How Did Lent 2025 Go For Me?

When resolutions fall apart and freedom breaks in.

Photo by yours truly 📸

St. Augustine remarked on the death of Christ, “A single tear shed at the remembrance of the Passion of Jesus is worth more than a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, or a year of fasting on bread and water.” Also, this quote from last week’s church bulletin about the Lenten fast: “To do so [preparing for the death and resurrection of Christ] we take long (lengthened) looks at our sin and brokenness, but even longer looks at the mercy and love of God. It is a time to empty ourselves of lesser things that we might be filled with the greater things of the gospel; to die to sin that we might live for righteousness.”

There are eleven more days before the time of Pascha graces our presence. True to my word, I spent forty days (by the time this releases) in intentional awareness of God’s spirit, detached from the pressures of publicly sharing, instead following the wisdom of Mary, Christ’s mother, who treasured experiences in her heart. Choosing to cultivate quiet and stillness, I willingly gave up extraneous noise or information that would distract me from contemplation. Through this practice, I’ve discovered the bliss of empty silence where God’s voice could fill it up. But to be honest, this Lent would be considered a ‘fail’ if we were defining success by proficiency at spiritual resolutions. Indeed, almost none of my Lent ‘goals’ were achieved or upheld throughout the whole of the time.

Thank God he does not measure our devotion to him based on how well we kept a fast or that we neglected an evening prayer once. It is, rather, grace upon grace.

In the beginning, I had sworn off not only media like secular music, podcasts, etc.; additionally, I proposed to myself that I would abstain from speaking or thinking negatively of other people. Although, I held that less religiously as Lent continued—partially because it was too vague of something to give up and partially because it’s a sin to look down upon your neighbor, and therefore, excluded from a ‘fast’. Through this last practice of being mindful of the words I spoke and the thoughts I had, I began to be keenly aware of the times I spoke of another person any other way but in the light of blessing. I mention my own choices for Lent because I don’t intend to give the impression that I dislike fasts or spiritual disciplines…

But my story of this year’s Lent doesn’t have to do with resolutions or fasting goals, so the above will most likely be the last time that I mention Lenten fasting.

Instead, God elected another route for us to take together: namely, that of cultivating virtue behind the scenes rather than through disciplinary methods. Actually, I ‘achieved’ what my spiritual resolutions had been created to do; it’s just that God got in the driver’s seat and piloted it all, without my notice until things really began to shift inside of me.

“I am not what I ought to be, I am not what I want to be, I am not what I hope to be in another world, but still I am not what I once used to be, and by the grace of God I am what I am.” - John Newton

GotQuestions explains Matthew 5:3 in this way, “Being poor in spirit means that only those who admit to an absolute bankruptcy of spiritual worth will inherit eternal life. Therefore, humility is a prerequisite for the Christian.”

Humility can be likened to a small yet vibrant flower neglected in the garden of culture. “Poor in spirit? Pooh!” “Humble? What does that even mean??” More time goes by, and still, the West has forsaken humility with the rise of fame and fortune. We can no longer acknowledge past ages of the world as…well, offering more than we can today. Rather, we discard, even shame, everybody of the past except to twist their beliefs and worldviews to match the post-postmodern ones of today. Not only do we neglect history, but each other as well. Relationships are all about ME. Marriages are only convenient so long as ‘love’ is present. As soon as it’s not, whip out the divorce papers and sign away the regrettable last name. Friendships are only meant to go so far as to affirm our own decisions, build ego, and garner clout. Children are meant to fulfill all of the dreams we as children, didn’t get to indulge in.

Society is falling apart at the seams with a lack of humility, for out of humility comes true affection, regard, and love within the community.

I, no less than the circles I am a part of in today’s world.

Experiencing an Ash Wednesday service at the Anglican church I’d been attending for some months was a surprise relief to my weary and burdened soul. I’d never gone before, and the ritual seemed heavy, yet paradoxically, lightened my load which I hadn’t been aware of. For those of you who are unsure of what Ash Wednesday is, go check out my post (the one right before this one).

