Lent Is Not a Punishment. It’s a Practice.

Every year, Lent arrives quietly. No glitter. No fireworks. No grand announcement. Just ashes pressed onto foreheads and a whisper: Remember who you are. 

Lent is not about spiritual theatrics. It is about slowing down enough to notice our own lives. 

We live in a culture that prizes speed and noise. We scroll. We hustle. We perform. Even our exhaustion feels competitive. Lent interrupts that rhythm. It invites us to step off the merry-go-round and ask a deeper question: What in my life is life-giving? And what is not? 

For centuries, Christians have marked these forty days by adding or subtracting something. Fasting from habits that numb us. Taking up practices that root us. Not to prove devotion. Not to impress God. But to become more awake. 

Sometimes subtraction is necessary. We let go of patterns that drain us. We name resentments we’ve been rehearsing. We let go of the need to win every argument. We unplug from the constant stream of outrage. We notice the small addictions to distraction that keep us from sitting with our own hearts. 

And sometimes Lent asks us to add something. Not because we feel inspired. Not because it feels easy. But because growth rarely does. There are practices that feel repetitive, even dull. Showing up. Doing the work. Returning again and again. Prayer can feel that way. Forgiveness can feel that way. Justice work can feel that way. Strengthening muscles we haven’t used in a long time—physical, emotional, spiritual—often does. 
Lent teaches us that faith is not always fireworks. Sometimes it is simply faithful repetition.

We tend to imagine that if something is good for us, we will love it instantly. But maturity tells a different story. There are disciplines that stretch us. There are habits that build endurance. There are holy practices that feel awkward at first because they move us beyond comfort. And comfort, while pleasant, is not the same as transformation. 

Jesus did not live a comfortable life. He crossed boundaries. He touched people others avoided. He spoke in ways that unsettled both religious and political systems. He stepped toward suffering instead of away from it. His love was not sentimental; it was embodied. Costly. Courageous. 

Lent traces that path. It invites us to ask: Where have I grown too comfortable? Where have I stopped stretching? Where have I mistaken ease for wholeness? To step outside of comfort is not self-punishment. It is participation in growth. When we add a practice that strengthens us, even if it feels heavy at first, we are not proving our worth. 

We are tending to our capacity. When we subtract what diminishes us, we are not denying joy. We are making space for deeper joy to take root. Because at its heart, Lent is not about deprivation. It is about alignment. About clearing away what clouds our vision so we can see more clearly the kind of people we are called to be. Slower. Stronger. More compassionate. More awake. 

The ashes remind us that life is fragile. The cross reminds us that love is powerful. And the practices of Lent, whether they feel light or heavy, remind us that transformation rarely happens by accident.



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