During Lent we follow Jesus into the wilderness, where we wrestle with our common humanity and the arc of death and resurrection. It鈥檚 a season of repentance, traditionally signified by the familiar ashes and dust. Here, Daniel Tidwell (Master of Divinity, 鈥�10), Alumni Programs Coordinator, guides us into Holy Week with a reflection about the formational arc that holds together both death and resurrection. Daniel invites us to wonder how the mingling of ashes and glitter might call each of us to a new form of repentance, one that affirms the humanity in ourselves and in each other, calling us to the violence-defying love of the Spirit of God.

There is a formational arc to the season of Lent鈥攁 time of preparing for Holy Week where we play out the days of Jesus鈥� last meal with the disciples, his betrayal, trial, violent death, and then, hovering over death, the unthinkable鈥攔esurrection and the extraordinary/ordinary of life that follows.

Traditionally, new followers of Jesus are baptized at Easter. We recall creation narratives of passing through chaotic waters and the Spirit moving us with Jesus through death and into resurrection. We initiate this journey by reminding one another that 鈥測ou were made from dust, and to dust you will return.鈥� And so, it鈥檚 in the birth waters of Baptism at Easter that we are brought into a new life that has passed through death, and yet, lives.

We start with ashes sprinkled over the head or smudged in the shape of a cross, calling us to remember our common humanity; our of-the-earth dustiness鈥攁 notion linguistically rooted in our English words for humility, humanity, and humus, and held together in Hebrew with the name of Adam and the word for earth. In short, we mark our heads with dust and ash to ground us in the fact that we are mortal creatures of this shared earth鈥攊t鈥檚 an acknowledgement that death is part of all of our stories.

Two years ago, Reverend Elizabeth Edman started a movement to begin Lent by imparting ashes mixed with glitter on the heads of LGBTQ Christians. This was born out of grappling with the reality that for many LGBTQ people in our society, the reminder of our mortality and the presence of death is already as ever-present to us as the daily experiences of discrimination and violence that mark our lives. Family rejection; discrimination in housing, jobs, and healthcare; school bullying; sex trafficking; youth homelessness; and outright physical violence are daily realities. These traumas often occur in the name of God, adding another soul-wounding dimension to the violence.

The glitter-ash symbol is tied to a slightly older tradition that emerged in the last decade on the streets of San Francisco, where Episcopal clergy impart ashes alongside a charity group of drag queens known as The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Several years back, the two groups came together鈥攃lergy offering ashes and the Sisters offering glitter. LGBTQ Christians, alongside those of other faiths who have been harmed by religion, line up to receive ashes, glitter, or both. It鈥檚 an invitation for all who show up to receive recognition of their beloved humanity that shines despite violence and death.

While glitter isn鈥檛 a universal symbol for LGBTQ people, it does have a history鈥攃onnected with drag performers鈥� spirit of defiance and determination to show up vibrantly鈥攖o thrive鈥攊n a world that seeks to trample LGBTQ people through traumas, collective and personal. For many of us Christians who are LGBTQ, our bodies have long been marked for death by our own churches and families. And instead of following the arc through death to resurrection, we find ourselves stuck repeating only one part of the Jesus story.

Through the mingling of ash and oil on my own forehead, I am called to remember my shared humanity with every person on earth. The addition of glitter invites me to honor the particularity of my own experience of learning to thrive in a world where many fellow followers of Jesus have been the very agents of harm that have visited death on my own story. To be marked by both ash and glitter helps me hold together in my body that I am a part of this oh-so-human body of Christ. Human cruelty and fragility, and the need for resurrection, exist in me personally and in us collectively. Our repentance is tied up together, but how it gets played out may look different for each of us.

鈥淭o be marked by both ash and glitter helps me hold together in my body that I am a part of this oh-so-human body of Christ.鈥�

For fellow Christians who have done violence to your LGBTQ siblings, I wonder about your repentance and where you hear the spirit calling you to our shared humanity. Could it be that you, like Peter, need to be reminded to 鈥渃all no thing unclean that I have made holy鈥�? And for all of us who follow Jesus, I believe that the call to repentance is a call to turn away from death-dealing and toward life鈥攚hether we鈥檝e been involved in directing violence to ourselves or to others. Repentance is always a turn of love; a turn toward each other in response to the Spirit of God.

