Inspired by Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), a worthy organization, people have created similar programs for drug addicts, for the families of alcoholics and drug addicts, for sex and gambling addicts, for all those victims suffering the maladies of our age: depression, stress, loneliness, despair.
Given such diversity, I propose a new group: Lenten Losers, henceforth referred to as LL.
Given such diversity, I propose a new group: Lenten Losers, henceforth referred to as LL.
Imagine if you will a platoon of us sitting around a drab table, looking woebegone and drinking from our Styrofoam cups of coffee. (Chocoholics, beefeaters, smokers, and drinkers are free to indulge their fancies at this table, since they failed to abandon their vices during the dark season leading to the light of Easter). As usual at these meetings, we would go around the table and introduce ourselves. “Hi, I’m Dave, and I’m a Lenten Loser.” “Hi, I’m Cheryl, and I’m a Lenten Loser three years in a row.” “Hi, I’m Jeff, and I’ve been a Lenten Loser for as long as I can remember.”
What is it about me and Lent? Why is it that every Ash Wednesday I write out a list of sacrifices, some intended for positive good such as reading scripture, some to correct indulgences in diet and drink, but then fail to follow through? What is it about the thin gruel of these forty days that causes me to break my resolutions faster than a chef cracks eggs?
Many Catholics I know stick to their vows. They emerge from Lent ready to enjoy their first taste of beef in seven weeks, their first beer, their re-engagement with Facebook. You would never find these hardy souls sitting shame-faced at an LL meeting, recounting their failures and bemoaning the agonies wrought by those failures. No—the LK’s (Lenten-Keepers, of course) stride nobly through the season and end their trek on high, sun-lit hills, celebrating Easter with pure hearts and healthy souls.
Not me. I stumble through Lent like a drunk through Mardi Gras. The dawn of each day finds my resolve bright as the rising sun; nightfall too often finds me crawling off to bed in defeat, disgusted—and sometimes, I confess, amused—by my frailty.
It’s not as if the demands I place on myself are always high. One Lenten season, for example, I vowed to read from the Gospels for ten minutes a day. Surely, you would think, that task would be surmountable. I placed a copy of the Bible beside my computer, marked my place with the golden string, and began my daily obligation with anticipation of success. I charged proudly through Matthew, reading the words of Christ with renewed interest. Then came Mark, and with him my downfall. Failure began on a weekend trip, when for two days I forgot about my reading. Annoyed, I picked myself up, renewed the reading for another three days, and then failed to remember it for the rest of the week when I became caught up in work.
Priests are always reminding their parishioners that it’s never to late to undertake the Lenten journey. If we fail, these priests tell us, then we need to get to our feet, brush ourselves off, and resume our pilgrimage. Splendid advice, but I spend so much time brushing myself off that I could open a cleaning service.
Why? Why do I stink at Lent?
After pondering the matter, I have concluded that in certain areas of my life I am clearly weak-willed. (This is an example of circular reasoning; I fail at willpower because I fail at willpower). This enervation of the will is not true of me in general. In matters of teaching, for example, I can will myself to enter the classroom in an upbeat mood when I’d rather be parked with a book on the beach.
But let Lent peek around the corner, and this willpower sinks like a stone.
Somewhere inside me there exists, I suspect, a rebel, a model of self-deification, a little Stygian imp who bucks up against authority and rules of any kind. This diminutive demon whispers to me from my unconscious mind, tearing away at resolve, teasing me toward temptation, telling me that giving in is all right, that I can return tomorrow to my cute little list of resolutions.
Or maybe I am supposed to flunk Lent. Maybe what God intends for me is a lesson in humility, a lesson taught to me by my own failings. As a teacher, writer, parent, and grandparent, I fail all the time, but maybe that’s not enough. Maybe God made Lent for someone like me to serve as a mirror for my imperfections. Maybe Lent is designed to produce in people like me self-revelation, in which I must admit my weakness of will, my failure of resolve. Maybe, too, Lent is intended to remind me that I can fall and still pick myself up again. Maybe I am supposed to be a shining negative example for the LKs, making them feel better about themselves, strengthening their resolve, and saying of me, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
If this is indeed the plan for me, I would give it high marks. It works all too well.
