I’ve never been a great beard-grower, but within a week people begin to notice and comment, “what’s this?” stroking their own chins between thumb and forefinger.
My response drew chuckles and grins, heads shaking in disbelief. What a goof. He gave up shaving for Lent.
“So, whose sacrifice is that, your wife’s?” they’d say.
I’ll admit, at first it was a novel thing to do. I relished the extra minutes I gained each morning. When I originally did this it was before the facial hair and skinny jeans trends reached into corporate America, which was mostly devoid of beards, at least where I worked. It accompanied a minor sense of rebellion that was somehow satisfying. It was also amusing to hear the protestations from my wife when I started looking scruffy and kissed her cheek. It was fun, but I didn’t mean for it to be entirely funny.
After several years of this practice a few men at my church joined me in my “sacrifice.” I recall posing for a picture together. A pastor at a church in Minnesota developed an article building on my story. Hardly viral, but I wondered if I was onto something.
And another thing happened.
Each morning, groggy and unclear, I wandered into the bathroom for a drink of water, looked up into the mirror, and was reminded, “Oh yeah, it’s Lent,” which was not something about which I previously gave a ton of thought.
Forty days is really long one day at a time when wandering in the wilderness, tempted and suffering as Jesus was, which is the point of all of this.
As Martin Luther said, “Original sin is in us, like the beard. We are shaved today and look clean, and have a smooth chin; tomorrow our beard has grown again, nor does it cease growing while we remain on earth.”
I can shave my beard, but the hair returns to remind me each day. And so I go through life “shaving” and failing, then shaving again.
Many go a bit public at this time of year on Ash Wednesday. Particularly those who receive an imposition of ashes at a morning service, then go through the day with their Christianity emblazoned on their foreheads, sensing the glances from passing strangers and feeling a little self-conscious. We notice the cross here and there on the evening news, on the foreheads of late-night comedians, pundits and politicians. Now imagine leaving the mark of the cross on your head for a month and a half. Yes, imagine giving up bathing for Lent! (Please don't.)
In his final days, during a torturous scourge and humiliation, Jesus submitted to a lesser known indignity mentioned in Isaiah 50:6:
"I gave My back to those who strike Me, and My cheeks to those who pluck out the beard; I did not cover My face from humiliation and spitting."
Honestly, by day forty I can’t wait to shave. I hate having hair on my face. It feels like cobwebs and spiders crawling on my cheeks and neck. As the hair lengthens it begins to irritate my lips and curl into the sides of my mouth. So if I must be sacrificing something, consider it my comfort, especially as the temperature starts to rise in Florida.
There’s another approach if I have the courage. When people grin at my beard and ask about it, I could say, “It’s a daily reminder of Christ’s suffering in the wilderness.” As you can imagine, that would get a very different response.
Or I can hide behind the words in Matthew 6:1 if I choose:
“Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven.”
In either case, with action or with words that result not in laughter but in thoughtful reflection or even in private prayer, our thoughts should be of the season and of the sacrifice that was made for us.
So if you see me looking more than a little scruffy during March you’ll know why. I know the growth on my face will be much more gray than it was just a few years ago. And I guarantee it will be gone by National Beard Day on September 4th.
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