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.