By Saturday of the Third Week of Lent, something slightly embarrassing becomes apparent.
Lent is not moving at the pace we had in mind.
We began, if you recall, with admirable clarity. There were intentions. Possibly colour-coded. There may even have been a notebook. Some of us approached Ash Wednesday as though it were a spiritual fiscal year. “This,” we declared, “shall be the quarter in which noticeable sanctification occurs.”
And yet here we are.
The fig tree is still growing at fig-tree speed.
The temple is tidier, but not immaculate.
The well is deep.
Patience is required.
Forgiveness is complicated.
And Lent, maddeningly, is not in a hurry.
Saturday has a peculiar stillness to it. It is not as solemn as Friday, nor as triumphant as Sunday. It sits in between — reflective, unhurried, quietly observant.
It is the day when you realize that growth cannot be bullied.
There is something profoundly Anglican about this. We are not a sprinting people. We are liturgical walkers. We circle the same prayers. We return to the same psalms. We rehearse the same confession. We trust that repetition is not stagnation but formation.
Lent 3’s Saturday reminds us that the Christian life is not an emergency renovation. It is a long obedience in ordinary time — even when that time is technically purple.
God does not rush fruit.
God does not panic at slow change.
God does not check the calendar and sigh dramatically.
If we are honest, most of our spiritual anxiety comes from comparing our progress to some imaginary standard. Someone, somewhere, is surely doing Lent better than we are. They are calmer. Kinder. More contemplative. Possibly gluten-free.
Meanwhile, we are simply trying to remember what we gave up.
Saturday gently removes the scoreboard.
You are not behind.
You are becoming.
The gardener is still tending. The well is still deep. The road still leads toward Jerusalem — and no one has required you to run.
There is mercy in this.
Growth in God’s kingdom is more like roots than fireworks. It happens beneath the surface. Quietly. Persistently. Often unnoticed until one day fruit appears and you can hardly remember when the soil was turned.
If Lent feels slower than expected, consider the possibility that slowness is part of the grace.
Saturday invites you to rest inside the season, not strive against it.
You are not manufacturing holiness. You are being formed by it.
And that, thankfully, takes time.
Companion Prayer
Unhurried God,
You are never anxious
about our becoming.
When we measure ourselves too quickly,
slow us.
When we compare our growth,
steady us.
Teach us to trust
the quiet work of grace —
rooted, patient, unseen.
Keep us faithful in the middle,
content to grow
at the pace of your love.
Amen.