Several years ago my good friend told me what he was giving up for Lent, the forty days of spiritual preparation before the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. He decided to give up three C’s…Chocolate, Caffeine, and Cigars. He did it. From Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday, he gave up three of his addictions. I applauded his decision and his discipline. He’s the authority on his cravings and how they affect his spiritual well-being.
In addition to the spiritual benefits of asceticism, I know my friend also saved some money. He doesn’t drink grocery-store swill disguised as coffee; he doesn’t eat the processed muck packaged and peddled as chocolate; and, he doesn’t light up machine-rolled stogies that pass for real cigars. He has class, my good friend, and he’s taught me much about the enjoyment of the good things in life.
I once gave up radio-playing while driving during Lent. I learned that there’s plenty of music without the blaring of an automobile audio system. Another Lent I gave up frustration…or I tried to give it up. My failure to do so led to more frustration, which is a damnable thing that probably has more negative effects than some luscious Belgian chocolate or an occasional hand-rolled cigar. But, I confess that I’m not very good at giving up something for a set season. I simply don’t have the stuff to give up stuff during the season of Lent.
If I did have what it takes to give up something for Lent, and if what I give up is something that distracts me from pondering the mysteries of Christ’s Passion, which is one of the reasons to observe Lent, then why should I give up this distraction for only 40 days, leaving the other 325 days vulnerable to my distraction? If it’s good enough for Lent, it’s good enough for Ordinary Time, the longest season of the Christian year.
Really…I’m not giving up Lent for Lent. I am giving up a familiar notion of Lent—that it’s a time to give up something. Lent might be a time to hold on to something. “Put it behind you,” someone says of whatever it is that interferes with whatever doesn’t need interference in one’s life. “Let it go” is another simple, clear, easy…and wrong piece of advice for the complexity of letting go. “Move on,” pop advice teaches, but sometimes there are too many pieces to pick up and just plant somewhere else.
Rumi, the Persian poet, wrote “This Being Human,” which begins, “This being human is a guest house; every morning a new arrival…” This wise bard teaches me to welcome and attend every visitor, even if a meanness or depression or sorrow or regret or difficulty comes knocking at my door. Greet these visitors as a way to welcome my humanity—not fearing them, not putting them behind me or letting them go or moving away from them. This is radical hospitality. Faces of my humanity are not my enemies.
If I let some fear or distracting habit go, it may return to haunt me. If I put something behind me, I can’t see it…and I can’t trust it not to attack me from behind. If I give up a trait or trial that has seemed to dog me all my life, or try to, then I lose control. If I move on to leave some trouble behind, I may end up a nomad. No…I want to hold these bits of my humanity. Not tightly, as if to strangle them. I waste energy trying to kill off these daily travelers. I just want to hold them, look at them, and view them from all angles and in different shades of my temperament. I want to keep them gently in the palm of my being and befriend them.
After all, these daily visitors to the mansion of me are what give me individuality and uniqueness. When the guests pop in for an unexpected sit, the measure of my hospitality is the measure of the condition of my soul. Welcome, meanness…you’re not so mean after all. Come on in, jealousy…you’re not looking so green this morning. Well, look who’s here, another addiction…I have just the spot for you. Regret, it’s you again…well, come on in; you know where your place is.
So…this Lent I’m not giving up anything. I’m not “letting go,” “putting behind,” or “moving on.” This Lent I’m going to enjoy my home and ruminate upon Rumi. I’m practicing radical hospitality. I’ll welcome all the old friends and kin to my house called “Being Human.”
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