And here we are in Holy Week, at the end of this journey of Lent, where Jesus walks us into a place where we do not want to go鈥攁 place where those of us who love Jesus most dearly, and confess Jesus most devoutly, are confronted by the mirror of our own betrayal; our own breaking point, where we walk away from a God who gives and takes鈥攖oo much鈥攊n the face of human violence. Here Jesus, fully God and fully human, steps in to occupy the space of all types of victimhood, suffering violence鈥攑hysical, sexual, emotional, and spiritual; enduring cutoff, abandonment, condemnation, shame, and assault; facing abuse both systemic and personal. Jesus does not do this because God demands it, or because God cannot stand to face our violence. It is as God that Jesus faces this violence to break its hold on all of us.

On Saturday we鈥檒l face the day on the Christian calendar that is the most perplexing of all. In many ways, it is an un-day; an undoing of who we, as disciples, wanted Jesus to be. On Friday, Jesus walks, bodily, into the way of human violence. And, on Sunday, Jesus offers transforming wounds to welcome us into a new kind of life. But between these days, on Holy Saturday, we wait in the stark undoing of not knowing where or how the Spirit of God will show up. We see that Jesus took on our violence, and we are confronted with the devastation of death. This is not a place we want to linger.

This year, Holy Saturday also marks the 20th anniversary of the mass shooting at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. Like every trauma, this particular violence echoes in our collective stories, and it throbs a particular ache within the bodies of those who survived it. All trauma, from violence large or small, leaves a wake. It is the lingering, chaotic water that follows death. And while we can name the impact of particular waves, the pervasive presence of violence has always troubled the waters of the human story. Love in response to violence has always been a defiantly vulnerable act.

鈥淭he pervasive presence of violence has always troubled the waters of the human story. Love in response to violence has always been a defiantly vulnerable act.鈥�

This is where the Spirit hovers鈥攂etween the death of God at the hands of our human violence, and the resurrection of God that raises not only Jesus, but all of us from the grasp of death. Here, in the ashes and void, there is a shimmer across the face of the water. There is a glimmering ache toward life within the wound of death. It is a Queer transition, demanding that the body that has suffered violence will, through love, come forth with a both scarred and holy persistence. Resurrected life is vibrantly defiant鈥攏ot as though death had not happened, but because it has undergone death and been transformed by love. This is why grief is core to repentance. Grief is the opening of love through which life moves forward out of death.

I try to imagine some reconciliation within the body of Christ over the violence done to LGBTQ people. I try to imagine some repentance in a society committed to keeping guns over protecting human life. I try to imagine repair of racist violence enacted through social structures, and unquestioned bias. And I am exhausted by the ever-presence of death. We need a Jesus who steps into this violence that leads to death. And we need a Spirit who breathes with us, into this chaos that has always been, and offers a lifeline of grief that pulls us through the waters and into hope.

As we walk through Holy Week, may we listen to the Spirit who hovers over us, re-membering who we are as humans, marked by violence, yet joined by a God who is fully with us. This God faces us amidst violence, enters death, and moves with us into life beyond鈥攍ife marked by death, yet survived by love. May we consider our own participation on all sides of violence and feel the Breath of God hovering in places of death and spinning grief into an opening for love.

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I haven鈥檛 been sleeping well lately. I can鈥檛 seem to make it through the night without some strange dream clawing at my psyche.

I climb out of bed and try to settle myself again with a book or an hour of scrolling through Instagram. I know that it doesn鈥檛 really help, but it comforts me.

Sometimes I can hear my daughter shifting in her room, a sleepy momma slipping from beneath her door. She can sense me, my little werewolf, I joke to myself. Her favorite book to pull from my shelf is . I haven鈥檛 read it yet; I bought it years ago because someone said it reminded them of me. Maybe she and the Universe are conspiring to get me to pick it up.

Maybe I will; I do a lot of things because she wills me to somehow.

From day to day, parenting is painfully mundane. It鈥檚 a lot of routine and repetition; the same games, the same books, the same lessons. My iPhone has become my constant companion, ready to entertain me at any moment my daughter might happen to look away. Despite reading multiple articles on the subject, I recently decided to give up checking my phone while I鈥檓 with her based on her behavior鈥攏ot outbursts or tantrums, only her own growing desire to whittle away her hours in front of a screen.

