget these simple facts, it’s easy to verge into theology that is anti-Jewish or antisemitic. Remembering them allows us to appreciate Jesus in a new way: as Amy-Jill Levine, a Jewish scholar of the New Testament, would say, even though she’s not a Christian, she loves studying Jesus and finds him inspiring precisely because he was such a good Jew, precisely because he embodied the love and faithfulness that are at the heart of the Torah, and helped spread that very Jewish message of the love of God and of our neighbors throughout the world.

This year, our diocese is hosting workshops for our clergy on avoiding anti-Judaism in our liturgy and theology by Dan Joslyn-Siemiatkoski, an Episcopal priest and Director of the Center for Christian-Jewish Learning at Boston College. I’ll look forward to sharing more with you after that session! In the meantime, I hope some of this might be helpful for your reflection as we approach Holy Week.

The Foolishness of the Cross

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Sermon — March 3, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

The Cross is a symbol so familiar that it’s easy to forget what it means. For baseball players, the sign of the cross is a good-luck charm before stepping up to the plate. For Christian nationalists from the Crusades to the present day, the Cross is a sign of Christian identity and Western culture. Our own Episcopal Church logo turns the Cross into an allegory of our church’s history: it includes both the cross of St. George from the English flag and the cross of St. Andrew from the Scottish flag to symbolize our church’s original roots in the Church of England and the Episcopal Church of Scotland, and the Scottish flag is made up of nine smaller crosses, one for each of our original dioceses.

But if we treat the Cross as just a symbol of our church’s history, a recognizable sign we can paint in red, white, and blue, then we can’t make any sense of Paul’s claim that the crucifixion is a “stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” (1 Cor. 1:23) If we treat the Cross as a symbol of Western culture and heritage, then we’ve got things the wrong way around: the Cross is a symbol of the cruelty of the Roman Empire, of Western culture as a brutal occupying force. And the Cross is not, in any sense, a symbol of good luck. In fact, it’s a symbol of the worst luck. It’s a sign of failure, not success; of weakness, not strength. The Cross isn’t an abstract religious emblem: It’s an instrument of torture and death, a horrifying sign of the humiliating failure that awaits anyone who challenges the power of the Empire.

This is what Paul means when he writes that the message about the Cross is “a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” Paul’s message is absurd. To say that “we proclaim Christ crucified” is a paradox. Paul’s fellow Jews were waiting for a Messiah who would deliver them from Roman rule and usher in a new era of world peace. And to them, Paul proclaims that the Messiah has come, and h he’s done wonderful things! Has he thrown the Romans out of Judea? Well, no, not quite. Is he ruling over the people in peace? Not so much. In fact, he’s dead, Paul tells them, crucified on a cross like many failed insurrectionists before him. And the Romans are still there. But I promise you, Paul says, despite the objective reality: he’s the real thing! A stumbling block, indeed, for all those awaiting the Messiah’s liberating reign.

And it’s even worse for those who aren’t waiting for the Messiah, for the Greeks, the Gentiles Paul is trying to convince. You know the gods you worship, Paul says, the ones who do great and heroic deeds in all the pagan myths, the ones you pray to for success in this world and immortality in the next? Those gods are trash, Paul says. I’ve got a much better god for you. “What did your god do?” they ask, intrigued. “Oh,” Paul says, “he died.” Yeah, the Romans killed him with a couple of bandits on either side.

This is what foolishness is.

But it’s the foolishness of Jesus himself, who stood on the grounds of the Temple Mount, the glorious monument of God’s presence in the Holy City, restored just years before by King Herod the Great, rebuilt and expanded to form the largest religious sanctuary in the entire ancient world, stories tall and covered in gold leaf, and said: “Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The people want a sign, and Jesus says he’ll give them one, but they’re too wise to understand. “We’ve been working on this thing for forty-six years—you’re gonna raise it up in three days?” Yeah, right. This Jesus is a fool, for sure.

Of course, he doesn’t mean that Temple, the building containing the Holy of Holies, the place on earth where God was believed most fully to dwell. He means the Temple of his body, the Word of God made flesh, the one in whom God really does dwell, who will be destroyed on the cross and then, miraculously, rebuilt. And it’s only through that destruction that the Holy Spirit of God comes to dwell fully in us, and we become the Temple, the place where God dwells on earth.

The world in which the message of the Cross makes sense is a world turned upside down. It is a world in which true success comes only through failure, true strength comes only through weakness; a world in which the cross of shame is transformed into the throne of glory. It is a world in which victory is not won by the edge of the sword or the barrel of a gun, but by self-sacrifice and surrender, a world in which only the eyes of faith can see God working in and through a situation that seems hopeless. In the eyes of the world, the message of the cross is foolishness, full stop.