At any rate, to all of you out there who have slipped this Lenten season, or who feel lost in terms of your resolve, pull a chair to the table. Pour yourself some java. Don’t be embarrassed. We’re here for you, buddy.
“Hi, my name’s Jeff and I’m a Lenten Loser.”
What is it about me and Lent? Why is it that every Ash Wednesday I write out a list of sacrifices, some intended for positive good such as reading scripture, some to correct indulgences in diet and drink, but then fail to follow through? What is it about the thin gruel of these forty days that causes me to break my resolutions faster than a chef cracks eggs?
Many Catholics I know stick to their vows. They emerge from Lent ready to enjoy their first taste of beef in seven weeks, their first beer, their re-engagement with Facebook. You would never find these hardy souls sitting shame-faced at an LL meeting, recounting their failures and bemoaning the agonies wrought by those failures. No—the LK’s (Lenten-Keepers, of course) stride nobly through the season and end their trek on high, sun-lit hills, celebrating Easter with pure hearts and healthy souls.
Not me. I stumble through Lent like a drunk through Mardi Gras. The dawn of each day finds my resolve bright as the rising sun; nightfall too often finds me crawling off to bed in defeat, disgusted—and sometimes, I confess, amused—by my frailty.
It’s not as if the demands I place on myself are always high. One Lenten season, for example, I vowed to read from the Gospels for ten minutes a day. Surely, you would think, that task would be surmountable. I placed a copy of the Bible beside my computer, marked my place with the golden string, and began my daily obligation with anticipation of success. I charged proudly through Matthew, reading the words of Christ with renewed interest. Then came Mark, and with him my downfall. Failure began on a weekend trip, when for two days I forgot about my reading. Annoyed, I picked myself up, renewed the reading for another three days, and then failed to remember it for the rest of the week when I became caught up in work.
Priests are always reminding their parishioners that it’s never to late to undertake the Lenten journey. If we fail, these priests tell us, then we need to get to our feet, brush ourselves off, and resume our pilgrimage. Splendid advice, but I spend so much time brushing myself off that I could open a cleaning service.
Why? Why do I stink at Lent?
After pondering the matter, I have concluded that in certain areas of my life I am clearly weak-willed. (This is an example of circular reasoning; I fail at willpower because I fail at willpower). This enervation of the will is not true of me in general. In matters of teaching, for example, I can will myself to enter the classroom in an upbeat mood when I’d rather be parked with a book on the beach.
But let Lent peek around the corner, and this willpower sinks like a stone.
Somewhere inside me there exists, I suspect, a rebel, a model of self-deification, a little Stygian imp who bucks up against authority and rules of any kind. This diminutive demon whispers to me from my unconscious mind, tearing away at resolve, teasing me toward temptation, telling me that giving in is all right, that I can return tomorrow to my cute little list of resolutions.
Or maybe I am supposed to flunk Lent. Maybe what God intends for me is a lesson in humility, a lesson taught to me by my own failings. As a teacher, writer, parent, and grandparent, I fail all the time, but maybe that’s not enough. Maybe God made Lent for someone like me to serve as a mirror for my imperfections. Maybe Lent is designed to produce in people like me self-revelation, in which I must admit my weakness of will, my failure of resolve. Maybe, too, Lent is intended to remind me that I can fall and still pick myself up again. Maybe I am supposed to be a shining negative example for the LKs, making them feel better about themselves, strengthening their resolve, and saying of me, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
If this is indeed the plan for me, I would give it high marks. It works all too well.
At any rate, to all of you out there who have slipped this Lenten season, or who feel lost in terms of your resolve, pull a chair to the table. Pour yourself some java. Don’t be embarrassed. We’re here for you, buddy.
“Hi, my name’s Jeff and I’m a Lenten Loser.”