The Veil Will Be Lifted

Lent has a strange way about it, doesn’t it?

If your church actually celebrates Lent, and you’ve been at all able to attend worship throughout the season, then you’ve more than noticed the peculiar nature of the whole thing.

The kids in the 3rd grade here in our school were wondering why we veil the crucifixes during Lent. To a few of them, it seemed like the last thing we should be doing. A student from one of the upper grades had the same thought and mentioned it to me before school one morning.

“Isn’t that kinda what the season of Lent is all about—Jesus dying on the cross?” he asked.

A very intuitive question regarding a practice that might appear to be counterintuitive. But if you know why we do it, it isn’t as capricious as you might think.

The Christian Church has marked Lent in this way for centuries, and depending upon which history writer you go to, there are various reasons given—and by the way, I fully expect my clergy-friends to critique this post, some of whom being sure to tell me what I’ve got wrong, here. But in the end, no matter the interpretation of the practice in the Church’s annals, most unfold carrying similar themes.

As a young pastor, when I first saw veils on crucifixes here in my own church, I didn’t ask why they were there. I just assumed it had to do with texts like Isaiah 25:7 which reads:

“And he will swallow up on this mountain the covering that is cast over all peoples, the veil that is spread over all nations.”

The veil Isaiah is talking about is Sin.

When you know that it’s the Messiah who will take upon and then lift the veil, and when you couple that with Saint Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 5:21, which say that “for our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God,” it makes sense for the veil to be applied to Jesus on the cross, especially during the season of Lent.

I also thought it might have to do with the veil in the temple and the fact that Christ is the One who accomplished that which would cause its tearing in half (Hebrews 10:19-22).

But I learned that neither of these were the actual reasons the church has participated in the practice. Oh, well. It sure was teaching me something, even if I didn’t know what it was, exactly. In other words, it had me thinking.

For one, most historians will pretty much tell you that the practice of veiling church adornments was far more dramatic than it is today. In fact, walking into a church in the twelfth century, you’d have seen the entire sanctuary space veiled. The pulpit and lectern would have been visible, but the altar itself would have been blocked from view. Extending out from there, all crucifixes, icons, statues, and in some cases, even some of the stained glass windows would have veils, too.

The fact that something is hidden from our sight should be the first thing we notice. Veils are barriers. They block us from seeing what’s really there.

One of the reasons that the church first started employing the practice of veiling the visuals in churches is because if ever there was a time to not be distracted by anything else around us and to listen to the Word of God—to really listen to the inspired texts given by God with the message of that which saves us—it was Lent. The story of the One who has come to die and rise again—and every iota of what that means—is at the center of Lent’s message. It is the most precise of the commemorative times. If somehow we missed the Gospel throughout the rest of the year, it is imperative that we not miss it now. Just for a time, cover the crosses. Cover the icons. Cover the images. Cover it all.

Just listen.

Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of the Gospel of our suffering Savior, Jesus Christ (Romans 10:17). Listen carefully. You’re hearing what happened. It’s the story that has a power no other story possesses. Listen. Listen very carefully.

In order to teach the students another of the reasons for veiling the crucifixes, during our Thursday chapel service I read to them Exodus 34:29-35. This is a portion of the story of Moses veiling his face after being in the presence of the Lord on Mount Sinai. The veil hid the glory of God that was still reflecting from Moses even after he’d left the Lord’s presence.

In the New Testament, when Jesus speaks of the glory of God, He often does so in reference to the truest glory of God being displayed on the cross (John 7:39; 12:23-29; Mark 10:37-38). Behold, the One true God who would die for the sins of the world! There is nothing more glorious in all of history than this. When we put a veil on the crucifix, we are saying something about the manifested glory that’s truly being represented there.

The veils teach us this.

I suppose another motive brings us back around to where we began. Veils block our views of things. I probably don’t have to remind you of the depth of the theology behind the fact that the Second person of the Holy Trinity, Jesus Christ, was veiled in the flesh (John 1:14; Philippians 2:7-8, and the like). It’s the reason we sing at Christmastime, “Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see; Hail, th’ incarnate Deity: Pleased, as man, with men to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel!”