And so we live in a world full of crosses, but the message of the cross goes unheard. We human beings continue to serve ourselves and betray one another, in small ways and in large ones. And it’s not as if the sign of the Cross alone can fix it: Jews fight Muslims in Gaza, and Muslims fight Muslims in Sudan, but in Ukraine, Russian Orthodox Christians attack Ukrainian Orthodox Christians, egged on by their religious leaders, and they could not be further from the message of the Cross, no matter how many crosses they might wear. And the same is true of every Christian church: our pews are as full of imperfect people as the world outside, and sometimes even more.

But there is another way. Hope is not lost. We can embrace the foolishness of the Cross. We can accept that in Jesus, we are invited to live in a world turned upside down, a world in which greatness and excellence and success pale in comparison to goodness and humility and love.

Toward the end of C. S. Lewis’s novel The Great Divorce, the narrator—who’s been journeying through a vision of heaven and hell—sees a procession approaching through the woods. The leaves begin to shimmer with light cast by innumerable spirits, who dance and scatter flowers through the forest, singing more beautifully than any human being ever has. A procession of heavenly musicians surrounds the lady at the center of it all, in whose honor all this is being done. The purity and beauty of her spirit shine out through her, wrapping her in a gown of goodness and joy that flows out behind her like a long train. All the light of heaven radiates from her face.

The narrator turns to his guide, and whispers: “Is it…? is it…?”

(We’re left to fill in the rest. Is it some great Queen or princess of the past? Is it some blessed saint, perhaps Mary herself?)

“Not at all,” says the guide. “It’s someone ye’ll never have heard of. Her name on earth was Sarah Smith and she lived at Golders Green.”

He goes on to tell her story. She was not great, but she was good. No journalist or scholar ever knew her name, but every animal and every child had felt her love. The narrator is astounded by the pomp with which so simple a person is surrounded in heaven. But as the heavenly guide points out, “Fame in this country and fame on Earth are two quite different things.” “For the message about the cross,” we might add, “is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.” (1 Cor. 1:18)

Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But sitting in this church, right now, you are surrounded by fools. Right now, you are surrounded by potential Sarah Smiths. You are surrounded by people who have chosen to spend their time worshiping a crucified God with an eccentric crew of children old and young. You are surrounded by people who have chosen to try to give their hearts to love, however foolish it may be. And there’s a chance, just a chance, that you may even be one of them.

And you can be one of them. You cannot cause all war to cease on earth. You cannot fix every one of society’s ills. But you can be one of the nameless Sarah Smiths of the world, who look like fools on earth and shine like saints in heaven. It may be harder if you are wise in this world, if you are a scribe, if you are one of the “debaters of this age”! You may have to try, really try, to be a fool. But you can do it. I believe in you. You can treat the weak and the foolish and the small like they are just as good as you. You can give up your own self-interest, to help those in need. You can follow the way of the Cross on the path through failure and defeat, and find that God will lead you through it all, to something even better than success in this world: “For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.” (1 Cor. 1:25)

Getting Out of God’s Way

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Getting Out of God’s Way

 
 
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Sermon — February 25, 2024

Michael Fenn

Lectionary Readings

“Get behind me Satan” is maybe the most surreal moment of the gospel. If Jesus ever did curse, this would have been it. However, I think in the flashiness of this whole shebang that Jesus gives Peter, I have often missed what the actual rebuke is. If you get past the use of “Satan” and listen closely, you might come to understand that Jesus–frustrated as he is–primarily wants Peter to stop being so Peter and just get out of the gosh-darn way and let Jesus do what Jesus needs to do. Peter, in this moment, is justifiably concerned that his beloved friend and teacher has just told them that he is going to suffer and die. And Peter, justifiably, is trying to get Jesus to not do that.

As much as I may hate to say it, Peter is deeply relatable in this moment. I would wager there are few among us who would not react in a similar way given a similar situation. I think many of us are very Peter-like in our rashness, in our rush to be close to God, but I think an unexpected way in which we as people are like Peter is how much we can get in God’s way. How often we can plant ourselves squarely in the way of God’s plan, in Peter’s case two-thousand years ago he planted himself in the way of the physical Jesus; in our case I suspect we are more “metaphysically” putting ourselves in God’s way. 

