Lent: 40 Days of Reflection and Penance… Followed by 325 Days Off?
Beyond the Calendar: Living the Way of Jesus Every Day
For many Christians, these
seasons provide meaningful opportunities to pause, remember, and reconnect with
the story of Jesus.
Of course, modern culture has
added its own layer to these sacred seasons. Store shelves fill with chocolate
eggs, pastel bunnies, decorations, and cheerful marketing campaigns. What began
as invitations to reflection and renewal now often arrive wrapped in foil and
cellophane. It is a curious transformation.
For countless people, however,
the rituals themselves still carry deep meaning. The liturgical calendar offers
a rhythm that gently draws attention back to themes of humility, sacrifice,
hope, and grace. The familiar practices of prayer, fasting, reflection, and
celebration help many believers slow down and reconnect with what matters most.
Over the years, my own journey
has led me to look at these traditions somewhat differently.
That perspective does not come
from dismissing ritual or from criticizing those who find spiritual nourishment
in it. Rather, it grows out of a question that has stayed with me for a long
time: what if the heart of Jesus’ message was never meant to be confined to
particular days on a calendar?
When we read the Gospels, Jesus
does not appear to establish a cycle of sacred anniversaries. Instead, he
speaks repeatedly about what he calls the Kingdom of God — or perhaps more
accurately, the reign or realm of God — as something already present and unfolding
among us. His teaching seems to focus less on ceremonial observance and more on
a way of living with one another here and now.
The compassion he embodied, the
courage he showed in confronting injustice, the mercy he extended to those on
the margins, and the radical love he demonstrated even toward his enemies all
point toward a way of life rather than a set of scheduled remembrances.
There is also an important
historical dimension to the traditions that developed within Christianity. For
much of the church’s history, the vast majority of people were unable to read.
Scripture was not something most believers could encounter privately on the
page. In that world, ritual, music, imagery, and seasonal observances became
powerful teaching tools.
The liturgical year functioned
almost like an audio-visual language through which the story of Jesus was told
and remembered. The lighting of Advent candles, the solemnity of Good Friday,
the celebration of Easter morning, the reflective practices of Lent — these
were not merely religious formalities. They were ways of helping communities
experience and internalize the narrative of faith in a largely non-literate
society.
Medieval Christians sometimes
described their cathedrals as “the Bible in stone and glass.” Through stained
glass windows, murals, music, and ritual reenactments, the story of faith could
be seen, heard, and felt even by those who could not read a single word.
In that sense, ritual served a
profoundly important role.
Yet today we live in a very
different world. The story of Jesus is accessible in countless ways: through
books, scholarship, reflection, and conversation. The teachings that once had
to be communicated primarily through symbol and ceremony are now widely
available to anyone who wishes to explore them.
Perhaps that shift opens another
possibility.
The spirit behind seasons like
Lent and Advent speaks to something deeply human: the desire to pause, to
reflect, to simplify, and to become attentive again to what truly matters. Lent
invites people to let go of distractions and reconsider their priorities.
Advent encourages a posture of waiting and hope.
These impulses are beautiful. Yet
they also raise an intriguing question.
What if the practices behind
these seasons were not limited to particular stretches of the calendar? What if
reflection, humility, and renewal were woven into ordinary life throughout the
year?
What if the work of letting go of
what distracts us from compassion and justice became a daily discipline rather
than a temporary one? What if attentiveness to hope and renewal were not
confined to Advent candles or Easter morning but became part of the quiet
rhythm of everyday living?
For some people, liturgy and
ritual provide essential reminders that help keep those values alive. For
others, the reminder emerges in quieter ways — through contemplation, through
acts of kindness, through moments when we become aware again of the sacred
presence woven through ordinary life.
My own journey has gradually
moved toward the latter.
Instead of observing the sacred
primarily through seasonal rituals, I find myself returning again and again to
a simple question: what might it look like to live each day as though the realm
of God is already here?
There is another dimension of the
Holy Week story that continues to move me deeply as well. The suffering of
Jesus is often interpreted through theological frameworks about sacrifice or
redemption. Yet there is another way to see it — as an expression of profound
solidarity.
In the story of the crucifixion,
Jesus stands alongside the abandoned, the accused, the humiliated, and the
condemned. He experiences betrayal, injustice, public shame, and the loneliness
of feeling forsaken. In that sense, his suffering mirrors the experiences of
countless people throughout history who have felt marginalized, misunderstood,
or cast aside.
Perhaps that is why one of the
most intriguing moments in the early Christian story appears in the encounter
between Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. As the eunuch reads from the prophet
Isaiah about a suffering figure who was “led like a sheep to the slaughter,” he
asks Philip a question that echoes through the centuries: “Is the prophet
speaking about himself, or about someone else?”
It is a striking moment. Here is
a man who himself lived on the margins of society — a eunuch, an outsider to
many of the social and religious structures of the time — reading a passage
about someone humiliated and rejected. One cannot help but sense that he
recognized something of his own experience in the words.
The answer Philip offers points
to Jesus. Yet the deeper resonance of the story may lie in the way suffering
creates a bridge of recognition. The crucified Christ becomes someone in whom
the wounded, the excluded, and the misunderstood can see that they are not
alone.
Perhaps that is why one of the most intriguing moments in the early Christian story appears in the encounter between Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. As the eunuch reads from the prophet Isaiah about a suffering figure who was “led like a sheep to the slaughter,” and asks Philip a question that echoes through the centuries: “Is the prophet speaking about himself, or about someone else?”
It is a striking moment. Here is a someone who has lived themself on the margins of society — a eunuch, an outsider to many of the social and religious structures of the time — reading a passage about someone humiliated and rejected. One cannot help but sense that they recognized something of their own experience in the words.
In the end, whether one observes
Holy Week, keeps Lent, lights Advent candles, or simply moves quietly through
the ordinary days of the year, the deeper question remains the same: how do we
live with the awareness that the sacred is already present among us? Jesus did
not seem to point his followers toward a calendar as much as toward a way of
being — a life marked by mercy, courage, humility, and love.
Rituals can be beautiful
reminders of that calling, and for many people they carry deep meaning. Yet the
invitation at the heart of the Gospel reaches far beyond any season. It asks us
to recognize that every ordinary moment holds the same possibility: to embody
compassion, to practice forgiveness, to choose justice, and to extend grace to
one another.
When that awareness begins to
shape our lives, the sacred is no longer confined to certain days on a church
calendar. It becomes something we participate in continually. In that sense,
the question is not whether we observe the seasons of the church year, but
whether our lives themselves begin to look like the very things those seasons
were meant to remind us of.
And perhaps that is the quiet
challenge behind the story of Jesus: not simply to remember what happened long
ago, but to live in such a way that love, mercy, and courage are no longer
seasonal practices, but the steady rhythm of every day.
_______________
For clarity, I no longer use the
label “Christian,” preferring instead to describe myself simply as a devotee
and follower of Jesus. I do not belong to any church or denomination; my
community of faith is wherever I find myself with others in the awareness that
God’s Realm is already here and now.