It鈥檚 been a difficult sacrifice to make, putting my phone away while I鈥檓 with her, and I have yet to make it through a day successfully. My social media accounts do more than keep my boredom at bay; they help me to feel involved in the outside world, keep me from getting too lonely. They also overwhelm me, distracting me with their content long after I鈥檝e put my phone down. And, I鈥檝e realized, they keep me from facing the darkest parts of myself.

I don鈥檛 have very nice things to say, or rather think. I didn鈥檛 grow up in a home dripping with affection鈥攆or anyone, really. My family taught me how to protect and defend myself; my step-father would quiz me daily about what I noticed on my walk home from elementary school.

You always, always have to be aware of your surroundings,聽his voice echoes when I find myself getting too familiar with my environment.

My mother isn鈥檛 an unkind woman, but one for whom things, people, are rarely good or good enough. Her nature comes easily to me鈥攎y inheritance, maybe.

When I鈥檓 online, it鈥檚 easy for me to direct my hatred at unseen others: strangers who add antagonizing comments to the posts of friends, old high school classmates gleefully announcing their Go Fund Me donations toward Trump鈥檚 wall. I project my doubts onto other artists who are just starting out, and worst of all, I pour out my bitterness over the artists who are succeeding and who I deem lesser than me. I count these amongst my ugliest thoughts.

Without my digital scapegoats, my vitriol has the clearest path to its true target: me. The first thought that popped into my head the day that I started my screen-free experiment was, Boy, you鈥檙e a shitty mom. It was closely followed by its sibling thoughts about my appearance, my work ethic, my abilities, the invalidity of my dreams. There was no real reason for these thoughts, nothing in the moment to motivate them to come. They don鈥檛 really need a reason, they live with me, are a part of me. They鈥檝e just been waiting for a quiet moment to speak.

鈥淲ithout my digital scapegoats, my vitriol has the clearest path to its true target: me.鈥�

If my time at 天美视频 taught me anything, it鈥檚 that all of us feel this way. Some more than others, but all of us still. It鈥檚 part of what it means to be human in this world. We all have shortcomings, doubts, and fears, and they are ready to contend with us. Some have merit and some don鈥檛, but we will never be able to distinguish what鈥檚 true from what isn鈥檛 unless we face the parts of ourselves that bring us the most shame. There鈥檚 no healing, no transformation without reflection. It can be painful and we may not be ready at any given point; it could take years, a lifetime even. But we have to be aware that our self-contempt paints an incomplete picture of who we are.

I pride myself on being a woman with a keen sense of clarity about who I am, but I鈥檝e lived most of my life unable to see my own goodness. I鈥檝e needed to hear about it from other people. Even then, I found a way to disseminate their words, convincing myself that their view of me was obscured. But it鈥檚 time to take off my own blinders, to seek out the goodness others have been telling me is there on my own.

Those negative thoughts are less intimidating when I鈥檓 able to see myself more clearly. When partnered with a more benevolent self-perspective, they can lead me into compassion and empathy, instead of shame and self-hatred.

This too is part of what it means to be human in this world: the amalgamation of the darkness and the light inside of us. They don鈥檛 have to be at war with one another, they can live symbiotically.

I used to think that living a good life meant following this rigid moral code that God had prescribed for us, one in which there was no place for darkness鈥攐ften considered 鈥渋mpurity鈥� or 鈥渟in.鈥� But I鈥檝e come to believe that living a good life means becoming more human, softer, more given to making mistakes. More able to learn from them, too.

This paradigm shift is right on time. I can never teach my little werewolf how to be fully human until I learn how to be one myself.

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During this season of Lent, as we follow the story of Jesus in the wilderness, we鈥檝e been exploring the call to affirm humanity in ourselves and each other鈥攅ven in all of our hunger and wounding and brokenness. And we believe that affirming the dignity in humanity is, ultimately, an invitation to service; it鈥檚 a call to direct our lives and our work toward worshipping God through the healing and empowerment of individuals and communities, and through the dismantling of systems that seek to deny humanity in some.

That is the arc of pilgrimage: to journey into the wilderness, to be transformed, and to return to service. It鈥檚 also at the heart of our mission at 天美视频. Through transforming relationship and the competent study of text, soul, and culture, we train people to serve God and neighbor in the unique context of their identity and calling.

