A good friend of mine posted something on Facebook that upset me. I do my best to not look at Facebook or X or Instagram or whatever. But let’s face it: I end up scrolling just to see what’s going on. I almost never comment because I don’t want to enter the fray. Honestly, I feel embarrassed at what people post or their comments under the posts of others.

Anyway, this particular post wasn’t about me, but about something close to my heart. And ouch. That hurt. So, I decided to tell him. By text, which is also not the best way for me to communicate to someone.

He explained that this post was his way of finding truth.

A few minutes later, he sent another text and said he was sorry and that friendship was more important than social media. He actually apologized. He was telling me that I mattered to him more than the truth he was looking for on social media posts. This felt surprisingly good.

He said that he was going to give up social media for Lent.

This is one of the nicest things a person has said to me or done for me in a long time; what I’m about to say isn’t about that or him. But what he said prompted me to think about giving up things.

Pagan religions bring sacrifices to their altars or temples. All the ancients had some form of it. People sacrifice to appease their gods, even and especially the false ones.

Maybe we deny ourselves to fulfill ourselves. But often as I hear people talking about their denials, it can feel a little more like the path to a pagan temple than a horrifying forever life-changing road to calvary.

To give up something for Lent is not to be rid of it for good. Because Easter is coming. Then, all the things folks give up come back, probably and most often, with a vengeance. Why not? There’s a time limit; that’s the idea. We fallen humans can’t sacrifice like God did. It’s impossible. We can’t really atone or intercede for anyone, ourselves included. And the finished work of Jesus means we don’t have to.

My friend's apology was better than his sacrifice, to me at least. God doesn’t want our sacrifices. He wants our hearts.

People give up coffee or chocolate or television or social media. But for me, I’m giving up on giving up. When people give up, does God have their hearts?

Perhaps I’m going to take hold of something new instead of giving up some old pleasure or habit.

Maybe I’m going to take hold of prayer. I’ll pray to God out loud, in private—just him and me and, ok, well, maybe my dog—but out loud. It’s a prayer that’s learning to talk in a new way. Speak to God audibly when no one else is around to hear.

Face-to-face church means that this Sunday, I’m going to make eye contact. Listen. Sing. No other day will ever be a repeat of this day. Someone is waiting for another person to say hello, listen, pray together, be the messenger. Help me find that person and not look away.

Life is the anti-Groundhog Day. Every day is new. There are no repeats. Grab hold of each one. Hold my hand, look into my eyes and see. Find the unique in every day.

Yet nothing I do can add to the splendorous horror of what Jesus has done by giving everything—no, more than everything—dying when he didn’t have to and, from my limited point of view, never should have had to—"Get behind me evil one.” Instead, “Yes, die, servant king and wash my feet.”

Still, I don’t understand. What is the word I’m trying to find? As I give up giving up, my heart battered head-throbbing soul cries out: Be on the lookout for adding more Jesus today. Let him explain himself along the way, at least as much as you or I can fathom. There’s a word for what he does, for who he is. An ewe lamb lost, found, me drinking cool water from the water running still, me eating like one who has not eaten in forever, a taste of food so new, lapping up like water or bloody meat from the lowest manger. There’s a word for that. Only one.

I do not yet know what I will do, but I will not give up on him who has taken it all on completely to the utmost—not giving up but taking hold. . .drinking the cup that only he could hold. . .grasping the chalice only he could shape, mold, drink—swallowing it all to the point of death, the dregs to the very last breath and then folding the linen graveclothes when he was done with them forever. I long to see him, recognize him again, hear the not-me word when he breaks the bread, remeber how he was not in the room with us and then there he was in our midst like he had never gone because he never had and never will, still he is here, word, flesh, always and ever nearer than near.

O my love, not mine but ours, wondrous to behold, yet beyond me even me in his grasp. Down he reaches beyond the farthest to find farther fathoms further down, down he bends. He travels on foot beyond the very last bend.

Take my hand, my dear ones, we’ve a wedding to attend.