Lent I: Tuning our Lives

I was only twelve when my father took me to the New York Philharmonic, but the memory has remained and contains all I need to know about a life of faith. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to understand.

Sitting in the balcony beside my father, I watched as the musicians, dressed in black in white, walked onto the stage. Some carried their instruments – violins, oboes, and cellos - while others, those who played instruments too big to carry, took their places on the stage. Some moved their seats, others adjusted their music stands, then they began playing various notes. It wasn’t a pleasing sound. Eventually, the woman in the first chair lifted her violin to her chin, dragged her bow across the strings, and played an A. All the other musicians stopped what they were doing and followed her lead, tuning their instruments to hers. Soon, they were all playing the same note. Then there was silence, and the conductor walked onto the stage knowing they were ready to perform.

I think that’s what we’re supposed to do. Too often, we walk on stage with our own instruments and play whatever notes we fancy, but the sound of everyone playing his or her own song is not pleasing. In fact, it’s awful. But God offers a note to which we’re invited to tune our lives. “God’s will, not ours,” the folks in 12-step recovery often say, and each time they do I think of the orchestra.

Lent is a season in which we are invited to re-tune our lives. It might require reaching up and adjusting the strings, but the note is there for us all to hear. The question is: will we tune our instrument to it so the symphony can begin?

Lent 2023

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I saw it out of the corner of my eye, a house sitting neglected on an overgrown lot. I almost missed it because I was rushing down the road. Something, or someone, caused me to look to my left, and I pulled over.

I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak.

It was a two-story home built with care, it seemed, but vines and branches - like envy and old wounds - shrouded its beauty. I couldn’t tell how long it had taken, but nature was overtaking the place. Weeds - like insecurity and distrust - were overtaking the walkway and crawling up the stairs.

If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.

A lamppost and mailbox stood by the side of the road suggesting a long-ago presence, but the box was empty and the lamp dark.

Instead of your shame you will receive a double portion, and instead of disgrace you will rejoice in your inheritance.

It’s not too late, I thought to myself. It just needs some attention. I imagined what it would look like if the weeds were pulled and the lawn was mown. I tried to picture the place with the vines stripped away – taking away everything that stood in the way of the home’s original beauty, the false from the true, if you will.

I came that you might have life and have it abundantly.

A fresh coat of paint would be needed, I thought, and some minor repairs, too, but none of that could happen until the weeds and vines were gone.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone; the new is here!

It will take work, I thought, but the house is worth it. The problem is the neglect, not the home. So, I opened the door, rolled up my sleeves, and started to do the work.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

Let the one who has ears to hear, hear, and may we all have a holy Lent.

A Divine No

They wouldn’t let me in. I made what could be described as a pilgrimage to the hospital where my father died, but the person at the desk said I was not allowed to return to the floor, nor the waiting room where I spent three months forty-four years ago. My intentions were to access emotions and to honor the 20-year-old within me who had no idea how his life was changing at the time. As sincere as my intentions may have been, the world, or those in it, had other thoughts. I went back to the parking garage, taking solace in my having made the effort before my flight home.

I was in the area to visit my daughter who had recently begun a job in this very familiar part of the world. While she was at work, I wandered the roads back to my college, walked the paths, and peered into classrooms. I went into the town and entered the church I attended and the classroom where I taught my first Sunday school class. I also went to the cemetery where my ancestors are buried, including both of my parents. Looking down and seeing their names carved into stone always causes me to gasp. Because I bear my father’s name, it’s a small leap to imagine the stone that will one day lie beside their’s.

I expected to be filled with thoughts about the past, but I wasn’t. In both my writing and my walking, I kept thinking about the days ahead: Instead of my father who died, I thought about me being a living father; instead of thinking about my shortcomings as a creative writing major, I took pride in having recently published a novel; passing the local bar where I spent too much time, I gave thanks for my sobriety; and sitting in the creaky pew, I thought not about my faith back then, but the one I have now.

Like the woman at the front desk of the hospital helped me see, maybe we don’t need to go upstairs and wander the halls. Maybe we need to get back in our cars and focus on the road ahead. Who knows how much time we have left? It would be unfortunate if we spent it scratching the dirt in hopes of uncovering our past when it’s within us. The trick is to honor it while walking forward.

I think the woman at the desk provided a divine no, a closed door, if you will. It caused me to turn around and live the life already in progress. Today will be my past, after all. I should make the most of it.