鈥淭hat is the arc of pilgrimage: to journey into the wilderness, to be transformed, and to return to service. It鈥檚 also at the heart of our mission at 天美视频.鈥�

These two movements鈥攊nward change and outward service鈥攁re inseparable. Our own transformation will be stifled if it is not directed toward service, just like our work in the world will burn out or fall flat if it is not grounded in the journey of transformation. So as we move through Lent and into the rest of April, we鈥檒l continue wrestling with the themes of pilgrimage and wilderness, turning the conversation more specifically to service and the call to serve God and neighbor.

We鈥檒l hear from alumni, faculty, staff, and students about their work in the world, and about how their ability to love God is inextricably tied up with their willingness to love others. We also hope to explore the deep need for imagination in how we approach calling and service. Because鈥攏o surprises here鈥攖he world is changing, and the problems we face today are not the same as they were before; our service should not look the same, either.

May the change and healing that we have found propel us to the change and healing of our world. May we continue to enter places of both deep brokenness and deep beauty. May we never stop innovating, dreaming, and scheming. And may the Spirit be with us as we commit to hard conversations and dare to confront the wicked problems that deface the image of God in humanity.

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Since graduate students nearing the end of a term definitely know something of fatigue, we found a few after class and asked them about what distinguishes fatigue from day-to-day tiredness, and how they care for themselves in the midst of it all.

Huge thanks to MA in Counseling Psychology students Jonathan, Ellen, Jessie, and Elise for talking with us!

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In the face of systems that seek to divide, belittle, and harm certain people based on some aspect of their humanity, this affirmation is nothing less than an act of resistance. And resistance, like all prophetic work, requires a deep well from which we can draw. What inspires your resistance? How is your own humanity affirmed even as you鈥檙e working to affirm others? What spiritual formation practices might grow the depth and clarity of your work in the world?

We brought those questions to folks in our community and put together this list of recommendations. May these resources bring rest, fresh insight, renewed hope, and an emboldened sense that we are not alone as we work against de-humanizing systems.

鈥淚鈥檓 eager to go beyond theologies of suffering and survival to also examine the theologies of life, flourishing, strength, meaning-making, and #blackgirlmagic that stem from black women鈥檚 experiences and perspectives.鈥� 鈥揇r. Christena Cleveland

This is a stunning, revolutionary series Dr. Cleveland is facilitating during Lent, grounded in the conviction that 鈥減atriarchy and whiteness need to be exorcised from biblical interpretation.鈥� If you find that high Church rhythms feel too entwined with historically oppressive systems, we can鈥檛 recommend this series enough. You can , then become a patron to follow the rest.

Christena Cleveland鈥檚 work above feels so crucial because, in part, the dominant expressions have for too long been aligned with the patriarchal, white supremacist forces that undergird oppressive systems. In , two pastor-historians offer compelling historical accounts of the American Church鈥檚 role in harmful power structures, and Lisa Sharon Harper and Dr. Soong-Chan Rah then share vital theological reflections and words of confession and repentance. If human affirmation is an act of Christian resistance, then confession and repentance are at once social and spiritual practices. We鈥檙e grateful to this book for demonstrating that so powerfully.

At the heart of confession and repentance is the dynamic expression of lament. Lament is the declaration that this is not right, the grief that our embodiment of God鈥檚 image falls so short of the Christological affirmation of humanity. From the somber confession of Ash Wednesday to the anguish of Holy Saturday, lament is at the heart of Lent. This episode of , a project from Aaron Niequist and friends, is a guided journey of music, prayer, and scripture that creates space for lament to do its work.

We鈥檝e shared this one before, but we keep coming back to it. Many folks in our community resonate with the thought-provoking, contemplative art by Scott Erickson, and we particularly love the prayerbook he created with Justin McRoberts. If you’re looking to add some depth and beauty to the rhythms of your spiritual practice鈥攏ot just during Lent鈥攖his is a beautiful place to start.

A number of folks also recommended the from artist, author, and minister Jan Richardson. Each week, this blog features a reflection on a text from the lectionary, accompanied by a work of original art. We believe that integrating art with spiritual formation will deepen and energize our practice, and Jan鈥檚 work explores this beautifully.

