The God of Luther and St. Therese: A Lenten Reflection

This morning while receiving my ashes, I was reminded of the story of the woman caught in adultery. We recall in John 8 how the woman is brought before Jesus to be stoned on account of her sins. Jesus, after writing in the sand, says to the scribes and Pharisees, “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” But no stone is cast—the scribes and Pharisees go away “one by one.” St. Augustine most beautifully writes, “There are left only two: miseria et misericordia.”

Miseria et misericordia—misery and mercy. These are all that remain. There is nothing in between—no pride, no adornments—simply grace. How often, I thought this morning, do I approach Lent with a “works righteousness” mentality: I need to do this and give up that and sacrifice this. Now, giving things up and fasting and doing works of charity are good and essential during the whole liturgical year, and especially during Lent. I mean to take nothing away from them. Instead, it is the mentality which is the focus of my concern. How often I look back at Lents of the past and say, “I gave up such and such, but I failed,” or “that was a bad Lent”—as if the priest collects a scorecard on Easter Sunday. In fact, looking back, I do not think I have ever actually succeeded in Lent—never made it flawlessly to the end.

Thus every year, in the days leading up to Ash Wednesday, I seek ways of remedying last year’s Lenten failures—give up more, give up less, give up something different, do something positive, etc. Yet this year during my pre-Lent reflection, I received inspiration from two unlikely yet undoubtedly kindred souls: Martin Luther and St. Therese.

Anyone who knows the legacy of these two souls would likely never mention them in the same breath: the one a sixteenth century reformer who ended up on the wrong end of a bull of excommunication, and the other a Carmelite doctor of the Church who never left the cloister. Yet scratching the surface of their lives a bit more, we may discover some interesting similarities: desires for sanctity, struggles with scrupulosity, and a beautiful theology of grace. Both Luther and Therese wrestled with their imperfections, with merit, and with mercy. And thus they concluded:

Luther: “I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God's hands, that I still possess.”

Therese: “In the evening of this life, I shall appear before you with empty hands, for I do not ask you, Lord, to count my works. All our justice is blemished in your eyes. I wish, then, to be clothed in your own justice and to receive from your love the eternal possession of yourself.”

Theologian Mickey Mattox, who first connected these two great people for me in his book Changing Churches, writes, “One can only regret that this wonderful saint (Therese) was not around to meet with Martin Luther as the controversy over the Ninety-Five Theses unfolded… Each of them expected to appear before God with empty hands, and hoped at last to be clothed in God’s justice alone” (65).

            Though the differences between the two theologians are as plentiful as their similarities, I think their theology of grace remains central to mere Christianity—and to my Lenten preparations. I will always enter Lent with bold initiatives, and I will likely always fail. Yet so long as these bold initiatives are rooted in my love for God, and so long as my confidence is always in Him alone, I can be assured that my Lents will be “successful.” For in my desire to love Him, I do in fact love Him; and in my weakness and sinfulness, I can still be confident in His love, for His power is made perfect in weakness. Thus it is with joy and hope that the Christian hears, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

In remembering that we are dust, we remember that in God alone rests our joy and hope. It is as if we begin Lent every year with the words, “Remember that you are misery, but more importantly, remember that He is Mercy!” In embracing this Lenten call and in making it our prayer, we surrender the work of our sanctity to God. God does indeed make progress in me. Yet it is because of His work in this unworthy servant, not my own. Only with this mentality can the pilgrim enter Easter Sunday every year with confidence and joy, for he will bring neither pride nor adornments, but only empty hands—only miseria to greet the overflowing abundance of misericordia.

Stripping Our Lives: On Observing Lent

I have been asked to do for the season of Lent what I did for Advent, that is, to provide a cursory guide for observing this commemoration of the forty days which Christ dwelt in the desert before his Passion and Crucifixion. I gladly do so while prefacing the following comments in noting that although Advent and Lent are in the same situation with respect to secularism, the traditions of Lent have been kept more or less intact while Advent has almost ceased to be recognizable in the face of the secular Christmas holiday. Easter, despite being able to get more Resurrection for your money at your local Walmart, is not the money-maker that Christmas is. Traditions such as Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday,” and fish-fry Fridays are the popular associates of Lent and are, in fact, popular in the contemporary sense of the word. In short, Lent itself is almost more lucrative to business than Easter is, and while this will not prevent a new iPhone from finding its way into the American Easter basket, Lent does not suffer the pressures under which Advent has deteriorated. All this being said, true observance and preservation of Lent rests only in the context of the Church and the liturgical year. Besides, getting more Easter for my money leaves me half expecting that my bill will come out to something like thirty pieces of silver.