Recently, I have found myself in God’s way in my life. The realization began because I was feeling generally restless, frazzled, and feeling discombobulated in my spiritual life. After some careful evaluation of how I was going about my day, my week, and my life. It dawned on me. I realized, likely to nobody’s surprise, that my phone was the culprit. I was spending a lot of my leisure time throughout my day scrolling through silly cat videos and the like–it was essentially the first thing I did in the morning, the thing I did often throughout the day, and the thing I did as I was falling asleep. As a disclaimer, I actually did other stuff, I have a life: but you get the idea.  

So, I decided to try and get out of God’s way, and try to put my gosh-darn phone down. I promised myself that I would at the very least refrain from opening any apps on my phone before breakfast. At first, this was harder than I expected. It is wonderful to begin your day with silly cat videos your friends sent you, or it is equally tempting to check your email and grades as soon as you are conscious, or it is just easier to sit and check Facebook than it is to actually start your day. 

I report to you that I have made it about a month with this new practice, and it has gotten easier with each passing day. I more or less feel securely out of God’s way. 

Returning to the second part of our gospel today. Jesus, even in his moments of fiery rebuke, is not without his pastoral nature and teaching. After the shocking and fiery line he delivers down on Peter, he helpfully redirects him, much like a parent or babysitter redirects undesirable behavior. After telling them to go sit in the corner, and get out of the way, he gives Peter and company a behavior more becoming for disciples and followers of Christ. He tells Peter and the assembled company to take up their crosses and follow him. 

Here we come to the very Lenten part of the story. Like many of you, the motif of taking up a cross is one I have often heard when discussing Lenten disciplines. In my experience so far, “taking up your cross” in Lent can mean anything from volunteering one’s time at soup kitchens, to giving up chocolate, to being nicer to your siblings, or a new exercise routine. Each of these would seem to generally fall under the category of a cross to take up. 

However, in light of reading this story. I wonder how many people “take up their cross” before they take the proper time to actually get out of God’s way in their life. I wonder how many people simply decide that one thing is bad for them, or another thing good, or even difficult, and just commit to that thing for Lent. I wonder if people allow God to lead them into a particular practice before deciding on one for themselves, or how many people let God take the lead on where they are going when they  take up their cross. 

Here, I will confess, I have not actually taken up a Lenten practice. In the week or so leading up to Lent, I had thought off and on about taking one up. Then assignments built up, I was preparing for the Episcopal 101 class, and life just got busy. All of a sudden it was Ash Wednesday and I still didn’t have one. Though, I will say, a good number of great Christians do not observe the custom of giving something up for Lent, so I feel in good company here. 

I suppose if I was truly pressed in some odd way of what I was giving up for Lent. I suppose I would say I am giving up my phone in the morning, and by extension, my Lenten practice is to try and continue to stay out of God’s way in my life. So far it has been working very well. I feel more present throughout the day, I have begun journaling again (which is an underrated contemplative practice, if you ask me), I feel more connected to God throughout my day, and generally less frazzled. 

However, I have a second confession to make. Even in this Lenten discipline of mine that is not truly a Lenten discipline, I have failed. I have dropped my cross I have taken up. There was one day last week where some wire got crossed in the noggin and I found myself watching one of the many silly videos one of my friends had sent me. Before I knew it I was checking my emails, checking my texts, scrolling through Facebook and Instagram. All of the usual milieu of things that are fun to do so you can delay getting started with your day just that much longer. I will say, upon remembering the Lenten practice I had taken up, I did nearly throw my phone across the room and recoil in shock. Besides throwing your phone away, it is hard to know what to do when you drop your cross. Or, more broadly, what do we do when we fail at being good. Which is really what taking up a cross is supposed to be. 

Here, I turn to Paul’s words to us this morning. Paul in a general sense is theologizing about what it was about Abraham that was so cool and special that God chose him, and is furthermore bringing it into his own time as a person who lived centuries after what he was writing about. He comes to a conclusion that may be startling, that it was not that Abraham was an upright man who followed every law and rule set out before him. It was that Abraham had faith when God told him that something impossibly good would happen to him. In other words, it was not that Abraham never dropped the cross he took up, it was that Abraham loved God and did his best to live out that love.

Right now, there is good news and bad news. The bad news, in my reading of these texts, is that if you drop your cross the only way to make it better is to take up your cross again. The good news is that if you drop your cross, God does not hate you, and you can pick up your cross again when you are ready. Just as Paul lays out in the first part of our reading today, we are not beloved of God because we are stringent rule-followers who are perfect all the time, if that were true than faith would be pointless. Rather, we are beloved of God because it is in God’s nature to love God’s people. 