Emmanuel, God with us—and yet veiled.

But finally, veils are anticipatory. They keep us at the edge of our seats as we await the one great day when the veil of this life will be lifted and we will see God face to face. One day we will depart from this life and we will be raised in our bodies to be with God in His nearest presence.

Thinking on this, can you guess when the veils will be removed from the crucifixes? Yep, Easter, the celebratory day of the resurrection of our Lord and the promise that we, too, will pass through death and rise to new life! In this, the veil is lifted forevermore!

I pray that as you continue to keep the Lenten fast, the various practices swirling among you in the midst of the season will serve to keep your focus on Christ and His work to save you. It’s a powerful time of penitent reflection and spiritual honing, all for the purpose of knowing more deeply the passion of our Savior—the cost for our sins and His willingness to pay it.

Taking the Law on Two Legs


We’ve all been on the receiving end of excuses. We’ve also been ones to employ them.

It was Shakespeare who said in his passionate way that when we make excuses for our faults, the very act itself “doth make the fault the worse…” (King John, IV, ii).

He’s right, you know. It’s a very deep hole we begin to dig when we betray to others the calculations that comprise our darkly justifications for our truest selves and our behaviors. That’s what we do when we make excuses. We reveal the real tenacity for covering our tracks and holding to our Sin.

Since we’re Christians and God promises to forgive our faltering, why not just be honest and admit to it?

Because the Sin-nature is strong. We war against honesty and continue with our excuse-making because the Sin-nature knows a little something about confession that it doesn’t want to admit. The Sin-nature knows that honest confession is completely incompatible toward gaining what we want when we want it. Honesty doesn’t fit into the divine equation of trust in God as opposed to self. Honesty is an exercise in letting go of the badness and clinging to the good. Excuses are the ways we find for keeping at least one finger on the bad.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the season of Lent doesn’t tolerate excuses. Every Sunday in Lent sees excuse-making bowled over. It leaves no room for reasoning a way through or legitimizing our sinful doings. It looks us squarely in the eyes and says unflinchingly, “You can’t fool me. I know a schemer when I see one.”

Throughout the season, the introit and Psalms both have elements of this. The collects contain it, too. The readings more than tell us this. The hymns put all of it to music. And God willing, the preaching and teaching of the Pastor will steer straight into it with you, as well. He will unflinchingly remind you that your family’s absence from worship and study is hurting and not helping. He will warn that your loveless stewardship of the Lord’s gifts is destined only for cataclysm. He’ll try to dissuade you from the excuses you are making, urging you not to try to justify Sin, but to bind yourself to truth, because in the end, there is but one Arbiter of earth and sky—Jesus Christ—and He already knows your secret ambitions. His Word has already met with and judged every excuse mankind could ever think to devise.

But that’s not the whole message that Lent and its servants have to give. Lent also serves up the realization that honest confession is far better because it beholds the consoling and empowering smile of absolution.

The Gospel of God’s absolving love through the person and work of Jesus Christ restores, recreates, and empowers.

Pearl S. Buck said something about how every mistake has a midway point for remedying the situation, for turning things around and fixing them. The Gospel goes further and says that apart from outright rejection of Christ or passing the moment of death, there’s no point at all on the mortal timeline when a believer has gone beyond the sphere of God’s grace. This is the Good News that Christ is there with His Gospel at every twist and turn along the way, giving what the shameful heart needs to gird up and take the accusations of the Law on two legs.

Admitting to Sin’s ugly residence in our hearts is bravery not weakness.

I haven’t been a pastor too long, just over eleven years now. But even in that short period of time, I can truly say that when it comes to excuses for this or that Sin, the wellspring of surprising novelty has run pretty dry. I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve heard them all, and for the most part, all are emblematic meanderings that circle stereotypical causes. For the one who claims to have fallen out of love with his wife, I wait patiently for the mistress to eventually come to light. For the one who can rarely make it to worship, I am saddened by his or her Sunday morning exploits broadcast on Facebook.