I’d arrived at the stroke of 6:30 pm. There’d already been an earlier afternoon service; I was anxious and overstimulated. Traffic had been a pill, and I’d been too late to garner a parking spot at a friend’s Ash Wednesday mass. I felt myself unraveling all that day, not only because I couldn’t ever seem to be on time, but because it seemed that I couldn’t make anything happen I’d ever desperately wanted.

My demeanor and heart were such when I arrived at my church. Restless. Hungering. Sorrowful. Lonely.

As I took my seat, the beginning tunes of House on a Hill by Amanda Cook struck the air, and a breath I’d been holding subconsciously was released. I blinked in surprise, hearing the notes of a song that had accompanied me in a very dark night of the soul. Immediately, tears began gathering, and I struggled to hold them back.

It's quiet
In this house upon a hill
You won't mind it
Some things you can't know till you're still
In the silence
Let your spinning thoughts slow down
In the stillness
Things have a way of working out

Allow Me to introduce Myself again
I'm the One that knew you before time began
I've been waiting for you to let Me be your friend
Everything you ever need is everything I am

Take your chances
There's nothing here to lose
Ask your questions
I promise you the truth
As you're ready
I want to hear your heart
Is it heavy
Where wounds have left a mark?

Allow Me to introduce Myself again
I was with you every place you've ever been
I'm the One that held you when you couldn't stand
If you're wondering who can heal your brokenness
I can

Allow Me to introduce Myself again
I'm the Love you used to think could not exist
I'm as sure as where you're standing and as free as the wind
You don't have to reach for Me, 'cause this is where I am

Immediately, those memoriam fiends became docile, tame—and dissipated. The tangled darkness ceased its writhing. You know that feeling, when Jesus sends you a song, straight from Heaven’s gates, it seems, and angelic choirs pronounce those gentle triumphant truths into your thirsty heart? Hmm, I think that is what happened.

Psalm 51 was read, as the ashes were administered. A weight, righteous, sat atop my breast as I moved down the aisle toward the priest.

Lord, have mercy upon us:

For we have sinned against you.

For all our unfaithfulness and disobedience; for the pride, vanity, and hypocrisy of our lives;
Lord, have mercy upon us:

For we have sinned against you.

For our self-pity and impatience, and our envy of those we think more fortunate than ourselves;
Lord, have mercy upon us:

For we have sinned against you.

For our unrighteous anger, bitterness, and resentment; for all lies, gossip, and slander against our neighbors;
Lord, have mercy upon us:

For we have sinned against you...

This, the Litany of Penitence, washed over me, as I chanted alongside others, For we have sinned against you. Grief, of my sufferings, yes, but also acute pain over my grievous shortcomings infused me. I knelt with the others and begged God’s hand to humble me. Subconsciously, I recognized that all these spiritual disciplines I’d enforced upon myself could never enable me to be what Jesus was pouring upon me; bowed before Him, my sins and His cross, decorating my forehead.

“For godly sorrow produces repentance leading to salvation, not to be regretted; but the sorrow of the world produces death.” II Cor. 7v10

Kneeling on the hard floor, I repented. Over and over. “I’m sorry” suddenly didn’t seem to cover it. What did I repent of, you ask? Bitterness, resentment, judgment, hardness of heart, a desire for vengeance over harmony. I remember learning somewhere: that every sin committed against another person is ultimately a sin against God himself. He who hates his brother in his heart has been complicit in murder.

Altar calls are not impressive, in my view. Not even a little bit. They are altogether emotionally driven and usually, forcefully manipulated by the atmosphere in which they take place. But, as a nod to humility which I was just discussing, God strike me down if I were to say there are no truly repentant newcomers to Christianity who received salvation and the Holy Spirit at a church or youth group altar call. I think overall, our culture is bred to be surface-level emotional but has no deep connection to the heart’s desires or needs, and therefore, we only engage with God in transient modes.

