Something deep drives our faith and its rituals. We celebrate Easter to remember the death and resurrection of the rabbi Jesus during the Jewish festival of Passover over two thousand years ago. We celebrate Passover to remember the miracle of the Israelites' escape from slavery in Egypt, at a time lost to the grasp of history. But beyond these stories, fueling them and embodying them, is the truth of our life on this planet. These are two of our spring rituals, and they remind us of our dependence on and connection to the earth.

As I write this it is still Lent for about two more weeks, still the time in the Christian calendar characterized by introspection and austere living. And as I write this, although we passed the vernal equinox on Friday, it is still winter by all measures outside. The high sun cannot counter the biting wind. The snow remains piled by the side of the road. Hats and mittens are still a necessity. The bulbs that have dared to emerge are windburned, curled and brown at the growing edge. Almost spring, but not yet. Almost life, but not yet. Almost the joy of rebirth--but not yet.

I am reminded, too, that if we had to live off the land we would be hard up by this time of year. In New Hampshire I lived near a farm that taught just such a way of life. By late spring, they broke bread baked with last season's wheat, ate the last of the potatoes, and gave thanks for the preserved beans and tomatoes. The spring's bounty of asparagus and rhubarb was still just a dream, and the full table of the harvest only a memory. The farmers and educators there knew what the earth demanded of them. They felt in their bones the hope of the light and warmth returning with the sun.

Earlier in Lent I was with a group of church folks when we encountered a man preparing to sleep on the front steps of the church. It was already dark and bitterly cold. At the group's behest, I went up to him, and asked if he wanted to come into the church for an hour while we had our meeting, to warm up. He said no, very clearly and politely. He said, "I have been shoveling roofs in Boston for three days and nights and all I want now is to sleep."

"It's very cold," I said; "you could come inside and nap until we have to close the church."

"No thank you,"  he said; "I have two sleeping bags."

"We could take you to a shelter."

"That would be most unpleasant," he said.

I said, "All right. I trust you to know what's best for you. I hope you get some sleep."

"God bless you," he said.

"God bless you, too," I said, and we went inside.

Lent is a season that invites us to hear the story of a person sleeping against the bone of the earth. It invites us to remember our utter dependence on the growing things of the world, on those who helped us become who we are, on our bodies and their needs, and on our own good fortune. Lent invites us to rest in this moment of want and waiting to remember our human frailty. It asks us to look in the hard moments of life for mercy and grace. It invites us into the space created when we open our hearts to the need around us, and let love grow there. It is what we learn in these hard times that prepares us for the joy of resurrection and spring come again.

In faith,

Rev. Sarah Stewart