There once was a man who lived during the time of Jesus. There was nothing particularly special about the man; he may have lived in Jerusalem or one of the villages that surround it. He probably worked as a fisherman, a laborer, or some other common job. There was nothing much to distinguish him from thousands of other people living in that area at that time.

          Yet there was a longing in this man. He had heard of this itinerant teacher Jesus, of the words he spoke and the healings he performed. And the man had a yearning to see Jesus for himself, to hear the words directly and, hopefully, to be changed by them.

          So the man, along with several thousand others, came to the side of the mountain where Jesus was teaching. And, working his way through the crowd, the man stood in a spot where Jesus was only a few yards away.

          He saw Jesus-saw the piercing but kind eyes; the skin deeply tanned by the sun; the hands that were rough, worker's hands like the man's own. And he heard Jesus' words-words that challenged the man, shocked him even ("love your neighbor as yourself") but that somehow filled that deep sense of longing inside him. And for one moment, a moment the man would never forget, Jesus looked at him with such profound love that the man felt tears well in his eyes.

          The man never saw Jesus again-not during the rest of Jesus' public ministry nor at the time of Jesus' execution. But for the rest of his life, there would be moments when the man would go away someplace quiet, and close his eyes, and remember what Jesus had said and how he had looked at him. And that feeling of love would wash over him once again.

          This Wednesday we will be starting the church season of Lent. As most of you probably know, Lent is the 40-day period that leads from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, and that tells the story of Jesus' journey to the cross. In early church history, the season served as a period when candidates for membership were prepared to be baptized and welcomed fully into the Body of Christ. Eventually, that preparation season was extended to all members of the church, with the goal being conversion-a returning or reorienting of our lives toward God. The 40-day time period recalls the 40 days Jesus spent praying and fasting in the desert before beginning his public ministry, as well as the 40 years the Israelites wandered in the desert as God led them to the promised land.

          The season of Lent can inspire strong feelings and, if we're honest, some of those feelings are not positive. I've talked with friends here at St. Thomas who dread the season or, at least, are happy to see it come to an end.

          I guess that reaction isn't too surprising. Lent is a solemn season, a time to slow down, reflect and examine ourselves, in ways that may make us uneasy. But it's a season I've come to love because it can lead someplace wonderful.

          Coming to love Lent, however, was a process that's happened in several stages over my life. The process began when I was a child growing up in a Roman Catholic household. We observed the season of Lent by giving something up-both the eating of meat on Fridays and through some small, personal sacrifice each of us would make. The usual sacrifice for my siblings and me was to give up candy. When Lent ended and we found the baskets our parents had hidden early Easter morning, we would joyfully dig into the chocolate eggs, cocoanut nests and jelly beans. The thing we loved that had gone away from us was restored-not a bad metaphor for the Easter resurrection.

          In my teen years our family added another element to our Lenten sacrifice. We would put aside the money we ordinarily would spend on incidentals for ourselves and give the funds to an international relief organization. That way, our self-denial became a vehicle to share blessings with others-also a nice metaphor for Jesus' ministry.

          When I reached young adulthood, however, the Lenten practices from my youth no longer satisfied me. There was a longing to do something more, to take another step that would be more meaningful and demand more of me.

          A spiritual speaker I heard at the time stated that Lenten observance should incorporate three elements: prayer, fasting and almsgiving. The speaker encouraged us to be creative in interpreting those elements. Fasting might not mean just food but also could mean fasting from some activity we loved or from some bad habit that hurts ourselves or others.

          My favorite hobby then and now was to watch classic films. Anyone who knows me knows I have amassed a collection of a few hundred movies from the 1920s to the 1960s and that I can tell you something about just about any movie produced during those years. What if, I pondered, I was to give up watching my collection of classic films for Lent?

          The prospect frightened me so much that I didn't even try to do it the first year. The second year, I allowed myself one movie per week. The next year, and the years following, I was able to keep my promise. My movie collection would remain dormant during the 40 days of Lent, then would spring back to life as we celebrated the season of Jesus' resurrection.

          I discovered that the absence of movies during my leisure time gave a new sense of quiet to the season of Lent. I wasn't quite sure what to do with that quiet, however, and the emptiness left me with a vague sense of loss.

          Then, about a decade ago, something wonderful happened:
I had the opportunity to do a five-day silent retreat. In a wooded, wintry monastery setting, I spent five days not speaking or interacting with another soul, except the priest who was my spiritual director. The solitude threw me deep into my thoughts and helped me realize my ultimate dependence on Jesus Christ. For those five days, he was the only one I spoke with. I imagined walking with him, resting in his arms, asking him the questions I had longed to ask. And I felt from him the deepest sense of love, a love that embraces each part of me for exactly who I am.

          For me, that retreat was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, a never-to-be-repeated or -recreated event. But I continue to feed off of that retreat, because it added the final touch to my Lenten observance. I now had a purpose for those quiet moments throughout the season. They give me the opportunity to reconnect with Jesus, with the God who always waits and who always is free to talk and reaffirm his love for me.

          And as Jesus' love flares up to life again within me, it inspires and empowers me to do what I could never do on my own. It gives me insight to recognize the beauty in my therapy clients, people whose lives are filled with suffering and whose goodness often is disguised. It gives me courage to overcome my natural shyness and work to build a family with other members of St. Thomas' parish. It helps me see the first hopeful hints of spring during weeks when gray skies seem like they will last forever. And it challenges me to love rather than fight or mock those who don't have my best interests at heart.

          Those are the reasons why Lent has become meaningful to me, and why a part of me looks forward to the season each year. My prayer is that each of us will find some way-some personal, meaningful way-to live a holy Lent this year. And that, however we do so, we will experience during this blessed season moments when Jesus' infinite, unchanging love washes over us once again.