In this spirit and with this notion, my commission to you, should you choose to take it, is to get out of God’s way in your life, however you think you are able to. After you are securely out of God’s way and letting him lead, see what cross he is inviting you to take up. It can be a big one, or a small one, or a different one than you have been carrying, or maybe you don’t know yet. If and when you do pick up your cross, because you are human you will inevitably drop it; you pick it back up, dust it off, glue it back together if you must, and try again. In the name of the one who loved us first. 

Desert Beauty

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When I think about Lent, I’m often reminded of the instructions that one of my mentors as a priest gave to the Flower Guild at the first church I served, where she was the interim rector at the time. They had asked her whether she had guidance for flowers during Lent. She answered that many churches didn’t have flowers during Lent at all, and they were shocked. They had always had flowers in Lent before… So she came up with a compromise proposal: Flowers would be fine, but they should try for an aesthetic she summed in a phrase that’s stuck with me: Lent was, she said, a season for “desert beauty.”

The Flower Guild pondered this at their monthly meeting, put their heads together, and came up with a stunning idea: on each side of the altar, they placed a single, pale purple orchid, in an undecorated pot, and they carefully tended each flower through the whole season of Lent.

On Tuesday, I sat in a clergy meeting as priests and deacons shared their Lenten practices of giving things up and taking them on. The final priest to share, who serves a parish downtown, offered her favorite part of Lent: at the end of each day, she writes down the most beautiful thing she saw that day. For her, every day of Lent is punctuated, as she walks through the crowded streets of Back Bay and the barren trees of the Public Garden, with the question: “Is this the most beautiful thing I’ll see today? What about this?”

The forty days of Lent reflect the forty days Jesus spent in the wilderness, in fasting and prayer, facing temptation. We journey through these forty days, too, facing our own small temptations, praying our own avid prayers. Perhaps we learn something about ourselves. Perhaps we grow closer to God. But in this muddy season of Lent, in this long, grey season of Lent, in this taxing, chocolate-free (coffee-free, wine-free) season of Lent—whatever it may be for you—it can be hard to see the beauty.

And yet.

There is a “desert beauty” in life stripped down to its essentials, a beauty revealed when a few luxuries are given up or a new commitment to pay attention is made. It’s the beauty of your life, as it is, without the distractions. It’s the beauty people are seeking when they go out to the wilderness, the beauty you can sometimes find when you’re left alone with God, and the world becomes quiet enough for you to hear the voice of God speaking to you: “This is my beloved child, in whom I am well pleased.”

Because you are (God’s beloved child.) And God is (well pleased with you.) And wherever these forty days of Lent take you, however muddy or beautiful, however loud or quiet it may be, the Holy Spirit is there with you, inviting you always to search for and to tend to and to rejoice in the small, beautiful things of the world.

The Rainbow of Wrath

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The Rainbow of Wrath

 
 
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Sermon — February 18, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

I know an avid golfer, and a couple years ago she told me about a great new system she had for working on her swing. There were all these small tips she’d gotten over the years from her coach that she wanted to internalize. So she distilled them down into sticky-note-sized reminders and then posted them on her bathroom mirror, so that as she got ready in the morning, she could be reminded of an important tip. You wash your face, and look up, and see, “Keep your hips loose.” Brush brush brush. “Keep your eye on the puck.” (Clearly golf is not my thing, but you get the point.)

Some of you might find, three days into Lent, that you need the same kind of reminder for yourself. A “DO NOT ENTER” sign posted on the handle of the liquor-cabinet door. An icon of a wagging finger in the place of your go-to social media app. A sticky note, perhaps, on your bathroom mirror, reminding you of this year’s Lenten discipline: “Do Not Yell at the Children.” (I’ll pray for you.)

If you find yourself embarrassed that you need a reminder like this, or else you’ll instantly forget, then: Don’t be! You’re in good company. Because as the Book of Genesis tells us today, even God needs to set a reminder on a post-it note on the proverbial bathroom mirror, something to see when God first wakes up: “Remember: ‘Never Again Make a Flood to Destroy the Earth.’”

After all, that’s where we begin Lent today: with this odd little aside above God’s invention of the rainbow. I don’t know whether the ancient Israelites would have taken this at face value, but it makes me laugh to think that God needs a sign like this, after the great Flood. We human being are apparently so frustrating, that every time it rains, God is tempted to just keep going and wipe everything out again, but God has committed not to do that, and so God puts a rainbow in the sky, so as to “see it and remember the everlasting covenant” that God has made, never to destroy all life again. (Genesis 9:15) At the very least it should give a whole new meaning to the phenomenon of the “double rainbow”: not just an extra-special moment of magic, but a sign that humankind is really getting on God’s nerves.

