I guess I gave up on giving anything up . . .

Just after the turn of the 1800's a revival movement began in the wild Western frontiers of America.  A few preachers got fed up with the bureaucracy of their own denominations and defected.  The movement that was born sought to unite all Christians by convincing them to throw off denominational ties in the name of being "Christians simply".  (Yes, that's right . . . division in the name of unity people!)  Three "nondenominational" denominations ensued:  the churches of Christ, the Christian Churches, and the Disciples of Christ.  I grew up in the first of these.

My denomination (which denies its status as a denomination) was one that declared emphatically that all that was necessary to live a good Christian life was a New Testament.  Nothing less, and unequivocally, nothing more.  If one was to isolate six untrained groups of people in remote areas with nothing but a New Testament, one should, years down the road find six churches that looked exactly the same.  So the theory goes.  One thing which was certain was that no other governing principles were needed.  Therefore, when I reached the age of 22 and heard the word "liturgy" for the first time, I remember thinking how sad and misguided those poor 'denominational' souls must be.  

As much as I am aware, I represent the fifth generation of my Mom's half of the family to grow up in a church of Christ.  I say this to explain the simple fact that the mindset it represents is no longer something I received through training, but I feel fairly confident it is hereditary.  That is, it has sufficiently been woven into my DNA.  And though my views on many things, including liturgy, have changed, my heart still heralds back towards a sort of radical autonomy when it comes to group participation.  Not that I won't ever participate in group activities, only that if I do I tend to do it when I think I'm good and ready.

So, about Lent . . . 

I guess I fit in at Journey pretty quickly.  For several years I had adopted the 'autonomous thinking' bit to such an extent that I am now too 'church of Christ' to actually go to a church of Christ.  I've found several others at Journey who feel the same; substitute their particular denomination for my own.  Yet, now I find myself in a community that, at least for certain seasons, is liturgical.  And, I don't feel I have quite yet reconciled myself to this way of experiencing God.  

Truthfully, I'm not really against practices like Lent.  In fact over the last few years, I've come to think that such activities are a pretty good idea.  The problem is that I came to such conclusions by considering the theory of Lent.  Thus, when people began asking me what I intended to give up this year, my radical self-determination made an executive decision not to comply.  I played around with several different things I could give up, and a few disciplines that I might adopt.  But, by the second week of Lent I hadn't really settled down on any one thing, and I just kind of gave up on the idea altogether.  There are a lot of excuses I could give.  I've never had awesome experiences based on ascetic disciplines, no matter how mild.  Not to mention the part of me that obstinately disputes anyone's right to impose an arbitrary set of dates where I would need to make my own life inconvenient.  But, when it all boils down, I think I'm just too lazy and proud to adhere to Lent.  All the theology and personal history I would profess are really just a facade to cover up that point.  Yet, that's where the beauty of community comes into play.

I am fortunate to be part of community that practices Lent even when I don't feel like it.  I've been reminded this past month that being surrounded with people who are drawing closer to God, will inevitably do the same to those who are not making any particular effort to do so.  I've noticed how Lent has broken more than just personal routines, but has also helped our community have different conversations than we would otherwise.  We're having to deal with each other's inconveniences, and in doing so are asking questions of each other that might not otherwise be asked.  We share reasons that might not be shared at other times.  And, most importantly of all, we're reminded of the beauty, as well as the imperfections, of being human.  It gets a lot easier to love each other when we're daily reminded how insufficient we each are to even achieve small, seemingly insignificant goals.  It's all we can do to keep from smoking or drinking.  It's frustrating to face the difficulty of remembering to pray or wake up a few minutes earlier.  Most people I've been around have fallen short multiple times on whatever discipline they chose, and though these shortcomings do not seem to be the point of Lent, I am coming to see the beauty of Lent in them.  If anything convinces me to sacrifice my deeply ingrained orneriness this time next year, that will probably be it.