For years, the work of Richard Rohr has challenged our assumptions, opening us to an image of Christ that is bigger, bolder, and more open than we ever imagined. is no different. Rohr guides us through a series of readings for the Lenten season (and beyond), encouraging us to grow into people who are more and more open to surprising, transformative encounters.

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None of these are static categories that remain unchanging from year to year. What might we learn, in 2019, from the wild expanse and ferocious clarity of wilderness? What are we being individually and collectively called to repent from鈥攁nd turn toward鈥攈ere and now? In such a time as this, how do we follow Jesus鈥檚 example of yielding ourselves to the movement of transformation and shared healing?

These are not simply questions to be wrestled with in the quiet solitude of personal devotion. Instead, we believe that Lent is also a time to turn toward each other and affirm the humanity of the people around us. The humanity of Jesus was perhaps most evident in the wilderness, amid the gauntlet of temptation, and that is where we are called to embrace our own humanity as well鈥攖o hunger, to thirst, to wander in pursuit of clarity and calling.

We believe, then, that in an era when the humanity of some is daily thrown into question, when we鈥檙e encouraged to double down on the division between us and them, Lent is a call to resistance. It is an insistence that collective renewal will only come when we are all allowed to be human, to express our particular needs and deepest desires, and to witness together how the image of God is uniquely revealed in each of us. This defiant act of resistance will force us to confront the power structures of our society, defying the systems that seek to benefit from the suppression of humanity.

That鈥檚 what we鈥檒l be wrestling with on the blog this month. Together we鈥檒l consider the movement of a wilderness pilgrimage and a return to service. And we will invite each other to wonder what repentance might look like in the particularity of this moment鈥攚hether that鈥檚 repenting for the ways we have aligned ourselves with de-humanizing systems, or choosing to affirm the parts of our identity that have been violated and maligned for too long. This is weighty, complex work, and none of us can do it alone, so we will also be exploring the crucial category of resilience and the realities of fatigue and burnout.

Some of you may look forward to Lent as a season of recalibration each year, and maybe you鈥檝e already chosen something to 鈥済ive up鈥� or fast from for these 40 days. For others, maybe you鈥檝e already had more than enough taken from you, and you resist the idea that giving something up is even a choice for you. Wherever you are on this journey, we hope you will join us as we listen together to what God might be saying through the wild and broken parts of our world.

Peace to you as you read this and embark on the coming season, and peace to your hunger, your thirst, your desire, and everything else that makes you human.

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At the end of our two-week conference in Ethiopia, Becky and I and asked if we could wash the feet of the 40 Africans that had gathered to be trained in trauma care. Wonde, our generous Ethiopian guide, shook his head no. 鈥淚t will be too difficult to let three white people touch the feet of Africans.鈥� He explained that many from East and West Africa had seldom been touched by white missionaries. A westerner washing the feet of an African was unheard of. We asked if he would pray.

None of us felt heroic or radical in our request. It seemed like the only way to honor our friends as we departed. We understood that touching another person鈥檚 feet is somewhat unseemly and countercultural in any context, but the weight of what appeared on Wonde鈥檚 face was more than we could fathom. We waited, and the next day he said, 鈥淵es, but know that some may not come. For some, it is too intimate and for others too degrading to see you on your knees, touching their feet.鈥�

In our last evening together, we knelt and washed each person鈥檚 feet. Many wept. It may be one of the holiest hours I have spent on earth. The concrete dug into my knees. My body ached to stand, but I could not rise. Becky and Jan washed the women鈥檚 feet. I bathed the feet of the men. One man had been recently betrayed by an American mission board, his family and ministry left to die on the vine after countless promises had been violated.

Jan and Becky finished, and all but one man had come. I didn鈥檛 know what to do. To require him to come would have been another form of colonization. To get up and go on to the last of our teaching felt like a form of exclusion. I heard Jesus say: 鈥淧ut your head on the ground and pray.鈥�

To this day, I don鈥檛 know how long it took, but Jacob eventually came to the front and sat in front of me. I asked him, 鈥淢ay I wash your feet?鈥� He could barely look me in the eyes and he nodded, 鈥榶es.鈥� He confessed that he had come to hate white westerners. I confessed that my family had betrayed him, and I asked for his forgiveness.