There are few excuses I hear that hold up or are even the least bit interesting anymore.

I don’t know if that should scare people away from talking to me, or if it should encourage them. I hope it’s the latter. I hope people will sit with me and know that I’m going to do my best as a servant of Christ to give honesty in order to retrieve honesty. Honesty in these situations leads to a realization of need. Need has its hands out in ready anticipation for what Christ promises to give, which is forgiveness, the assurance of His love, and the stamina for facing off with those things that drag us down into arenas where we think we need to make excuses.

My prayer for you is that this holy season will help you to see the One who gave His life as your ransom, that you won’t feel the need to make excuses for your Sin but rather you’d know and experience the freedom of access to His immeasurable grace. Take that grace. It’s yours. You don’t need to justify your Sins in order to convince Him that you are worthy. Confess them. Be honest. You’ve failed and you are in desperate need. Admit and then recognize that no matter where you are, no matter how far astray you’ve gone, the cross of Jesus Christ stands as the midway point for remedying your mistakes. Look there. He will receive you, and He will turn it all around.

He Loved Them to the End

Well, I did it again. I got a little teary during the midweek Lenten preaching last week.

Trust me, I do my level best each and every time I get into the pulpit to keep my emotion in check, or at least in appropriate support of whatever is being preached. But sometimes it truly hits home that even though I’m the one speaking, I’m still on the receiving end of what the Holy Spirit is doing through the preaching. Of course I know this before I go into the pulpit. But again, sometimes what I’m saying is piercing enough to my own soul that it gets me right where I’m standing. That happened during the sermon.

Over the course of our midweek Lenten services, we’re pondering the seven last words of Jesus on the cross. The text appointed for this past Wednesday, which I read at the beginning of the sermon, was the first of the seven, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34).

Jesus forgiving His enemies while they torture and kill Him is an extraordinarily moving image, but in all honesty, I was feeling the hand of emotion on my shoulder before the sermon even started. It came while I was reading to you the first section of the Lord’s Passion drawn from the four Gospels. The particular gathering of texts in that first portion paints the portrait of the events of Maundy Thursday, and as we were carried along by it, at its midpoint we hear the words, “Jesus knew that His hour was come to depart from the world and go to the Father. Having loved His own who are in the world, He loved them to the end.”

He loved them to the end.

This, too, is a heartrending phrase. How can it not be? Jesus knows He’s about to die, and as He does, we are to know that He will love us in and through to the very end. He will display and accomplish the truest expanse of love in the midst of the darkest night ever known to the cosmos. The depth of this statement is unfathomable, and already being aware of what I planned to preach, it added another dimension of cutting emotion as I read it.

Now the preaching.

Before getting to Jesus’ first words on the cross, I spent a good deal of time describing the contours of Good Friday. I had to. Before any of us can attempt to grasp the weight of the Lord’s words, before we can come to the realization that our seats in the pews before the Lord’s altar aren’t cheap, we have to at least try to understand the measure of the event itself, asking ourselves, “What’s really going on here?”

Crucifixions were dreadful, but also fairly common during the time period, which is probably why the Gospel writers don’t really share the details too fully. But still, they were as terrible as terrible can be, and so, what does it mean then, that God—Jesus Christ—gave Himself over to enduring an unjust trial marked by incredible brutality, a pre-sentence flogging that would malfigure any human who experienced it, a crown of thorns knocked into place on His head with a staff, tortuous mocking and slapping and spitting, and then, finally, being nailed to cross beams with railroad spike-sized nails?

And then came the moment when the awareness that Jesus loved us to the end met with what the Holy Spirit gave us through the preaching.

Contextually, when you think about who it was that Jesus was pleading for by those first words, when you realize that He’s begging the Father to forgive everyone perpetrating the unholy massacre, there is the moment of pristine Gospel that beams through and reminds that none of us are beyond the borders of the Lord’s first words from the cross.

No matter who you are or what you have done, the forgiveness for which He pleads is the same forgiveness He is winning for all—even for the worst of the worst—even for you and me. No one’s sins are left unpaid by this sacrifice.

