What does Lent mean to me?

Lent to me means following you, Jesus — like this:

    I think of you fasting in the desert for forty days before you started out on your public ministry.

   I think of the devil tempting you and of your emphatic rebuke, “Begone Satan.” And then I think of how the angels came and ministered to you.

   I think of your words, “This is how you pray: ‘Our Father in heaven …”[1] And your words, “When you pray go to your inner room, close the door and pray to your Father in secret.”[2]  I think of a widow who dropped her last penny into the church basket and of how delighted you were as you pointed out her act of charity to your disciples.

    I think of the young woman bathing your feet with her tears and drying them with her long silken tresses while you smiled down at her, loving her and forgiving her.

    I think of Zaccheus and his confession that he may have been a hated tax collector; but, also that he was a just man. I think of your invitation, “Come down quickly [from that tree, Zaccheus] for today I must stay at your house.”[3] And, I think of St. Peter, when he cried out like a trusting child, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”[4]

    I think of St. Peter once more — that big rough fisherman who protested that you would never wash his feet, then at your ultimatum; he threw himself at your feet and cried “Master, then not only my feet, but my hands and head as well.”[5]

    I think of Peter hanging upside down on his cross — too humble, too unworthy to die upright like his Savior.

     I think of Ash Wednesday and the words, “Remember man that thou art dust and dust thou shall return.” (Book of Common Prayer derived from Genesis).[6]

     I think of fasting — almsgiving and prayer — the Mass and the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

     I think of the claustrophobic feeling of being shut in by the walls and dark passage of the forty days of Lent, and I shrink back from it; but, only for a moment, because now my thoughts leap ahead and say praise be to God!

   I think of the light at the end of that tunnel, when the first flush of dawn illumines the darkness and it is the beginning of Easter morning.

   Humbly I ask, my Jesus, that I be allowed to walk these coming forty days of Lent with you; to share the claustrophobia with you, hand in hand by your side, through your suffering, even to the bitterness of Calvary.

    And then, Easter morning, to stand beside Mary as you, in resurrected splendor, walk smiling and joyful towards both of us. Can I possibly aspire to this? A small mustard seed tells me I can. This is what Lent means to me — the Gospel way through Lent.