What occurred next is too holy to describe and too intimate to reveal. I will only say, I have never encountered a moment before or since that felt as thin between this world and the unseen realm of heaven. I finished washing his feet and then he asked if he could wash mine. The privilege of touching his feet, weeping, and blessing him was august. To let him wash my feet felt terrifying. It all made sense, in an instant鈥擬aundy Thursday.

Peter refuses to let Jesus bow and wash his feet. Jesus tells him that unless one鈥檚 feet are clean, there is no entry into the kingdom of heaven.

5 After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples鈥� feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. 6 He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, 鈥淟ord, are you going to wash my feet?鈥� 7 Jesus replied, 鈥淵ou do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.鈥� 8 鈥淣o,鈥� said Peter, 鈥測ou shall never wash my feet.鈥� Jesus answered, 鈥淯nless I wash you, you have no part with me.鈥� 9 鈥淭hen, Lord,鈥� Simon Peter replied, 鈥渘ot just my feet but my hands and my head as well!鈥� (John 13: 5-9)

Jacob washed my feet. My feet are bony, brittle, and weak. Countless bouts of gout have deformed my big toes. The hair on my toes became a taunt when pubescence wrenched me from childhood. The days鈥� heat built up layers of sweat and staunched my feet in a foul smell. He tenderly took my feet into the basin and looked me in the eyes as he spoke blessing over my undeserving life.

鈥淚t is a day to bear his touch before our lust, rage, and self-deception send him to the cross.鈥�

I met Jesus and he is from Burkina Faso. He is black. He is tender and bold. He kissed my feet when we were finished. We held each other and wept for what might be as long as the time from that moment until we are together in eternity.

And this is what Jesus is inviting you to today. Today is Maundy Thursday鈥攖he day before the crucifixion. It is a day to bear his touch before our lust, rage, and self-deception send him to the cross. The cross is not merely his alignment and solidarity with our suffering. It is that and far more. He bears the weight of all our idolatry and self-righteousness we refuse to own, and he takes it on to free us of a burden we couldn鈥檛 shoulder.

Before he takes our sin, he offers us his tender touch. Take and receive, feel your awkwardness and fury. You don鈥檛 need a full bath. You simply need to let him take up your feet and let the water of his love prepare you for the next three days.

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The music by the Brilliance is often rooted in the church calendar. Their Lent album is a thoughtful invitation to reflect on the questions and challenges of this season. Though facing doubt and pain head-on, the beautiful surprise of this album is that it is not at all without hope.

In this On Being conversation with Krista Tippett, the Irish poet John O鈥橠onohue (a frequent inspiration here at 天美视频) reflects on how living itself is a creative act. O鈥橠onohue reminds us that the movement of new life, which we celebrate on Easter Sunday, can spark new expressions of beauty in how we live, relate, and create.

In Holy Week we reaffirm our belief in death that leads to life and wilderness that fosters transformation. Though not explicitly Lent-related,聽Counting Descent, a collection of poetry by Clint Smith, is a vivid, haunting embodiment of the paradoxical beauty and hope that can emerge even in the wake of great suffering and injustice. You can watch Smith reading the title poem .

This album comes recommended by MA in Counseling Psychology student Nicolle Maurer, who writes that Gullahorn鈥檚 music is 鈥減aradoxically full of hope and despair, longing and gratitude,鈥� which makes it fitting for this season. The line 鈥渆ven hell is not a God-forsaken place鈥� seems especially apt for Holy Saturday.

Artist Scott Erickson, whose work is currently on display in our second-floor Commons, created a prayer book with writing by Justin McRoberts, and it鈥檚 stunning. You can get a copy for next year鈥檚 Lenten season, or let it ground and inspire you even now, as the church calendar move toward Pentecost and Ordinary Time.

Intersections blog

And in case you missed them, here are three Lent reflections written by 天美视频 community members: 聽Our Collective Wilderness by Beau Denton, Content Curator; The Quest of Transformation by Dr. J. Derek McNeil, Senior Vice President of Academics.

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Dr. J. Derek McNeil, President and Provost of 天美视频, reminds us that the challenges of the wilderness are part of the quest toward transformation. Looking to the story of Jesus, we can learn something of what it means to submit ourselves to the unfolding narrative of God, yielding ourselves to the movement of transformation and the call to collective healing.

