Death is the ultimate “No.” But resurrection is the more-ultimate “Yes.”
My word of the year is “No.”
Inspring, eh?
Choosing a word to guide or direct a given year has been en vogue over the last half decade or so. It has become a part of the Western / American approach to entering into a new year. I have friends who make more of their word than of resolutions—which is maybe a wise thing, given that 80% of all New Year’s resolutions fail within the first month. The basic idea is that as you’re taking inventory of life as the calendar turns over, you’re able to identify a theme or focus or discipline that will help govern your priorities, habits, and time. Name that theme in a word or short phrase and, boom, you’re off to the existential races.
I admit that this word-of-the-year game is a bit gimmicky, but then, what word game isn’t? I quit Wordle a long time ago. When I first encountered the idea, I thought, how silly, distilling an entire year down to a single word. How is that helpful?
Then in January 2023, as Lindsey and I were planning and dreaming about the upcoming year, I not only knew that I needed a word, but I had the clarity to see it as it made sense of the things we were assessing and entering into early last year.
So my word for 2023 was “Jubilee.” As in the Jewish Year of Jubilee, which seeks a unique kind of restoration and rest for the land and for our souls. And that word proved to be a fruitful and helpful razor by which Lindsey and I evaluated decisions. It profoundly shaped our approach to several big things, including the selling of our old house.
I’ll admit that “No” feels much less inspiring than “Jubilee.” My hope, though, is that by having a “No” ready on my lips, that it frees us to say “Yes” to the things that we really want, that will really set us free. “No” is a defense against the weight and overwhelm and crowding that threaten our hearts and calendars.
As I was praying for clarity on a word for 2024, I came across this quote from James Clear: “A simple filter for managing time: you’re not focused enough unless you’re mourning some of the things you’re saying no to.”
Through prayer, conversations with Lindsey, and quotes like that, I felt increasingly sure that 2024 ought to be the Year of No. So, naturally, I said “Yes” to coaching my son’s fourth-grade city rec basketball team at the beginning of January. To be honest, the year has, for various reasons, started full and heavy and hard. It does not feel like a “No” year so far. And that has contributed in significant ways to my lack of posts or writing since December. I’ve been saying “No” to writing, too.
Saying “No” is hard. Trying to live out “No” is maybe harder. Especially when it’s not “No” for the sake of “No.” It’s “No” for a greater “Yes.” The promises of God are “Yes” in Jesus Christ (2 Corinthians 1:20). He is for his children and desires to give them good things—namely, more of himself. Heading into a year of “No” would feel merciless without this ultimate, lasting hope and comfort. I am eager to see where the Lord shows up with “Yes”-es in 2024.
Which brings me to today. Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent—the 40 days (not counting Sundays) leading to Easter. Lent is usually seen as a big, giant “NO.” It is the most prominent (infamous?) fast in the church calendar’s cycle of fasting and feasting. Traditionally, Ash Wednesday is a day of somber hope, one in which we are encouraged to consider our mortality, to number our days (Psalm 90), and to reflect on the grace available in Jesus, who conquered and trampled down death by his death and resurrection. We return to ashes but we don’t stay ashes.
Death, of course, is the ultimate “No.” But resurrection is the more-ultimate “Yes.” This is tremendously good news in a world full of break-your-heart news.
And Lent, broadly speaking, is about saying “NO” (all-caps) to sin, the flesh, and the devil, so that we may have more of the “YES” (all-caps) of Christ and the pleasures forevermore that are at his right hand (Psalm 16). It’s addition by subtraction. It’s a “bright sadness” (as one pastor once put it) that, by the grace and mercy of the Lord, can make us more hungry for the Bread of Life.
So where does that leave me, you, us? At the beginning stages of a journey, I suppose. But I do not know what a “No” year means for my writing. I am trying to plant good seeds in this area of life but am largely uncertain about what God would have me do here. Do I have the capacity for this? The energy? To what end is this serving? What are my goals and intentions?
I find myself asking these questions about other areas of life, as well, not just writing. But I wanted to let you know. You have given me your email and at the very least I can give you an idea of what, if anything, is going on around here.
A poem for Ash Wednesday and the lengthening days
The word for Lent comes from the Old English word “lencten” or “lengten,” which means lengthening or “spring season.” Yet in the handful of years I’ve observed this season, most Ash Wednesdays have been white ones. Either snow on the ground or actively snowing. Colorado in February, you know. To my knowledge, Burl Ives has not recorded a song about dreaming of a white Ash Wednesday.
All that to say, much of my contextual interactions with Ash Wednesday have involved snow, which is maybe counter-intuitive when thinking about the direction of Lent. But God does well with counter-intuitive situations. Here, then, is a poem I penned a couple years ago on a snowy Ash Wednesday. May it be a blessing to you, whether you are actively entering into this season or not.
Psalm 32 / Ash Wednesday
The snow is imposed against our world.
Against the lawns so thirsty
in the winter drought.
Against the trees so bare
with penitence.
Against our hearts so banked.
Against our wills
so scattered and strewn and cold under the purple night.
A white ash, creating in its covering,
promising in its prolonging.
And somewhere in all that dark, mercy sparks dead fires,
a kindness I can’t bring to show myself,
a love always burning,
no matter how long the winter.
