I did not grow up observing Lent, and my first impressions of the observance came mostly from people who seemed to care more about abstaining from chocolate and TV than seeking God. I figured that Lent was either a colossal waste of spiritual time or there was something more behind the curtain of this often misunderstood Christian practice.

I know I need a primer for Lent. Maybe you do too.

If we take a moment to peer down the corridors of time, we glimpse a figure bowed beneath a sweltering sun. His vacant stomach has shriveled within him, leaving him at the mercy of extended psychological torture. His only sustenance—the word of God alone. It is Christ’s trial in the wilderness that sets the tone for our observation of Lent, but how can we even begin to compare our meager fastings to His?

For us, Lent is a chance to walk a little of this barren road with Him, to seek understanding in renunciation, to find healing in repentance, and discover a feast along the way.

In early church history, Lent was not dreaded, but rather anticipated as an opportunity for renewal. Theologians have posited that Christ’s 40-day fast “put right” the fast that Adam and Eve broke when they ate what was forbidden them. What they lost—vibrant interaction with God—was restored when Christ chose obedience to the fast required of Him. It wasn’t until he first walked this barren, hungry road that He began His public ministry. And, even beyond this, His longer walk was punctuated with frequent occasions for solitude and prayer.

To be honest with ourselves, we must admit that Lent does not follow our nature. It is far easier to indulge our appetites than abdicate what we hold most closely. But it is good for us, and the church calendar provides an opportunity for obedience—to relinquish those things we love, which we may secretly be glad to be rid of.

And, it is an opportunity that recognizes our humanity and the glorious limits that have been placed upon us, such as was placed on Christ. Remaining aware, however, that we are people who more readily choose the letter of the law over the spirit of the law. Without deep reflection, we easily become Isaiah’s brand of hypocrite (chapter 1):

‘To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices to Me?’ says the Lord.

‘I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams

And the fat of fed cattle.

I do not delight in the blood of bulls,

Or of lambs or goats . . .

Wash yourselves, make yourselves clean;

Put away the evil of your doings from before My eyes.

Cease to do evil,

Learn to do good.

There is no place in God’s economy for shallow fastings. If we are chocolate addicts, then perhaps this is an apt sacrifice. If not, let’s consider giving up a love that is far nearer our hearts. Sacrifice must make a part of us bleed. But it is a bleeding in order to gain infinite healing.

Unless Love drives us to sacrifice, we should not pursue Lent. It is Love that gives us the courage to sacrifice all. It is what replaces the vacancies created by our lesser loves. But Love is not real unless it hurts a bit, and it can not transform us unless we allow it to injure us a bit, to break the bone of self-love that has been poorly reset too many times.

Lent guides us into the shadow of the wilderness, where, in learning to cripple ourselves, we grow stronger at Love’s banqueting table.