A fan of God

A friend of mine announced this weekend that she was going back to school, to the Seattle School of Theology and Psychology, which calls itself "A Progressive Seminary."

"I don't do church," she said, "but I'm a huge fan of God."

I get that. I don't really do church too much any more either. It hurts too much, to see how people use religion to divide and condemn. But I, too, though my seminary days are long past, am still a huge fan of God.  Which may be why, though I didn't go to an Ash Wednesday service this year, it doesn't mean I get to avoid Lent.  In fact, I can't remember the last time I got to avoid Lent.

I kind of want to say I hate Lent. Mostly because it happens whether I want it to or not. Even if I miss all the rituals around its beginning, by the time we're a week or so in I'm feeling it: feeling shame at the resolutions that fall by the wayside; feeling guilt at all the ways I fail at compassion; feeling horror at what the world is, or has become; feeling this deep gut-wrenching sadness at the cruelty and pain we humans inflict on one another and on the innocent.

But I'm still a huge fan of God. As my friend said, "whatever he, she, it, or they is... I just know he/she/it/they is/are out there. And I love that."

I love that, too. It's kind of what helps me get through Lent; like a headlamp, helping me pick my way through the forest in the dark. But I still trip over the roots.

It doesn't seem to matter how many years I've done Lent. Or what I take on or give up for those 40 days. I still end up in this space, aware of all the ways I haven't been as selfless, as generous, as compassionate as I know I'm called to be; of all the ways I am self-absorbed, of all the things I could or should be doing, of all the opportunities for kindness and generosity I allow to pass me by.

It's just a dark time. And predictable, really -- I mean, after all these years, I have to know these dark times are coming. It's just... so odd, to feel so discouraged in this season, when the whole world is warming up, waking up, lightening up; starting to bloom and blossom and grow.

I get that it's a really great leadup to Easter; that you probably need to understand how imperfect and unforgivable you are to appreciate how amazing -- and how undeserved -- the forgiveness inherent in Easter really is.  It never fails to move me.

Back in the day, in the church my husband and I helped to found when our girls were little, someone made a human sized cross with all these holes drilled in it. They used to prop it up at the front of the church on Easter, and all of us would bring flowers (and everyone brought extras for the folks who didn't know or forgot to bring them) and we'd walk up to the cross and put flowers in all the holes.

I suppose it might sound like a silly ritual, but it always brought tears to my eyes -- and did again, last year, when our daughter suggested we re-visit the church of her childhood on Easter Sunday.

So I know I have that to look forward to, even if I don't do church this Easter: that sense that somehow the wonder of spring, and forgiveness, will redeem -- or fulfill -- the holeyness of that cross we all seem to bear. But that doesn't change how I feel right now, deep in the thick of Lent.

And that's okay. Because Lent always has something to teach me; is always a chance to remind me how precious the joy is that fills my heart so much of the year; how much more conscious I need to be about sharing what joy and gifts I have; how deeply wounded this world of ours is and how important it is to use what gifts I have to ease that pain and work to end that suffering, in whatever way I can as often as I can.

It restores my focus, and in the end reminds me -- however surprising this might sound to my friends who find it unconscionable that I'm no longer in church -- I'm still a huge fan of God.