EMBRACING AFFLICTION

Abba Mark the Greek said, “If we accept the afflictions that come to us with patience and prayer, blaming no one, we discover them to be blessings."

The words of Lent are grim: affliction, fasting, penitence, grief, sorrow—to name just a few. The first step we take into Lent we’re met with these stern words of the Prophet Isaiah: “Is this how you afflict your soul, by putting on sackcloth and covering yourself with ashes? Do you imagine the Lord takes this for the penitence He requires?”

“Affliction” comes from Latin. It means “to beat down.”

The Biblical phrases Christians adopt for Lent call on us to “afflict our souls.” To beat them down. We’re told to weep for our sins, to abstain from pleasures and fast from foods. No wonder Lent isn’t as popular as Christmas.

Let’s consider Christmas—here in the middle of Lent. We know the theological meaning of Christmas: “and the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.” When we hear those words, we fall to our knees. But Christmas also means fun and frolic: garlands of green and festal carols, gatherings of families and friends to eat, drink and be merry, Yule logs ablaze “to drive cold winter away.” Echoing the Christmas angel we say, “Peace on earth, goodwill to men.” We want Christmas to be magical and joyful, but how often it disappoints. It becomes a mad rush of fulfilling obligations, sending cards and gifts to people whose names we vaguely recognize, going places because we’re expected to put in an appearance, straining our budget to keep up our appearance.

We’re forgetting how to Feast. Maybe it’s because we’ve forgotten how to Fast.

I’m not talking about the rules, but the reasons. Why do we feast and fast? Easy: we feast for joy; we fast for sorrow.

I don’t want to “afflict my soul.” “Beating myself down” doesn’t have a lot of attraction for me. But what is it I’m beating down? Is it joy? Happiness? The pleasure of friends and family? No. None of those.

Lent challenges me to beat down my selfishness and arrogance, my viciousness and greed, my hypocrisy and cowardice. These are the things that I’m supposed to afflict. Lent isn’t long faces and hollow groans, but the calisthenics of the soul. I stretch the atrophied muscles of my spirit to bring them back to life. Afflictions are blessings unseen.

A close friend wrote me yesterday. He said, with a terse, wry humor I couldn’t rise to, “My Lenten sacrifice is…shingles.” Its timing, he tells me, fits just within the Lenten framework—it should disappear just about Easter. He didn’t choose it, but having accepted it as a Lenten affliction, he’ll derive the Lenten benefit.

“Accept the afflictions that come with patience and prayer,” Abba Mark says, “and discover God’s blessing.”

I don’t know what blessing will come from the unsought suffering of my friend. I know that bearing it as he is, God will bless him through it. And my friend’s suffering, offered as a Lenten sacrifice, will benefit others, too. He may never know how; that’s not the point. When we offer ourselves to God, giving Him even our pain and sorrow, we become part of His plan of Redemption. “I make up in myself,” St Paul says, “what is lacking in the suffering of Christ.”

Your Lenten sacrifice will blossom into your Easter blessing. Your Fast will become a Feast. If your Lenten offering is paltry—well, you have an idea by now what to expect. “The measure you give,” the Lord Jesus says, “is the measure you get.”

I hope the Lent you’re offering God is proving a hardship. Lent is forty days. Easter is forever.