Lent

I love to read. For every occasion from those long rides on the big yellow bus of my childhood, to the wait in the late Friday afternoon bank drive-through line of my now, to the reward of a few quiet minutes to myself at the end of any busy day, a book makes a fine companion. Well-written fiction is pure pleasure; non-fiction can fascinate and inform delightfully. You know it and so do I.

You likely have discovered by now that not all books are meant to be read in the same way. Some must be dissected, carefully pondering the placement and function of each part. Some must be partaken of in tiny bites, allowing ample time for digestion. And then, there are those that cry out for plain old “gulping.”

There’s the “page turner”. It’s the whodunit that has you stumped and won’t let you sleep till the mystery is solved. It’s the volume written on an obscure or previously-thought-boring topic in such an engaging manner that you can’t close it until you’ve read the last word and all the back matter. It’s the romance that keeps you saying “Just one more chapter” until you’re sure there will be a “happily ever after.”

When I read that way, I cover big chunks of text in short amounts of time. I take in a great deal all at once, not pausing to evaluate or process much, just …gulping.

It is after I’ve finished reading a book in that manner that the synthesis takes place. It is after those reading sprints that I take a look back to see where I’ve been. During the time I’m reading, the focus is totally on what’s between the covers. If any of what I’ve read is to become a part of who I am, that will happen gradually in the aftermath. At least, that’s how it works for me.

I’m wondering if the observance of Lent is somewhat like this. In choosing to focus intently for a relatively short period of time on the meaning of the last week of Jesus’ life on earth and in opening ourselves wider than usual to Him through times of prayer and fasting, is there a kind of “gulping” activity that takes place in our faith life?

There’s an intensity, a ramping up, a concentration of our intake in the spiritual realm. It may be exhilarating. It may make us weep from a place deep inside ourselves that we hardly recognize. It may leave us with questions which leave us empty-handed when searching for answers…at least for a time.

Most of us could not live in this place 365 days a year, just as a sprinter couldn’t keep up his winning pace indefinitely—the intensity would kill.

It seems paradoxical that what we might assume to be a contemplative time could feel like a sprint instead of a marathon. But, think about this, to use other imagery: Maybe it’s the difference between the wide angle lens and the zoom—same subject, different perspective and view of the details. Eventually the lay of the land becomes evident and we comprehend the meaning of the experience. But for now, we are totally engaged in the view and that is enough.