I鈥檝e always been drawn, with deep curiosity, to the stories of heroic figures who pursue the quest to find their purpose and place in this life. They face a challenge, endure, and then overcome it during a journey to know what it is that they must offer as a gift to humanity. Of course, the heroes in these great stories tend to save the world, but I was equally drawn to their own transformation and the wisdom they gained about living. I must confess: the little boy inside of this man remains curious even to this day. How do some people go through challenges and gain a deeper understanding, while others seem to cycle in and out, never fully aware of what makes for peace?

The narrative of Jesus being led by the Spirit into the wilderness, as told in Luke 4:1-13, is a transforming story, and the parallel for the season of Lent. It signaled a shift from Jesus鈥檚 identity as a young and gifted teacher to that of the prophet-priest-sovereign who, under divine authorization, would usher in an age of restoration and peace. The 40 days and nights in the wilderness were a threshold space, a place of trial and testing. Referenced over a hundred times in the Bible, the number 40 is often used as symbolic language for liminal or threshold space, the time of transition between 鈥渨hat was鈥� and 鈥渨hat is to come.鈥� At these thresholds, where the transformative authority of G-d is found in new ways, Evil often steps in to subvert, distort, or stall what G-d intends to reveal.

For Jesus, alone and physically depleted in the wilderness (Matthew 4:11), Evil comes not as an accuser of sin, but as an enticer attempting to alter the salvation narrative that G-d has purposed for G-d鈥檚 Son. In the Luke passage, Jesus is led into the wilderness by the Spirit of G-d, to a place uninhabited and uncultivated鈥攖he place where Jesus must face isolation and physical distress.

The devil tempts Jesus in three ways that often parallel our own struggles: excessive self-reliance and self-sufficiency, worshiping the wrong things (idolatry), and striving to be significant and seen as powerful. Jesus is invited, prodded, and urged to sate his hunger by turning stones to bread, to assume power by aligning with the devil, and to prove that he is the Son of G-d by forcing G-d鈥檚 hand. In response, Jesus does not deny the presence of hunger and yearning, but he recognizes a deeper truth: aching hunger cannot be satisfied by simply consuming, aspirations cannot be met in counterfeit ways, and heroic purpose cannot be found in grandiosity. So Jesus resists the invitation to feed himself, restrains his aspirations to remain aligned with G-d, and submits his will to a larger, eternal purpose.

鈥淗eroic purpose cannot be found in grandiosity.鈥�

That quest of resistance, restraint, and surrender is not merely about piety or avoiding sin. This is the moment when heaven and earth come near as Jesus assumes the mantle of the Son of G-d, and it is a moment that foreshadows and speaks to our own wilderness seasons鈥攊ncluding the present desert-wandering we face collectively.

I have felt much grief in this current desert season. We continue to face acute, chronic, and enduring threats that make this Lenten season feel like a true wilderness for many. COVID has caused us to live in isolation from one another. The chronic struggles of political strife have driven a wedge through the middle of our nation, and created communities of contentiousness. The enduring pain of colorism has made itself undeniably present, expressed in the fears of white bodies and the continued threat against yellow, brown, black, and Native bodies. The wilderness we have entered is fragmented, devoid of trust, and drained of spiritual vitality. It is a place of scarcity, not one of abundance鈥攁 place where it is all too easy to hear those familiar temptations: You鈥檙e hungry? Consume without thought, without rest. You feel out of control? Grasp for power now鈥攆ight for your place at the top. You claim to belong to God? Make Him act on your behalf.

In response to that voice of quick fixes and momentary satisfaction, may we look again to the example of Jesus, who guides our way in the wilderness. Turning from the allure of self-aggrandizement and shallow satisfaction, Jesus re-committed himself to his calling and the quest ahead. In doing so, he was endowed with a new authority and a deeper power that was to be poured out on behalf of others. For Jesus, self-actualization was never the goal of the quest; the true end of Jesus鈥� wilderness transformation was only realized in the new life he brought to others, the life he continues to spark in us.

When the devil narrowly defined the problem in immediate and physical terms, Jesus pointed toward deeper yearnings and the true source of life. When the devil urged him to co-opt the larger narrative, Jesus answered not by demeaning or belittling himself, but by remembering there is a larger story and a truer calling ahead for him. When the devil questioned God鈥檚 love and willingness to act on his behalf, Jesus replied from a place of patient strength.

