The cross inside Uppsala Cathedral in Sweden. Photo: LWF/Albin Hillert
From our earliest childhood, we learn to follow a script which urges us to appear strong, fulfilled, successful, and happy. Social media curates our brightest moments. Job interviews demand that we spin every weakness into hidden strengths. Even casual conversations can require us to be “doing well.”
Our continual search for meaning – for good work, loving relationships, a place to belong – can slowly harden into something else: the search for control. Longing for this isn’t wrong in itself but when it becomes a demand placed on life, on others, or on our own exhausted hearts, fragility becomes the enemy. And fear, grief or failure must be managed, medicated or hidden away, as if we cannot trust that God’s promise holds us.
It is said that Martin Luther made a short, almost shocking, confession at the end of his life:
“We are beggars. This is true.”
These are sobering words because they point to a truth about justification itself: nothing truly belongs to us, not even our righteousness, and nothing is ultimately our own achievement. Everything we have is received as a gift. There is no part of our life that has not been given to us by God.
And if we're honest, faith can become simply another part of the script. Lutherans speak eloquently about grace, but how do we lean into it when it requires us to be vulnerable? We confess our sins using general language in the liturgy but rarely name the specific ways we have hardened our hearts or hurt those we love. We participate in rituals, speak about God and even serve in different ministries, yet we keep the holy at arm's length. Closeness can be dangerous. Transformation can be risky. So, we remain distant – from God, from one another, from our own true selves.
But there is another way.
Invitation to return
The prophet Joel invites all of us to return. In a world focused on progress, the correct path toward God is backwards and inwards. “Return to me with all your heart,” God says (Joel 2). Not with impressive achievements, not with well-rehearsed explanations, but with what is real. With whom we truly are! With all of our joys and sorrows, all of our hopes and tragedies, with all the burden of the cross and all the possibilities of the empty tomb.
It would be tempting to see this invitation as a divine order for humanity to face its imperfections in the light of a coming judgment. To return to good deeds and become “good” Christians. Many scriptural texts and devotionals are selected for this purpose in lent. Prophets and preachers are harsh, music and hymns are dark, and we let the Law eclipse the Gospel, threatening to widen the distance between God and humanity rather than close it.
Paul speaks into this fear of judgment with urgency and tenderness: "We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God… now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!" (2 Corinthians 5:18, 6:2) Not when we have resolved all our doubts and our lives are perfectly transformed. Not when our churches are flawless, and not when the world is finally peaceful. But rather now, as fragile people, in a world of complications and suffering, in a world that aches for justice and reconciliation.
Lenten hope
Reconciliation assumes distance, fracture, and estrangement. But it also dares to proclaim that these are not the final words. In Christ, God has already moved closer. In Christ, God has crossed the distance we could not.
We are beggars, yes. This is the truth. But beggars whose empty hands are met by a God who draws us closer – again and again, by God who refuses to remain distant. This is our Lenten hope: that closeness to God does not begin with our capability, but with God's boundless grace.
What remains for us is to open our hearts to what is already true: we are beloved and saved children of God. Our response to this gift becomes the trusting, grace-filled, reconciled life that all creation eagerly longs for. Not because we have finally become worthy, but because God has already drawn close.
