I stood on the corner waiting for Ben to pick me up. There across the street came a man, about 5’ 10” wearing a disheveled winter coat. He was carrying a plastic bag; you know the kind stores use when they ask you, “Do you want paper or plastic?” Even across the street I could see he was talking to himself.
As he came closer I felt my heart rate increase. I heard myself ask, “What if he asks for money?” “What if he looks in my direction?” He was a threat; at the least he might ask something of me, which I may be reluctant to give.
A man walks down the street and I hold tightly to my wallet. Even when a friend asks to borrow a computer network card I hesitate. I have so much stuff and yet I’m reluctant to let go of even a little part of that stuff. I continue coming back to this theme during my Lenten journey. It is my stuff that I allow to define me. What would I be without my stuff.
I’m troubled by several questions Gabe Huck asked in a recent article. He asked, “Why is Lent not vigorously kept by those who can repent with the least pain? Why do so few even want to think about Lent beyond the things they did in childhood?”
I’ve been so proud of my Lenten observance. And a man, whose name I do not even know, shows me how shallow that observance is.
”O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you.” (Ps 102:2)