Lenten doldrums

Friday, Mar. 11, 2016

Lent has been tough this year for me – not only have I failed at praying, fasting and almsgiving, but I feel farther from God than ever. 

I suspect this has something to do with the way Lent started: During the first week I’d planned to attend a three-day retreat in California, but it was canceled. I’d already purchased my plane tickets, however, so I decided to spend a fun weekend in San Francisco. 

Which I did: I took the ferry to Sausalito, had lunch with a friend who lives in the Bay Area, visited the farmer’s market, ate at a really good restaurant in Chinatown, went to Golden Gate Park, stayed up all night reading a novel, and generally was in vacation mode.  

I enjoyed myself, but the entire time I felt a nagging sense of disquietude that I couldn’t quite put my finger on until the priest’s homily for the first Sunday of Lent made me realize how disappointed I was that the retreat had been canceled.

The fact that I would have preferred time with God to a hedonistic weekend may be a sign that I’m maturing spiritually, but truth be told the malaise that settled in my soul hasn’t dissipated, and pondering it last night I realized somewhat belatedly that I never made on a Lenten resolution. I had counted on the retreat to set my Lenten course this year, and when that didn’t happen, I never revisited the subject, at least not in any concrete way.

I prayed a novena, but every single one of those 600+ prayers seemed rote. I have set aside time to regularly sit with God, but all I feel is a big, empty silence; the ticking clock marks the time and in the end I walk away as empty as when I came.

I made an attempt at fasting by refraining from snacks and eating only one complete meal each day. For a few days I felt real kinship with the poor, but then I realized that all I have to do to assuage my hunger is open the refrigerator, go grocery-shopping, or order a meal at a restaurant – options that aren’t available to those whose stomachs are constantly empty. With that thought all my sympathy seemed fraudulent, and my fasting ceased.

As for almsgiving: When I was in San Francisco, a woman whose every appearance indicated hard times asked if I would buy her breakfast. She didn’t want money, she said, just food. We went into the Subway shop that was two doors down, and she asked for a $20 gift certificate that would, she said, feed both her and her son for a couple of days. I declined, gave her $5, and she wilted before my eyes.

Here’s the thing: Later that day I spent $20 on a book and gourmet chocolate, which certainly isn’t walking in solidarity with that woman or anyone else, for that matter, as we are called to do during Lent and every other day of our lives.

So here I am, two weeks from Easter, seeking redemption. The psalmists express my feelings better than I ever could: “My iniquities overwhelm me, a burden beyond my strength” and “How long will you hide your face from me?” 

I want to have a true conversion of heart and mind, as we are meant to do during Lent, but it’s not happening. My cry from Psalm 51 feels hollow and hypocritical rather than heartfelt, “A clean heart create for me, God; renew in me a steadfast spirit,” but it has become my refrain in hopes that it somehow takes root.