And may it be so for us. The lessons of the wilderness cannot be boiled down to easy advice or three steps to successful living; they are a challenge of transformation and purpose. The 40 days and nights of Lent is a time of physical, emotional, and spiritual preparation for transformation, and a reminder that change is not without struggles. We, too, have faced challenges and trials in desert seasons. We, too, will be urged to grasp for vision before its maturity, or to make our own transformation an ultimate end rather than an empowerment for collective healing. In those times in the wilderness, now and still to come, may we find the strength to trust G-d to supply our daily bread, may G-d give us a future and our hopes, and may G-d give us a new name.

Featured art: by Ilya Repin

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The first time I remember seeing people out and about with forehead smudges on Ash Wednesday, I was nearing the end of a brief stint living in Los Angeles after college. I didn鈥檛 even know what it was at first; I discreetly wiped my own forehead to let a woman at the library know she had something on hers. Later I saw it as I passed a bearded man on the sidewalk, again on a barista, then matching smudges on an older couple at the theater. It felt so vulnerable, so naked. They were wearing a mark of repentance for the world to see, which struck me as both brave and desperate.

Though much of my childhood had revolved around church, Lent was not a part of that faith. Like many evangelicals, we wrote off most of the rhythms of the church calendar as empty rituals and religious legalism. We got out of school early on Good Friday and broke out our pastel finest for Easter Sunday, but I remember little talk about Holy Saturday, let alone the larger Lenten movement that starts with the desperation of Ash Wednesday.

I had moved to LA in a fit of restlessness. It was a year after my dad died, and I had come unmoored as I learned that the rhetoric of my faith did not allow much room for anger, doubt, or loss. Death feels all but irrelevant when you think only of the empty tomb. This Lent-less worldview fit quite nicely with our American tendency to believe that we can buy, shoot, medicate, or elect our way out of our problems, but it offered little solace to a grieving son. My faith jumped ahead to resurrection and left me behind, isolated and abandoned.

So when I noticed the day-long pattern of smudges and recalled some dusty memory about what it might mean, I wanted in. It was not that I needed to be reminded of my smallness or my brokenness (though that is often the case). At the time I was well aware of my fragility and pain, but it lacked context. As I passed these strangers, the ashes on their foreheads said It鈥檚 okay, we鈥檙e broken too. We鈥檙e wandering like you, but here鈥攋oin us. We can wander together for a bit.

I thought about that as I walked around the school recently, asking folks鈥攖hose who would let me, considering the microphone in my hand鈥攁bout their understanding of Lent. (You can hear the responses on 鈥淲hat Lent Means to You: A text.soul.culture 惭颈苍颈蝉辞诲别.鈥�) I thought about it again when Daniel Tidwell spoke of stardust and shared humanity as he led the Ash Wednesday service in our chapel. It鈥檚 the joyful surprise of a season known for desert and fasting: something transformative happens when suffering is witnessed and shared.

Maybe you, like me as a fatherless young man in Los Angeles, don鈥檛 need Lent to be reminded of your personal brokenness this year. And we probably don鈥檛 need it to remind us of our shared brokenness, either. Is there any doubt that we are, collectively, lost in a wilderness? Our nation鈥檚 appetite for violence seems without end, and stepping over others for the sake of personal comfort or advancement is a national pastime.

I do not believe that Lent arrives to evoke suffering for suffering鈥檚 sake. But it does insist that we not ignore or belittle suffering鈥攐ur own or others鈥�. Lent counters those who 鈥渄ress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. 鈥楶eace, peace,鈥� they say, when there is no peace鈥� (Jeremiah 6:14; modern translation, 鈥淎ll lives matter鈥�). It reminds us that we are not alone when we suffer, and that Jesus preceded us into the desert and emerged with the clarity and authority of calling.

May we follow his example when we find ourselves drawn into the desert and tempted toward quick fixes or empty promises. May we listen to those鈥攅ven if it鈥檚 a bunch of kids in Florida鈥攚ho follow his example here in the wilderness, those who remind us that the way forward is not in hunkering down or closing our eyes or turning back, but in naming the realities of our woundedness, witnessing each other鈥檚 suffering and healing, and challenging those who benefit from cloaking rocks as bread.

And may we always, always, always remember鈥攊n our suffering, grieving, healing, erring, and returning鈥攖hat we are not alone.

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