            So what has Tradition bequeathed to us in the celebration of Lent? I list first the popular practices of Lent, such as weekly praying of the Stations of the Cross, abstaining from meat and fasting on Fridays, working and praying to end a bad habit and (and more fruitfully) sacrificing some necessity or good, for a sacrifice of sin is no sacrifice at all. Service is also of principal importance, disposing a heart to be ever-ready to give of himself with a sacrificial love in daily life, for as Pope Benedict XVI writes of the Washing of the Feet, “Jesus represents the whole of his saving ministry in one symbolic act. He divests himself of his divine splendor; he, as it were, kneels down before us; he washes and dries our soiled feet, in order to make us fit to sit at table for God’s wedding feast.” Additional spiritual reading is also always recommended. Liguori Press, has, as it does for Advent, Lenten wisdom books. But I especially like reading about the Passion itself and for this purpose I have to suggest Pope Emeritus Benedict’s Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week. Reading five pages a day throughout Lent and reflecting and meditating on Christ’s Passion is a beautiful way to spend time in the desert with Our Lord. Or read another spiritual classic, such as Thomas Á Kempis’ Imitation of Christ, that forms the spiritual life in the crucible of Lent.

In addition to these Lenten practices, an environment that aids the observance of Lent and the spiritual growth of the soul therein can be established in very simple ways. Christ’s “Lent” provides a home environment for our own Lent: the desert, being conducive to prayer but also open to temptations of a nearly exclusive spiritual nature, an opportunity to let God find the soul or for the soul to refuse His Love.

            The Church tradition has, of course, adornments for this desert, but these ornaments are largely negative, i.e., they channel the soul towards renouncement of one’s own will that opens the heart to a new-found love for the crosses of its vocation. Such decorations of desolation are a real Crown of Thorns—especially if made from the branches of a Hawthorne tree—placed as a table centerpiece or in another focal point for the home, accompanied by large, iron nails. Besides this ultimate symbol of humility, however, Lent is distinguished as a season not so much by what it adds but by what it strips man of, just as Christ was stripped. The desert life epitomizes the spirit that ought to be sought for and which heeds contemplation and service in Lent. In the home, cover beautiful artwork or remove it outright from the walls and tabletops. If one wishes to have a more concrete reminder of the desert, I have also heard of filling jars with sand and placing barren sticks in them, setting these about the inside of the home. Moreover, since Lent corresponds with Spring, especially this year, resist the desire to pick flowers and new blooms for interior arrangements…for yourself, that is. By all means, offer them solely to a statue of Our Mother, a small bit of solace offered to her whose soul was also pierced as, at the foot of the Cross, she gazed up at her tortured, dying, dead son. While outside, allow oneself to wonder at the blossoms of the Dogwood tree, streaked with red in the sign of the Cross.

            There is one common practice that I am not in favor of, however, and that is the complete veiling of the Crucifix during Lent. Leaving this piece of artwork exposed gives us our end, the goal of Lent: to die to ourselves that we may be raised with Christ. It serves as a reminder of Christ as a complete and boundless “being for” whom we are to imitate in our own vocation. In this time in the desert, we must call to mind what St. Josemaria Escrivá tells us, that in every vocation there are “The everyday hidden crosses…the cross that is waiting for the corpus that it lacks: and that corpus must be you.” The Crucifix that is the sign of Love, of God giving His whole being absolutely, of God Being Himself to Man—this is the great image of perfection. For us to heed the command to “Be perfect,” we should keep ever before our eyes, in our palms, and pressed against our lips, the bloodied Crucifix.

            In fact, to exalt the Crucifix in Lent is to tap a spring from which flows the desert life. It is my prayer for all who read this that something from the above comments might accompany you as you pass through this land with Christ, this Lenten trial whereby each of us might be judged worthy to mount a cross of our own.