Paul is clear in II Corinthians 7 that a few tears shed over our imperfections are not godly repentance that leads to the salvation of the soul.

One is worldly, the other not. One is primarily concerned with our personal losses or inability to become self-actualized. The other is concerned with our serious lack of holiness and the stabbing pain of what it would mean to be separated from the Giver of life. Godly repentance produces the fruits of the Spirit; worldly sorrow is cyclical and passes away like a breath.

Last month, my priest preached on the Prodigal Son(s). He emphasized the need both younger and older had for their father’s grace, love, and forgiveness, in different ways. Both, I think, all of us can relate to. But I find that those of us who have grown up in the Christian world and have been raised by Conservative Christian parents in a healthy nuclear family and continued to attend and be part of the church after maturing, often play the grumbling and selfish elder brother. This elder brother was concerned with his father’s estate and duties and obeyed all that was required of him— ‘slaved’ for his master—was the word specifically utilized. And yet, there was no compassion for his lost brother, no understanding of his vices and the power he had to leave his father just as much as the other son had done.

How can there be repentance, I wonder, if the heart is fixated on our losses? Too dearly did I gaze upon the mistakes I had done, that had been done to me; simultaneously rejecting the act of giving up myself fully to repentance and the grace of divine forbearance. In my notes for this piece, I was writing down what exactly was transpiring internally as I knelt, broken under my weight of sin. In the same vein as Julian’s Divine Revelations, I vividly imagined the progression of great suffering in which our Lord endured the Passion and the moments of agony leading up to it. The religious leaders’ false judgment of His character, that nobody spoke up for Him—rather he spoke up for us; the beating and crown of thorns, copious bleeding, sneering, and belittling, and finally the humiliating death of crucifixion.

In the secondary, Christ brought me to a place of more fully grasping repentance; a definite 180, as many pastors have said—not only a recognition of our ways but a renouncing of them as well.

“There’s nothing worth keeping if it keeps us from Jesus”

I myself, condemned falsely.

I myself, chose Barabbas over my Savior.

I myself, uttered curses and hellish blasphemy.

I myself, whipped through the skin of His back.

I myself, forced the thorned crown upon His holy head.

I myself, drove the nails into His healing hands.

I myself, drove the spear into His side, spilling His most precious blood.

Me. It is myself who participated in His grand sufferings. Firstly, as a torturer through my great sin, but now as fellow heirs of the Kingdom to come. Before I could become one of the rightfully persecuted, I persecuted.

So then, who was I to cultivate hidden (at times not so hidden) bitterness, resentment, and frankly, anger, at my fellow man? Who am I, to be so prideful that I would incur hateful vengeance or wish ill on my neighbor? The answer: I could not. After my willing collusion at the cross, who was I to strike at my fellows who are liable of great misdeed and unrighteousness?

No place, indeed, can there be found in a heart that chooses mercy and compassion, even for the worst offenders, because I—my self—must be the worst offender of all.

Another facet of the fruits of forgiveness was revealed to me: bitterness is a poisoned draught that we imbibe while waiting for the intended victim to die. Not that God chooses otherwise than to forgive us fully, but that we cannot accept forgiveness from God if our hearts are too hard to dole out forgiveness from the share God gives us without measure. Those who refuse to experience forgiveness from Christ bear a burden that manifests as an unassailable wall, where nobody can get in. It creates cracks in otherwise perfectly healthy relationships and breeds mistrust and envy, strife and injustice. The world could not go on unless we were fully willing to let go of a past grievance.

“St Mary Magdalene shows us concretely that a saint who loves much is simply a person who is aware of the extent to which she has been loved-and forgiven. But it is not enough simply to have been forgiven. Many penitents with many sins are forgiven daily in the Church. Not all of them equal Mary Magdalene. It is her love in response to forgiveness that makes her, and every Saint, so great.” - Saint Josemaría Escrivá

The natural consequence of humility, repentance, and forgiveness? Freedom. Freedom without hesitations, bounds, or fine print. And, as I’ve pointed out many a time, but especially in my article introducing what Free to Be is all about, freedom is meant for love—loving God and loving neighbor.

