3/21/23
      My mother-in-law lives in Carrol, Iowa—a 6-hour drive from where we live.   There is always a point during this long car ride when even I start to repeat the phrase every parent dreads hearing: “Are we there yet?”  The journey seems like it will never end.  Mile after mile of corn fields, the end no where in sight, the driving becomes hypnotically routine.   We are sort of at that point of Lent too.  Our small sacrifices are becoming routine and if we pay attention, the temptations are getting louder.  Is Easter here yet?  
      A couple weeks ago, I went out to lunch with a small group of co-workers.  We had colleagues visiting us from a different office for the day, so it made for a good opportunity to get out.  The restaurant would not have been my first choice for a Lenten Friday—it’s known for its burgers, steak and chicken sandwiches.  One of the out-of-town guests was seated next to me and asked what I recommended.  The details I shared left him wondering if he wanted the “burger of the day” or the steak sandwich.  They left me salivating over what was not to be.  Why exactly am I not eating meat today—just because I am not supposed to do it?  Surely, I can make a small exception.  I’ll just do something else instead.  I tried several other ways to justify it, then the waiter showed up and told us their special that day was fish and chips.    When he took my order of fish and chips, I was immediately peppered with questions from that out-of-town guest.  Why, after I had convinced him of the superiority of his choice, had I deviated so far from my own recommendations?  I simply reminded him it’s Lent.   His response was not bad, but it wasn’t good either.   He did not change his order or offer any indication of solidarity.  I did not feel justified or at peace.  Part of me really wanted to call the waiter back and change my choice. 
     When the waiter reached another member of the Chicago office staff,  he ordered the fish and chips too.  Then, meeting my gaze, he offered a subtle nod and a wink.   It did not matter if his intention was the same, or even if he was going through the same struggle I was.  His small acknowledgement in that moment helped me remember that I was not alone.  That Jesus is walking this journey with me—with us—and he knows our pain and suffering, even when it may seem trivial. 
The beautiful gospels that we read in these final three Sundays of Lent contain the wisdom we need to persevere through the trials we face as Lent presses onward toward Calvary.  These three Sundays start with what appears to be a routine event—like going out to lunch with co-workers.  A Samaritan woman has come to the well to draw water like she has so many other times before.   A stranger walks past a blind beggar who has taken up his typical spot.  A man has fallen ill and died and his loved ones mourn.   Everyday occurrences in any age.  But, what started as a routine encounter turned into a life-changing event. 
      The Samaritan woman meets a man who is going to change her life.  Jesus is not just a stranger to this woman—how could a stranger tell this woman everything about her life?  No—Jesus knows this woman intimately and he desires for her to come to know him in the same way.  Jesus is thirsty himself—he is having the same human experience as she is—yet it is Jesus who offers her the extraordinary gift of life-giving water.  In spite of his own issues, he makes a sacrifice for her.  Jesus wants this woman to know him and to ask for this life-giving water.  He wants the same for us—for us to stop trying to quench our thirst with the things of this world and drink of the grace that flows only from him.  Perhaps if we see we can go without certain things for five weeks of Lent, then maybe we might realize we don’t really need it at all?      
     The blind beggar is sitting in his usual spot, minding his own business, when Jesus passes by.  Many, many people must have passed by him day after day.  Again, what starts as an everyday encounter turns into a life-changing miracle.  Through this miracle Jesus invites him—and the Pharisees--into a relationship with him.   Likewise, Jesus comes to open our eyes and invite us into this deep relationship.    How do we respond to Jesus’ call?  Do we acknowledge who Jesus is like the beggar and Samaritan?  Or do we look for excuses to explain away the encounter like the Pharisees because we are afraid of what this might mean for our life?  Does the fact that we might have to change, to grow, scare us into resisting the eye-opening encounter in front of us? 
      Finally, we meet Jesus at the tomb of his friend Lazarus.  Jesus comes to Mary and Martha in the midst of their grief.  He does not come to tell them they should not mourn.  Or even to simply offer condolences as we so often do when a friend or family member dies.  No.  Jesus comes to mourn with Martha and Mary.   Jesus wept.   What a profound statement.  Jesus experienced the same emotions, pain and grief that Martha and Mary felt.  He mourned Lazarus.   He knows our pain and suffering because he experienced it himself.  He knows exactly what we go through when we struggle with our Lenten sacrifices.    
     These random everyday encounters are turned into deeply intimate moments with Jesus. Life-giving moments.  Jesus puts an end to spiritual thirst, blindness, and death.  Out of these human experiences, only Jesus can bring new life. And that really is what Lent is all about.   The sacrifices we make are not meant to deprive us of anything.  They are meant to draw us to new life and open our eyes to Jesus walking with us every day—sitting across the table from us and offering a subtle wink or a nod when we come to know him a little better and unite our sacrifice with his.