We all fit into this little prayer of Jesus that’s slurring from His exhausted lips on our behalf.

Indeed, He loved all of us to the end.

That hit me hard. And it took an extra bit of control to hold back what could have easily become a weeping mess. The combination of these words highlighted the grand nature of faith in Jesus’ sacrifice as the wonderful blessing that it is. The price for our Sin has been paid. It wasn’t cheap. It was incredibly costly. But Jesus paid it. Faith in Him receives the merits of what He has accomplished.

I know all of this. But every now and then, I feel it, too. And sometimes when I’m preaching, I hope so badly that the people listening in the pews are hearing it as I’m hearing it, that they’re seeing what I’m seeing, that they’re being moved to experience the same comfort that I’m experiencing. It’s a strange mixture of penitent joy that brings me to the edge of my abilities to control my own enthusiasm.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that such a thing happened this past Wednesday.

Anyway, I pray you’ll read what I’ve written here and you’ll understand why I got a little choked up. Also, if you aren’t already, I hope you’ll consider attending midweek services during Lent. There’s so much more to come with the last six phrases of our Lord in the midst of loving us to the end.

Texting is Not My Thing

For those who have my cell phone number, they’ve probably noticed that I’m not one for texting. I do my best to do it, but in the end, it’s not a way of communication that I appreciate.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not annoyed by it. I just don’t appreciate it like so many others do.

One reason that I don’t like it is because it takes me far too long to craft a text message. I’m a rigid perfectionist when it comes to writing stuff. In fact, my own family finds good reason to tease me over the whole texting thing. They poke fun at me because when I do it, I use complete sentences, being sure to take the time to punctuate everything fully and correctly. That takes a lot of work when you’re only using your thumbs and switching between character screens.

Another reason I’m not much of a texter is that it’s inconveniently convenient, giving people the false security of instant responses to questions that could probably wait for another time. I suppose I should add to this that sometimes I don’t even understand what people are so hurriedly communicating to me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but for as savvy as I may appear in social media circles, I literally just learned ten days ago what “smh” and “lmk” meant. Before that, I could’ve cared less to know what they meant. I would see these in a text or an online post and just move along as an admitted outsider in the SMS language community. I never cared to learn these lazy phrases. As a result, I suppose that many appropriate replies went unsent over the years because I didn’t realize someone was telling me to let him or her know. I’m pretty sure that when people typed that to me, I responded with something like, “Are you okay?” because as far as I knew, it meant “Landed on My Keys!” and of course we should all, especially the pastor, show concern for someone who suffers such an accident, right?

Well, whatever. I guess you could say that I’m a guy who believes that words matter, that the language structures they rest in matter, that the time spent in contemplative care of the words matters. There’s already enough communicative confusion in this world, and texting seems counterintuitive to that. It has me asking myself, “Would a little more time and precision in our efforts to communicate really be all that bad?”

Think on the use of the comma. A misplaced comma has huge ramifications. Take for example the following cover of “Tails” magazine.

Without the proper placement of commas, it sure seems like Rachel Ray discovers her innermost creativity while preparing to sauté both her family and her pets for consumption. The next thought would then be: “This is one incredibly creative woman, and so how many families and pets has she 86’d and eaten over the years?”

Again, care in these things matters. Texting exchanges care for efficiency, and I’m not so sure that’s the best trade off. I’d much rather have a phone conversation than a text or instant messenger conversation. I find that a phone conversation—or even better, a face to face conversation—has a much better chance of ending well, especially in the contentious situations in which we sometimes find ourselves in the virtual world.

What’s funny is that folks will send me a text message saying that they didn’t want to call because they know how busy I am, not realizing that sending me a text with the expectation of a reply is a lot harder on my regular pace than a phone call because it takes me so long to type something.

And by the way, I’m never too busy for a phone call from anyone. Never. Except maybe a phone call from a politician, or someone trying to sell me the latest video series from Joel Osteen. I suppose I can let those particular reach-outs land in voicemail.