But there’s something serious in this image, too. And so I want to stay with it, this morning, and ask: What can God’s covenant sign of the rainbow tell us about the nature of our spiritual lives this Lent?

The most unusual thing about this covenant that God makes is that it’s entirely one-sided. You probably know the story of the Flood: Humanity has become so wicked that God decides to wipe us out and start over, but God saves one righteous man named Noah and his family. And Noah builds an ark, and loads in all the animals, two by two: and God floods the earth, and destroys all other life, and then God makes this covenant with Noah.

It’s not like the covenants that God makes in later times with the Israelites. Those covenants are treaties, two-sided agreements in which each side has responsibilities and rights. They’re conditional: over and over, God says, “If you obey the laws and commandments that I am giving you this day, then I will ____…” But this covenant is one-sided, unconditional. God gets nothing in return. God simply promises: “I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the water of a flood.” (Gen. 9:11) God realizes, in this moment, that God can’t control what human beings do. We will sometimes do good. We will sometimes do evil. God can give laws, and send teachers and prophets; but we’re not puppets. God can’t control what we do. But God can choose not to destroy us in return.

And you can do this, too! You can choose how you act, on your own. In this season of Lent, as we focus on repentance and reconciliation, you might consider whether there are relationships in your life where this kind of one-sided covenant is exactly what you need to make. You can’t control how anyone around you behaves. Most of us can barely even control ourselves, but at least we have some influence over what we say and do. So ask yourself: Is there anyone in my life who just gets on my nerves? Anyone who tests me, intentionally or not? Anyone who, despite my best efforts, I simply cannot change? What would it look like for you to give up on that person changing and make an unconditional covenant, instead—to recognize that you cannot control their actions, but you can control your own, and to respond to them, not with destructive anger, but with restraint? In the same way, if there’s some sin, some toxic pattern in your life that you need to give up, you alone can give it up. It’s a one-sided choice. It’s not easy. It’s not always possible. But it is in your power, and your power alone, to commit to it.

What kind of sign do you need to set for yourself to remember to follow through?

God chooses a sign of great beauty. It’s not a wagging finger or an instructive post-it note that God sets in the sky, but a rainbow. The beauty of the sign is intimately linked to the force of destruction: the water vapor that would have flooded the earth, instead refracts light into beauty in the sky. And it’s as if this beauty jars God out of the path of anger: That’s right. This is what water is for.

Lent has its own strange kind of beauty. Fasting from something can feel like a chore, or a struggle. Repenting from some pattern in your life that needs to change can be hard. Reconciling with someone you need to forgive is always more appealing at another time. And yet there can be a beauty in these things. It’s not the beauty of the luxury vacation. It’s the beauty of the desert, of the wilderness, of life pared down to its essentials. It’s the satisfaction of a struggle won. And you might observe how it feels, in your actual body, to give up what you’ve given up, or to take on what you’ve taken on. It might turn out that the beauty of that rainbow is even greater than the satisfaction of destruction; that your Lenten practice this year is not all self-denial and discipline, but contains some gift for you as well.

But in the end, here’s the thing: Lent is about God’s work, not ours. We spend our forty days of temptation in the wilderness, and we may feed like we succeed or fail, but Jesus has been there before us. We try to turn away from our destructive ways, but it’s God who’s already pledged never again to flood the earth. The question of Lent is not how we can be more like God, how we can resist temptation, about what we have to learn from this sign of the rainbow. It’s about what God has already done for us.

Because Lent is not just forty days of giving something up with a celebration at the end. Lent is the path that leads to Good Friday. Lent is the road that leads to the Cross, where God fulfills the promise never again to the destroy all flesh, but to be destroyed, instead; the day on which Christ “was put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the spirit,” (1 Peter 3:18) as Peter says, and gave new life to every one of us.

And that is the ultimate beauty of Lent. It’s the beauty of the rainbow: God’s unconditional promise of love. If you succeed in “giving up” for forty days, well done; but still, Good Friday’s coming all the same. And if you fail, again and again and again, or if you never start at all: it’s okay. Jesus has already won the victory for you. Lent is not an achievement, or a way to earn God’s love. It’s just an invitation to learn about ourselves. It’s a way to experiment with our own willpower, always remembering that God loves us, whatever the results; that God’s covenant comes with no strings attached; that “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near,” whether you repent or not, and whatever you believe about “the good news.” (Mark 1:15)