The season of Lent is when I’m able to embrace Jesus as my brother perhaps more than at any other time in the liturgical year. I enter into the wilderness with Jesus. I withdraw from numbing distractions and the busyness of the present. I do my best to sacrifice, meditate and pray, allowing the protective barriers between my sensitive spirit and the complexity and conflict of contemporary life to come down.
In the wilderness with Jesus, my brother and I can hold each other and truly experience our fear, grief, even rage. We can weep and holler and let our weakness and exhaustion show in these sacred and vulnerable 40 days. Through it all, we can choose to cling to God over the devil’s enticement. To have this time with Jesus each year and, even more so, to accompany my parishioners on this journey has been a profound and humbling honor.
And then it was Lent for two years.
In pandemic America, we’ve been forced into long periods of stillness, refraining from celebration, and we’ve practiced our spiritual disciplines in solitude, without the pomp and joy of gathered community. Many of us have been left raw with grief over lost loved ones, abuse of power and a variety of injustices against society’s most vulnerable.
This Lent will be about centering contemplation, realization and practical coping mechanisms that cultivate resilience and hope.
A short sojourn into the shadowy womb of rebirth has turned into full-scale chronic stress, and the breaking open of a Lenten season has morphed into trauma, burnout and compassion fatigue. As a pastor, I remain dedicated to, inspired by and passionate about my call. As a human, I’ve sacrificed countless hours upon the escapist altar of Netflix, my short-term memory is virtually nonexistent and I’ve had to limit my news consumption to no more than two hours per week or risk mental peril.
A social work case manager before I became a pastor, I recognize the symptoms of trauma even as I experience them: poor concentration, trouble sleeping, irritability, intrusive memories, guilt over just about everything. Does any of that sound familiar?
As Lent nears, I’m convinced I need to approach it not just as a reverend but as a trauma-informed pastoral caregiver—acknowledging circumstances in a matter-of-fact way that is grounded in listening and reflecting on the realities of my people. Ultimately, this Lent will be about centering contemplation, realization and practical coping mechanisms that cultivate resilience and hope.
Prioritizing safety and empowerment
The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) defines trauma-informed care as a “strengths-based service delivery approach that is grounded in an understanding of and responsiveness to the impact of trauma; that emphasizes physical, psychological, and emotional safety for both providers and survivors . . . to rebuild a sense of control and empowerment.”
That means a trauma-informed congregation has leadership that knows about the symptoms of long-term stress and trauma. The congregation is able to name and lean into its strengths to create an environment that prioritizes participants’ safety and empowerment—in body, mind and spirit.
Our church comprises many styles of worship and liturgical observance. What might trauma-informed Lenten observance look like?
It might mean physical practices. Midweek labyrinth walks, meditation trail hikes with small groups, breath prayers before Bible study—anything that brings us back to our sacred-temple bodies in this here and now, slowing our heart rate and improving focus and concentration. It might mean increased repetition of worship direction or explaining in the bulletin things that have traditionally been implied. (“Stand” could be rephrased as “Please stand if you are comfortable doing so,” or “Let us bow our heads in prayer” as “I invite you to assume a position of prayer.”)
Adapting to a trauma-informed perspective is less a specific set of behaviors than a lens through which we can experience Christ with greater clarity.
In our trauma-informed Lenten observances, we need not shy away from the contemplative actions of the season. Instead we must curate spaces for spiritual disciplines to occur.
How are we protecting and supporting anxious and hyper-vigilant individuals with practices that regulate their nervous systems before they enter challenging arenas? How are we building supportive and connected relationships to nurture each other in vulnerable spaces? Are we offering comprehensive narratives and accessible themes that provide coherent structure to easily distracted or disoriented brains? Are we allowing essential choices that empower individuals rather than implying the need for strict adherence to a behavior that could trigger a trauma response?
Adapting to a trauma-informed perspective is less a specific set of behaviors than a lens through which we can experience Christ with greater clarity.
May your leadership and communication, your planning and your environment—in whatever context they might exist—heal and strengthen you, and those who travel with you, this Lent. May Jesus, your friend, hold you in compassionate understanding.