I suppose I’m sharing all of this because it sparked some pastoral thoughts, and it’s something that any clergyman most likely notices during Lent. This is the time that preachers are crafting some of the heaviest sermons they’ll preach all year.

Pastors are handlers of language, and not just any language, but God’s language—God’s Word. The Word kills and makes alive. Pastors deal in the Word. We do this while we’re teaching. We do this while preaching. We do this to lead a gathering of Christians. We do this in order to hold the line against the enemies of the church assembling at her gates. Ultimately, we do all of this with care because the Word of God is the means by which God reveals His efforts for our salvation through Christ, and it is the sole source for faith, life, and practice. Knowing all of this, pastors are not to approach the Word of God as casual and careless visitors. They are to have great fear and love for God’s Word. They are to take time with it as they seek to serve Him in faithfulness and humility. God’s Word is more than just simple text messaging. It is the precise means of God’s divine revelation to man. If we mess it up—that is, if we mix up the lines of its communication—we jeopardize eternity for real human beings.

Without going further, I think you get the idea how slacking off in the handling and communication of God’s Word isn’t something we ever want to discover in our midst. But add to this that as individual Christians, we don’t want to be those who think it’s possible to interact with God’s Word in the barest of passings rather than taking the time to be immersed in it. We want to hear it, love it, study it, be in it, and share it, too. Of course, we shouldn’t ever expect to have such a relationship with it if we only want an association that’s efficient. I could understand such an expectation if God gave us His Word via three-letter text messaging terms. But He didn’t. He gave us a voluminously rich Bible full of wonderfully deep and eternal-life-giving sentences crafted and delivered from His own heart of love.

It’s Lent. Might I suggest for your Lenten fast (if you’re indeed fasting) that instead of giving up coffee, sweets, or whatever, that you try giving up skipping Bible study at your church with your pastor? You might be surprised at how enjoyable you’ll find it to be, not to mention, fulfilling.

No pressure to the folks who are members of my congregation.


The Law and Gospel of Fasting

I’m wondering how many of you are planning to fast during Lent. Of course it isn’t a required Lenten practice. I’m going to fast, although I haven’t quite figured out what form it will take just yet. For the record, as I’m sure you already know from my previous messages, I believe the practice of fasting is good. It’s an outward honing of the senses that attempts to keep one foot in the Law of God and the other in His Gospel.

Considering the Law angle to fasting, if I had to select one word in this moment to describe it, I’d choose “imprisonment.” Fasting is a form of imprisonment. It takes us into a place where certain inclinations are purposely inhibited and it denies access to what would normally be enjoyed in Christian freedom.

Richard Wright wrote in his book The Outsider, “Men simply copied the realities of their hearts when they built prisons.” He’s right. According to the sin-nature, the human heart is a prison of thoughts, words, and deeds—things we wish we could wipe clean from our slates by our own efforts, but in the end, we just can’t. We see them through the bars and we know our guilt. We know that the wage for Sin, which is imprisonment to Death, is a just and appropriate punishment for our crimes.

I suppose that in a way, fasting takes us inside the prison, but it doesn’t do so with us as convicts being led in shackles and destined for a cell. We’re guests of the warden, and we’re reminded of what we narrowly escaped by the death and resurrection of Jesus. We’re reminded of the immense value behind the redeeming act of the innocent Son of God who exchanged His freedom for ours, who became Sin for us so that we would be free (2 Corinthians 5:21).

From this Law perspective, the Gospel is by no means robbed of its luster and given a penny price tag, but rather it’s seen as it should be seen. It’s an act that we didn’t deserve, and this side of the prison bars, it’s nothing less than priceless.

But this is the very point where we meet with the bright beaming Gospel that shines in the midst of the act of fasting. While we didn’t deserve the rescue, moved by an indescribable love, God gave it to us anyway. Ultimately, Christians fast as a way to keep their spiritual wits attuned to the immensity of the sacrifice Christ made by His suffering and death for the salvation of the world. That’s definitely Gospel. That’s the good news of Christ’s work to save us.

