On Giving Things Up

A nearly-agnostic reflection on Lent

When people ask if I’m religious, I’m hesitant to answer. I say things like: “I grew up Lutheran,” or “I’m Christian, but non-denominational,” but I mostly say those things to offer an answer that fits inside an existing box. There’s not really a term for: “I’ve learned important lessons from key aspects of Christian teaching, but I certainly don’t believe the whole doctrine, and I’m heavily skeptical of organized religion, but I also miss when my family said a prayer before dinner, even if it felt a little cult-y.”

I don’t go to church anymore, really. I don’t believe in hell. I want to believe in heaven. I think anyone who believes (and preaches) something with complete certainty is the most blasphemous of all.

Yet, I believe there is still value to be found in some of the practices. Prayer is a great outlet for gratitude, for example. Listing things that you are thankful for will always be a healthy practice, regardless of whether God is truly listening (and if you want them to be). So, I try to keep it up, because I think it’s good for me.

A more specific practice I have held onto since childhood is giving up something for Lent. For those unfamiliar, Lent is a 40-day season in the liturgical calendar meant to represent the 40 days Jesus spent testing himself in the wilderness before his brand launch (going public with his teachings). It is celebrated by many denominations, most emphatically by Catholics, but also Lutherans, Baptists, Methodists, etc., and it is most famous for the practice of giving up an indulgence or habit during the 40-day period. This could be candy, swearing, crying in the shower, etc.

Every year, I struggle to pick something, and I often don’t begin until I’m already a week deep into the 40 days (as is the case this year). What I have chosen has varied on what my vices were at the time, but in memory there was soda, YouTube, and, my personal favorite, complaining, to name a few. Due to its tendency to trigger migraines as of late, I’m giving up alcohol this year (please withhold your applause for my astounding maturity).

And, every year, I learn something, but I also don’t. One of the strongest criticisms against the “effectiveness” of Lent, often coming from nondenominational thought, is that a stronger dedication to God shouldn’t just be 40 days, it should be all the time. Another form of the same argument appears when I reflect on this year’s Lent sacrifice; if alcohol gives me migraines and little else, shouldn’t I give it up for good?

What’s more is that Lent concludes with Easter, a celebratory time where all the old indulgences can be brought back and enjoyed with greater ecstasy than before… but doesn’t that take away the point of giving those things up in the first place? It’d be like dieting only to binge the junk food you would have eaten anyway.

I feel this paradox every year. I’m usually quite successful in my endeavor, and when it’s over, the first sip of Coke or the first Drew Gooden video always feels like I’m cheating, even though I know the game has ended. Not only that, but I became so attuned to life without it that returning inevitably feels underwhelming; I wonder why I even needed to give it up in the first place. But, now that it’s at my disposal, and because I was a good boy for 40 days, I might as well take it up again. Then, in a few weeks, when the habit reforms, it was like lent never happened.

So why do I engage in the practice? Call me a masochist, but I find the challenge to be fun. Also, while I usually don’t walk away with a tangible change, I do finish with a sense of accomplishment and a celebration of will. It’s a nice thought knowing that I could give something up for the unseen (although, who am I kidding, I’m usually giving these things up for myself), because I think it makes it easier to do the same for those that I can see, those like my parents, my friends, my coworkers, my girlfriend.

And, while I’ve never cut something completely out of my life after its temporary exile, I have often lessened my consumption of it. The memory of that disappointing Easter sip of soda stays with me, and it peeks out from my memory every time I open the minifridge.

Another common practice of Lent is going pescatarian on Fridays (which is actually the origin of the Friday fish fry), but I wasn’t aware of this until my twenties. I took it up one year because of the “fun” factor, but also because I was trying to eat less meat, especially red, in the name of environmental preservation and in awareness of my own health.

I also partially took this up because my college roommate, who was Catholic, did so every year, and I thought it would be nice to do it together. This is when I also learned that (some) Catholics take lent very seriously, and it led to some curious revelations. My roommate gave up all videogames (something he and our suitemates frequently played together), all social media, committed to prayer regiments, bible studies, and even committed to sleeping on the floor every night. While I chalked up his commitments to self-flagellation, I thought that maybe he knew something I didn’t, so once a week for 40 days, I slept on the dorm room concrete-carpet floor with him. As someone with a very bony and protrusive build, and with only a quilt between all that and a (practically) titanium floor, I dreaded that night every week. There was no joy in the sacrifice; there was nothing to be gained. I will never do something like that again.

However, I think the devout Christians would argue that I’m missing the point. Isn’t the point of a sacrifice to give, not to gain? Isn’t that the purest form of devotion to God? You’ve probably heard the Christian belief that God’s love is unconditional, all-encompassing, infinite. In my opinion, the best way to understand that is to compare it to existing love in your own life. Taking this concept, I can’t imagine anyone who loves me asking me to sleep on the floor once a week for no other reason than to prove my devotion to them. So, why would God, whose love is supposedly infinite, ask the same?

Another paradox: I would sleep on the floor once a week for someone I love, but in loving them, and in them loving me, that would never be expected of me. I have admiration for what my roommate did that year, and for what he does every year during Lent. His many sacrifices, while I think are misguided, retain a certain beauty in that they allow the first half of the paradox to exist. They enable that type of devotion to be expressed where it otherwise couldn’t; they enable him to realize his capabilities of love, even if there is no one (human) to receive them, no one other than himself.

The greatest misdirection of Lent is that the practice is to the benefit of something greater than ourselves. More often than not, we give things up for our own betterment — to build our sense of character or to prove exactly who we are. We walk away with new lessons and fresh eyes. It’s a unique experience to make a sacrifice without it being asked of you, without an exterior factor saying: “hey, something’s gotta change.” It’s a reflection on what you actually need and what you can cut out. The counterargument shows its face again, though: shouldn’t you be reflecting on that all the time? Sure, but handing in your vice for 40 days is a lot easier than 24,547 (or however many you have left). Besides, it’s nice to have a deadline that you don’t have to set yourself. Substack users, of anyone, should understand that.