St. Josemaría stole my thunder, I think: Love is a natural outflow of forgiveness and a release of offenses against us. In no way would we desire to return to those dark places, those people who would sever our ties with our Maker; rather, we give them gratefully into the hands of our Savior, and theirs.

What strength there is in invoking the words, “I forgive you, my brother/sister”, for are we not all brothers and sisters in our fallen humanity? We may not all be children of God, not all spiritual siblings, but every fellow man is our brother and sister in that we are all the offspring of our first mother and father—who were fallen—and secondly, as image-bearers of Christ Himself; His poemas. What use is there in furthering vengeance that is poison to the avenger and does not lessen an hour of the offender?

Recently, I had the pleasure of reading Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo. It was a pleasure to read and I am more than excited to share my thoughts on the novel (although it may or may not be somewhere else other than here…) I’m not spoiling anything by saying that the book, all 1,000+ pages, is a revenge story. An embittered young man sets out to ruin his enemies’ lives and rain hellfire down upon them and their posterity.

At the very end of many many years long torture—both for the Count and his opponents—this ‘avenging angel’ found the pursuit of vengeance ill-founded and a waste of his life. The only thing that gave meaning to his existence was the love he had for his close friends. He regretted the injustice wreaked upon those he felt had wronged him, wishing that he had left them to the hand of God alone.

In the same vein as St. Josemaría, love is the balm for a bitter soul. Love is the dull ache that remains when a wound is finally healing; that ache reminds us that we are all yet drifting from where we could be, from where we were made to be. But there is a freedom in humbly admitting it to be the case, by not pretending to be saints where we are not. We cast all our hopes and desires of holiness upon Christ, whose blood covers all failures.

In a world where acceptance means love, we cannot forget what love, spawned by true freedom, actually means.

A quote from the Bible Project follows my thoughts, “Offering forgiveness requires honest acknowledgment of our raw feelings. And it’s a process that takes time. God doesn’t expect us to immediately forgive the people who shatter our world. But he knows that forgiveness is a key ingredient for true healing. When we forgive, it frees us from the crippling power of resentment and opens the door for the possibility of repairing the relationship.”

Cultivating quiet

Reading Sarah Clarkson’s contemplations humbled and delighted me. Returning to my earlier discussion of fasting, Lent, and spiritual disciplines: I followed Sarah’s example of meditating upon an icon. Gifted to me by a dear friend, the Good Shepherd stares upon my visage nightly. Also gifted to me by another friend is a miniature candlestand, the Hebrew word hesed engraved upon its bronze aspect—meaning loyal love. Each night, I light a candle, placed near the icon, and look upon Christ’s likeness, the weak sheep upon his shoulders, the quintessential rod in the crook of his arm.

It is not in the busyness, chaos, and modern modes of the day that we find peace of mind to humble ourselves, repent, and forgive those we find fault with. No.

It is in the still whiles of each day when our bodies unwind and our hearts may more freely rest in the knowledge of Christ’s undivided attention. I no longer only gaze upon Christ; I find that He gazes back upon me, with a stern mien, yet with all the gentleness of a shepherd handling a newborn lamb. His eyes penetrate, pierce my body and soul, and I find I cannot hold hardness in my heart toward those who break, just as I am wont to do when life masters my will.

Our culture doesn’t like to have downtime, mostly because it means a confrontation of all that could crush our egos, pride, and self-consciousness. Quiet makes us see beyond a shadow of a doubt, what life means, and that—well, that’s quite scary.

Lent was a battle for me to regain quietude. So, no. I didn’t hold much to all those goals I wished to have. Instead, I found God had begun a good work in me without any of my resolutions. Rather, he took my small mustard seed of effort and grew roots that would not easily be sundered.

Where, when, how, do you cultivate a still moment, a quiet spot? I’d love to hear. Comment and share with me!