Whether or not you decide to fast is completely up to you. If you’re undecided on it, I say go ahead and give it a shot. Just remember that as you do, you’re not doing anything to win God’s favor. You’re doing it because you already have His favor by virtue of faith in Jesus Christ. With that, you’re fasting because you don’t want to become spiritually lazy. You’re fasting because you’re intent on never losing sight of the enormity of the events leading to and being accomplished on the Lord’s cross. You’re intent on recalling as Saint Paul recalls:

“But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified” (1 Corinthians 9:27).

Whatever you decide to do, I pray it will be of benefit to you. Know that I’ll be traveling alongside you in the practice for the next six weeks, and I’ll be trusting that God will both prepare and enlighten our hearts for meeting the holiest of days—the Triduum (Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Vigil of Easter) and then Easter Sunday—with the integrity of those who know with joy the price of salvation and are glad to live in and proclaim that same joy to others.

Take Care How You Hear

We’re preparing for Lent. We’re preparing to recall the work of Jesus of Nazareth—the Son of God—as He makes His way into Jerusalem to die for the sins of the world. We’re preparing to take in the details, as affronting as they may be.

We’re preparing to wonder at this great, but disfigured, spectacle.

Last week, Septuagesima, the text from Matthew 20:1-16 helped to get us ready. By it, Jesus presented the backward story of a Master who rewarded the workers, not according to their labors, but according to His generosity. He didn’t give them what they deserved, but according to what flowed from His kindly heart concerned for their well-being.

There Jesus goes. He’s entering into Jerusalem. He’s being kindly. He’s being generous. He’s not leaving us to our demise—to what we deserve—but rather is giving Himself in our place. He’s being as generous as anyone would never be—the innocent One giving Himself for the guilty so that we would be declared innocent by His work.

This coming Sunday, Sexagesima, the text from Luke 8:4-15 continues the preparation. It considers the backwardness of the Gospel Word of God and it whispers, “Do you even believe a word of it?”

It sets before us a parable of a sower who goes out to sow seed. It tells of various types of soil, each a recipient of the seed. And as each soil receives the seeds, only one is considered good soil. Only one takes the seed into itself and produces a hearty crop.

The disciples don’t understand, and so they ask Jesus to explain. And He does, finally telling them that seed is the Word of God, and the good soil are those who hear the Word and hold fast to it, who bear fruit by it. All the other soils either despised it, found little use for it, or accepted it according to their own determinations.

But not the good soil.

Interestingly, there’s a summarizing verse in Luke 8 that seems to bring the whole section of parables together. It’s verse 18, and in it Jesus concludes, “Take care then how you hear, for to the one who has, more will be given, and from the one who has not, even what he thinks that he has will be taken away.”

This week we are being prepared to see the One going into Jerusalem to save us, and as we behold Him, we are being urged to take Him for all that He is—namely that he is the Word made flesh dwelling among us. To reject His Word is to reject Him. To reject Him, is to reject the all-availing sacrifice He made on our behalf.

This is to be all of the other soils but the good soil.

“Take care then how you hear,” Jesus urges. Receive the Law and Gospel—the stinging and chastising and cultivating, as well as the reinstating and comforting and healing. The whole of it is good. It’s given in love from a God whose desire is to save you rather than give you what you deserve.

Road Signs

Here we are at the edge of Lent. I say “edge” because we haven’t quite crossed over its border.

This past Sunday, Septuagesima, is the first of the three Pre-Lenten Sundays. The word literally means “seventy days,” and it’s pointing to the fact that we’re about seventy days from Easter. Next Sunday, the one that always makes a select few of the school children giggle when I say its name, is Sexagesima—sixty days. The Sunday after that is Quinquagesima, or fifty days. Lent doesn’t actually begin until Ash Wednesday. It lasts for forty days, which is mindful of the Lord’s forty days in the wilderness, Noah and his family’s time in the ark before being delivered, and the forty years the Israelites spent in the wilderness before finally entering into the promised land. Of course if you do the math, realizing that Sundays are in Lent but not of Lent, then you’ll discover that Lent lasts right up until the Vigil of Easter, which is the Saturday before Easter Sunday.

