Laetare, Ierusalem

A while ago I heard this comment on the radio: “Well, that’s what Lent is about, isn’t it: to discover how strong we are.” I was so distracted by that phrase that I hardly heard the rest of the programme. Strangely, Lent, like Christmas, has entered secular culture (“what are you giving up for Lent?” people with no Christian connection ask, rather as they ask about New Year’s Resolutions), while Easter seems almost entirely confined to the shops; I can see the mounting panic in the shops already, as they advertise cut-price Easter eggs. They won’t sell, of course - they don’t sell - and after Easter chocaholics swoop on Scotmid and make a killing.

I am not sure why Lent has caught on. Perhaps it is a cover for, and a spur to, dieting - the most common thing for people to give up being chocolate, closely followed by alcohol.

But if there is one thing Lent is not about it is “discovering how strong we are”. It is also not about increasing our self-control by practice. Stoics and Buddhists may cultivate “apatheia”; it is not a Christian virtue. Christian indifference is something quite distinct. We do not reach the point at which we have risen above joy and sorrow pleasure and pain, to such an extent that we no longer feel them or even no longer care about them. or maybe some do, but they have no advantage, Christianly speaking, over the rest of us Christian indifference is this: first, we know that whatever God sends or permits it will ultimately turn out to our advantage; as Paul said, all things work together for good to those who love God. So if something unpleasant happens we dislike it, and would have preferred if the contrary pleasant thing had happened. God knows what he is doing and while I do not believe that he ever sends troubles principally “to try us”, he is not put off by their troublesome nature if he knows that they are the best thing for us. And secondly, as St Ignatius pointed out, we want to be as like Christ as possible, and he had a pretty rough time of it. So if we have a rough time we may not enjoy it (we are certainly not required to enjoy it, and most certainly, short of a special vocation not required to ask for it) but it is OK by us, because although we have the bad experience of having the rough time, we have the good experience of being like the Lord.

“How strong we are” is not of any real interest to the Christian, except insofar as learning that contributes to our self-knowledge. As Paul said, “our sufficiency is of God” - the sufficiency that matters, that is. If he asks a particular thing of us, whether it is martyrdom or keeping the Lenten fast, he will provide the required strength; but there is no reason to suppose that he will give me the strength to keep off olive oil for six weeks just because I on a whim think it might be a good thing to give up for Lent. “Strength” has nothing to do with God; look at the people who have the “strength” to put themselves through misery and suffering to win an Olympic medal or look like a catwalk model and apparently find it quite easy. They have “discovered how strong they are” - and where does it get them, Christianly speaking?

There is no harm in fasting or performing ascetic practices, but it must be for the right reason, or, Christianly speaking, it is worthless. The other bad reason for fasting is indeed religious, or quasi-religious, and pretty poor religion it is too. It is to punish ourselves, to make ourselves suffer. Because that is what God likes, isn’t it? I am afraid that is indeed the impression that many Christians have given throughout the ages, but it is not Christian; it is perhaps a basic human instinct and stems from our fallen natures. We know, in a very confused way, that we are sinners, and to us sin means punishment. And so we punish ourselves; but we generally pin it on the wrong thing - think how guilty a thirty-something feels when she eats a slice of chocolate cake! - and we misunderstand the purpose and nature of punishment. To God, sin does not call for punishment; sin calls for healing.

I think one of the main lessons of the Bible is just that: our sufficiency is of God. Pharaoh could persecute the children of Israel as much as he liked; Moses the chosen one not only survived, but was suckled by his own mother, infiltrated Pharaoh’s very palace, and finally robbed him of his entire contingent of Hebrew slaves. You could of course argue that while God’s overarching Plan was no doubt behind all this, the instruments he used were the midwives and the mothers. And I guess that is quite topical today, because, of course, it is Mothering Sunday.

Jesus told us that we must be like little children if we are to enter the kingdom of heaven. Those of us who have dealings with children, or can remember our own childhood, know that children are not innocent little darlings absolutely all of the time. What he meant to evoke was the trust that children have in their parents, their awareness (most of the time!) that they can’t go it alone. Our sufficiency is of God - we should know it, and live by it, as Moses must have known throughout his life that had it not been for his mother’s courage and right decision, he would not have survived.

Christians of the Reformed traditions are perhaps less likely than Roman Catholics or Orthodox to regard the Church as their mother, but it wouldn’t do us any harm to think, occasionally, of God as our mother. God is certainly our father; but God has no gender; God is also our mother. The concept presented no problems to Julian of Norwich, Indeed, she went further; not only God, but Jesus himself, is our mother. She says, for example: “What does Jesus, our true mother do? Why, he, All-love, bears us to joy and eternal life…The human mother will suckle her child with her own milk, but our beloved Mother Jesus feeds us with himself, and with the most tender courtesy does it by means of the Blessed Sacrament, the precious food of all true life.”

Is that so strange? When we make a list of the ways in which Jesus described himself, we remember the True Vine, the Way, the Truth and the Life, the Good Shepherd, but do we remember the mother hen? It is one of my favourites. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often would I have gathered together your children as a hen gathers her chicks uner her wings, & you would not”.

We are safe under the wings of Jesus. I am aware that there is controversy around exactly how much we have to contribute to our salvation, but I think we will all agree that, firstly, we could not have done it for ourselves, and, secondly, Jesus’ sacrifice was sufficient, once for all. Our sufficiency is of God.

That is what Lent is about. Not discovering how strong we are. Not punishing ourselves by suffering. But discovering, or reminding ourselves of, the true relationship between ourselves and God. Of course that will involve some sadness, because, like the publican, we are sinners, & our salvation required great suffering & the ultimate sacrifice from God. But Lent is, as the Orthodox have it, a time of “bright sadness”, because it leads, through Good Friday, to Easter. In Christianity, everything is ultimately joyful because however much our Lord suffered for our sins, the fact remains that he died to free us from them & that he rose again in glory & is seated at the right hand of the Father, where we shall join him when our own personal Lent is over.

What do we need “strength” for? We have the Lord.