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Lent Reflection from our Franciscans
“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace…” This is the opening line to the Prayer of Peace often attributed (though most likely simply inspired by) St Francis of Assisi. As we come into the Lent, we are in a place when as Christians the giving up of something is foremost upon our minds. Perhaps this year, instead of placing such concern upon the material, we can move to “giving up” those things within our minds and hearts which keep us from being instruments of peace.
As we enter these forty days, we are not simply stepping into a season of denial with punishment from physical pleasure being the goal. Instead we are given the opportunity to free our spirit. It is a time to clear away whatever has quietly taken root within us (resentment, suspicion, pessimism) and allowing God once more to cultivate joy.
As Franciscans living in the world, we know how loud and distracting the world can be. The pace is relentless, and the noise is constant. In our society the narratives which loom around us, from too many sources to be named, so often breed division, irritation, and distrust. Our hearts can become guarded, without us even realizing it is happening. We can all too easily begin to assume the worst and lose the softness that once made room for wonder. We can enter a desert of the heart, where we do not know how to find a wellspring to replenish that love we once carried within us. Yet the desert is not empty, as it is the place where God speaks tenderly. It is where the heart, stripped of clutter, remembers its kinship with God, with creation, and with one another.
A Soulful Fast
Our fasting can move beyond food and enter the deeper terrain of the heart. We can fast from anger and long-held grudges, not by pretending we are never wounded, but by pausing when frustration rises. In that pause, patience can take root, and reconciliation becomes possible. We remember that Christ meets us with mercy again and again; can we not extend even a fragment of that mercy to others?
We can strive to fast from suspicion and harsh judgment, keeping in mind how easily we assume motives. Our founder Francis saw brother and sister everywhere, even in those who frightened or opposed him. He did not live in a peaceful time, and like today, there was bigotry, hatred, and people in power who seemed determined to destroy all those who were different. Francis, however, chose to fast from the negativity, which was certainly waiting to take root in his heart, and trust that God’s image dwells in every person. He has shown us that when we replace judgment with kindness, we participate in God’s own way of seeing.
This is not a call to live in naivety, nor to ignore suffering or injustice. It means to tell ourselves to refuse to let cynicism have the final word, and to allow gratitude becomes our quiet resistance. We give thanks for creation, for community, for the smallest evidence of grace that persist even in troubled times. When the heart is healed of its defensiveness, it becomes spacious. It becomes capable of seeing brother and sister where once it saw threat. It becomes capable of joy again.
May this desert season soften us.
May it free us.
May it return us to the simplicity and radiance that marked Francis
and, more importantly, to the love of Christ who dwells within us all.
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