We’ve been chattering about Lent for upwards of a week now, over the daily Luncheon table. It never occurred to me, years ago, when the first of the children began to talk, and, with less spectacular results, to listen, to say anything like, “It’s lent now. What wretched transgression are you going to give up you sinful little child?” Why would I do that? Children are basically adorable and their sins are, while totally irritating, generally charming. You correct them incessantly, but you’re never going to say, “Why don’t you give up dumping over the block bin for Lent this year.”
Lent is really for adults—for people who drift away from repentance and holiness in the car on the way to work, in the bitterness of a misunderstanding, in the exhaustion of topping off the wine glass one too many times and letting the binge function on Netflix go on without any soul-searching. As you grow up, you accumulate “besetting sins”—those wretched vices that feel like they carry you over the threshold day to day but get harder and harder to lug around. It’s a merciful act of the church to say to you, “Why don’t you pick one of those to try putting down and walking away from for a while?” At the very least, you’ll have more a intense and considered way to experience the mercy of Jesus when you fail and have to repent.
But verily, Lent is for children too, as I discover in wonder every year. It is for children, at least, who swim in the wide gracious pool of the community of faithful Christians. The colors in the nave change from green to purple. The flowers go away. The Gloria is replaced by the Kyrie. And as you run around the parish hall, you hear grownups commiserating with each other over what they think they ought to “give up for Lent.”
Without ever bringing it up myself, inevitably a child will announce some kind to terrific fast. The youngest this year said, without a shadow of terror or fear, “I am giving up electronics for Lent.” The Luncheon table fell into a hushed and anxious silence. “Really?”
Other children leapt in to cover the horror.
“That’s nothing,” said the oldest, “I’m giving up hiding my true feelings.”
“Oh, I’m giving up sarcasm,” said another one with a sneer.
“I’m giving up Lent,” shouted one of the middle ones, getting into the spirit of the thing.
“Now wait,” I cried over the cacophonous din. “One of you said something serious. That’s quite an undertaking, giving up electronics entirely for a month and a half.”
“Sundays Don’t Count,” they bellowed in unison. And a low, rumbling voice that still makes me feel like we’re living with a stranger went on, “I’m giving up acolyting except on Sundays.”
Actually, it was pretty funny—particularly the timing. Jokes are really all about the timing.
The youngest, truly sincere child, continued undaunted, her voice clear and precise, anxious to let her righteousness be known before all her siblings. “I am also going to give up not listening to you.” I arose from my chair to envelope her in a real hug. “Jesus loves you best,” I whispered—but not quietly enough not to be heard by everyone.
It went on like this for a week. Eventually, because no one can be bothered to pick anything up that they throw down around here, Matt announced that no matter a child’s private Lenten Fast, the whole family will not sit down for the evening to read unless everything is first picked up off the floor. This is abundantly fair. I feel like I still live with toddlers, only they are bigger and their shoes, when I trip over them, are monumental enough to kill me. Nevertheless, some of them are sticking to their virtue and giving up something big—Netflix, all electronic engagement, arguing, etc.—or trying to pick something up. A couple of them are considering actually trying to listen to other people. The bigger ones feel like life has chosen for them their suffering—persistently doing school work without wandering away to do other things.
The great thing about it, a little bit of the joking aside, is that the child who freely decides to put something away for a while—in the context of everybody else trying to do it—learns the beginnings of disciplining the body, mind, and soul. Instead of the marshmallow test, imposed from the outside to confirm the everlasting trajectory of the child, a general invitation to internal regulation, even perhaps the work of the Holy Spirit, is issued by the church. Even children are encouraged to try it on for size.
One year I kept moving somebody’s iPod around my desk, in total irritation, shouting down the stairs to find out who’s it was. One of them finally climbed up and explained, “I gave it up for Lent.” So there it sat, with nary a backward glance at it. Other times I find myself tripping over children lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, because they gave up movies on Friday nights. And of course, many more years we all completely forget about the whole thing and then God saves us by letting us all topple to the flu.
The church year is a great help to failing parents, a crutch even, to carry you along when you couldn’t go very far on your own. If you just go and live there—day by day, service by service, coffee hour by coffee hour, letting your children run up and down the aisles, picking up the horrible styrofoam cups that they scatter all over, searching around in your bag for a pen that works so that they can scribble on the bulletin, trying to keep them from killing themselves with the kneeler, letting the creed ramble by you as you shift around again because someone wants to put on a coat that she just took off—you wake up one day and find a grown person next to you in the pew, examining the conscience and the heart, wanting to be more like Jesus. It’s practically a miracle.
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