So why the Pre-Lenten Sundays? Isn’t Lent long enough already?

I suppose. Although, if you’re in tune with the seasons of the Church Year, you’ll already know that while each one has something to teach us, they’re also doing something to prepare us for what’s coming next. But the stark contrast between the brightness of Epiphany’s powerful miracles is almost too strange for dropping us right at the doorstep of one of the most sobering events of the year—Ash Wednesday—which begins the season for more intently meditating on the approaching sacrifice of Jesus. The Pre-Lenten Sundays help ease the jolt. They’re kind of like a very slow immersion into a really cold swimming pool. You need a little time to ease into something that has the potential for shocking your system. Lent isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s a solemn and deeply penitential time. Every single bit of its very visceral fervor is aimed at that one particular Friday in the Church Year that Christians call “Good.”

And by the way, I mean no offense when I say that if Lent is treated as being no big deal at your church, then go somewhere else. Your pastor isn’t doing it right and you’re missing out. Again, no offense, but you need to ditch the place. You’re being starved of one of the most vigorously focused times in the Church Year.

That reminds me… I had a conversation last week with a few of our school kids about a text in 1 John 5 where the Apostle asks sort of rhetorically: “Who is it that overcomes the world?” (v. 5). I spoke to them about how the world is actively warring against us, and strangely, its assaults aren’t really all that off-putting. It entices us. It reaches to us and convinces us into beliefs and behaviors that are counter to Christ and His holy will. Essentially I said that the world offers up a whole lot of road signs pointing to no real destination, at least none of any real or truthful value leading to eternal life. In fact, everything the world sets before us has the potential for leading to condemnation. But then in the very next sentence, John answers his own question: “Only he who believes that Jesus is the Son of God.” In the verses immediately following this answer, John encourages the reader toward the means for not only discerning this, but for being equipped to withstand and ultimately overcome the world—the Spirit, the water, and the blood—which are really just first century synonyms for the Word of God and the Sacraments of Holy Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. John presses his readers to look to road signs that actually lead to something good know, road signs that actually give what they communicate. And he urges us to never become disconnected from these means by which Jesus takes up residence among His believers to feed and strengthen them for overcoming the world.

Thinking back on the conversation, I realize that this is a very Lenten text. Lent is a time filled with spiritual road signs. For example, in the midst of Lent’s penitential atmosphere, there’s a long-standing Christian practice of wrestling with the worldly flesh through fasting, which means folks deliberately set aside or give something up for Lent. In a sense, the act is meant to be a road sign (not at the same level as Word and Sacrament, of course), and it’s done for a handful of reasons. Hopefully one of the principle reasons is so that each and every time they experience the craving for the thing they’ve set aside, the very yearning itself will direct their attention to what the Lord set aside in order to accomplish our redemption. He set aside His divine majesty, and in utter humility, He submitted Himself to the powers of Sin, Death, and all that hell could raise to destroy us. And what did He give up? His life. He didn’t do any of this for Himself. He did it for us.

Ash Wednesday, the very first experience of Lent, is an incredibly potent road sign. The ashen mark smeared on our foreheads to remind us that we are dust and to dust we shall return (Genesis 3:19). And yet the mark—a cross—it points to the singular event among all others in human history that had the muscle for defeating death at its own game and setting us free from its curse. When that mark is made, it is formed in the same way a pastor crafted it on us when we were baptized. Ash Wednesday points to the fact that all who have been baptized into Christ have been clothed with Christ (Galatians 3:27). We were buried by baptism into His death, and by His resurrection, we rise, too (Romans 6:4). Death has no hold on us because it has no hold on Christ (Romans 6:9).

Lent is full of these types of road signs, and the Pre-Lenten season is helping to hone our senses for seeing them.

Lent itself will lead us through a forty day journey of carefully absorbed and distinctly precise meditation on the suffering and death of Jesus for the sins of all. I hope you’ll engage in it. As a Christian, I guarantee it’ll be well worth your while.