A First Sunday in Lent Reflection
This time of year carries more brown and gray than beauty,. The landscape looks tired, but that muted backdrop has its purpose. It sharpens what is beginning again in the budding burgundy at the tips of branches, the quiet push of green beneath old leaves. Even the air holds the faint promise of returning spring scents.
My faith story has not been so different.
The first part of my life I spent in a conservative protestant tradition. I was raised in my father’s church, where my Christian education was as thorough as it was deep, and I am better for it.
However, as I matured spiritually, I began wrestling with parts of the theology, particularly around salvation and sanctification. I struggled to understand the relationship between baptism and Christ’s finished work on the cross. I could not reconcile in my own mind how those two realities fit together.
Sanctification, too, felt uncertain to me. I don’t think it was because I wasn’t taught the meaning, but rather, I didn’t fully understand it. I wondered whether I could somehow lose my place in eternity if I failed to live within certain expectations. Which of my many mistakes would be the one that finally rendered me disqualified?
A wise friend and now a pastor explained it to me as, “We are saved by Christ’s blood shed on the cross. Anything added to or taken away from the blood of the cross is not true salvation.” That sentence settled something in me. Christ’s work was complete. My salvation rested not in my performance, but in belief, repentance and the acceptance of His grace, and I am His forever.
From there, sanctification began to make sense. It is not as a test I have to pass, but a lifelong turning away from sin and toward Christ. It is a journey toward holiness that will not end until I see Him face to face.
For a season in the middle of my life, I leaned into more Evangelical circles. Those teachings opened my eyes to assurance and grace in fresh ways. I grew, and I found peace that carried me through difficult years. The freer style of worship, both energetic and expressive, met me in that season. I am grateful for it.
And yet…
Lately, I find myself looking for something steadier. I miss the rhythm, the confession, and the repetition that roots truth deeper than emotion. This morning on the first Sunday in Lent, we stepped back into a liturgical service of the faith of my youth. It felt less like revisiting something old and more like returning home.
The words were familiar before they were spoken. The call and response. The standing and kneeling that require the body to participate, not just the emotions. I found comfort in knowing what came next, not because it was predictable, but because it was grounded
I was surprised to find the repetition no longer felt restrictive, rather it felt anchoring.
In younger years, I wanted energy, a faith that felt alive in the moment. I am grateful for that season. It carried me through a time in my life spent in deep, uncertain waters. But now, I find myself craving words spoken by believers long before me. Creeds that tether belief to history. A structure that does not shift with mood or cultural moment.
Michael felt it too. The quiet order, the reverence, the sense that worship is participation, not performance.
We are not returning to every theological position of our youth. We are returning to the beauty of the liturgy, the confession spoken together, the weight of the Nicene Creed, the slower pace, the sunlight through stained glass. We remain in the shared acknowledgment that we are sinners in need of grace, and that grace has already been given.
This morning felt fuller, richer, rooted, and none of it demanded an emotional response. It simply offered substance, and I realized that I no longer need to be lifted as much as I need to be anchored.
At this stage of life, I am less interested in what stirs me and more interested in what steadies me. For this season of Lent, Michael and I are choosing steadiness. We are trusting that in a season that looks muted on the surface, something deeper is quietly taking root.
Until Next Time,
Catherine
