Lent, Part One

by Mike Riggs

“Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against thee in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. For the sake of thy Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on us, because we’ll probably do it again tomorrow.”

Lent is tough for a teenager. From the pulpit, your pastor encourages you to give until it hurts, reminding the congregation in booming tones that no sacrifice is too small or too noble. After mass he says to you, “Jesus subsisted in the desert for 40 days off pure grace,” his hand resting on your shoulder, light as a cinder block. Inspired (or guilted-you’re never sure which) you commit to giving up masturbation, because it’s one of those things you suspect you shouldn’t be doing in the first place. Also, it’s kind of boring now, which is why you recently started doing it in public restrooms.

After the Ash Wednesday homily you write your promise on a slip of paper and tuck it in your wallet. It will serve as a reminder that with Jesus’ help, you can go a whole month without silently jizzing into your palm every time you eat at Chili’s.

By the end of week one, you are wondering if you should’ve picked something more difficult, because aside from a few easily dismissed late-night cravings, you are unimpressed with the Devil’s efforts at challenging your resolve. “This is not so bad,” you tell a friend from youth group after school. “These 40 days will be up before I know it!”

By the end of week two you are so horny that you feel delusional. You start to fantasize, not about sex — you haven’t had that yet — but about the elasticity of your foreskin, the way that big-ass vein feels under your thumb, your favorite porn lines (“Sniff it, bill collector!”), etc. You are scared to be alone and frequently remind yourself, “This is how temptation works. Pray. Read scripture. Go for a walk. Open your bedroom door.”

By the time week three rolls around, every trip to the bathroom is an all-out fight with Satan, but you are winning, and that feels fantastic. True, you may never look Mrs. Cale in the eye again after she sends you to the board to work out an algebra problem and your erectioin stirs up a cloud of chalk dust, but it is mid-March and you have not fucked yourself, which means you are that much closer to Jesus-and to the end of Lent.

All is going well. The president announces the U.S. invasion of Iraq on national TV. You are at a weekend Jesus Camp, and in your fervor, you find the idea of all those ignorant Muslim heathens dying without knowing Jesus so heart-breaking that you momentarily forget about Lent. “We have to do something,” you say to a huddle of scared teenagers and 20-somethings.

Your youth pastor agrees and calls a prayer meeting.

“This could be it,” he says to you and your high school friends, his light blue eyes stern and wide underneath brambly blond eyebrows.

“This could be what?” someone aks.

“The end times,” he says. “Now let us pray.”

“What?” someone else asks.

“The Rapture,” your pastor says. “The Book of Revelation.”

The air in the common room is thick now with confusion and potential societal breakdown, because what the fuck is “The Rapture”?

“We’re Episcopalians,” you say. Meaning: “We believe in metaphor and symbolism, and thus do not understand you when you say the events in Revelation are actually going to happen.”

Your youth pastor, who it turns out is not actually Episcopalian but a devout fundamentalist, proceeds to explain to you the ‘Left Behind’ series and how most of your families will ‘be left behind’ to live out their final days in a Hell on Earth while you and everyone else at Jesus Camp gets spirited off to Heaven.

After you finish crying, you retreat to your bunk bed and wonder about the Rapture. Will it be quick? What if Jehovah’s Witnesses are right and there’s a cap? Will you get to go? Will your family get to go? Next thing you know you are wondering if the Whore of Babylon will smell like cucumber melon and spearmint gum and cigarettes, like the red-headed girl who sits one pew up during mass. “Stop thinking about that,” you say to yourself. “It could lead to masturbating, and if you masturbate during Lent, Jesus will be disappointed. Also, this may be the Rapture and touching yourself now would probably be a one-way ticket to Hell.”

Then a thought occurs to you: What if there is no Hell? What if this life is all there is? What if this is your last chance to jerk that dick before Saddam drops the bomb?

And then your feet are on the floor and booking it for the shower, where your will hands will work feverishly while your brain imagines doing bad things to the red-headed girl, who, you are pretty sure, has a pierced belly button. A wave of grief washes over you as your knees go weak and your head cracks against the soap dish. A few minutes later you climb back into your bunk feeling ashamed, paranoid that someone will find semen in the shower, and physically amazing all at the same time. You sleep like a baby.

On Easter Sunday two weeks later, the sacrament tastes bitter and you cannot bring yourself to turn your palms up in the air during the communion hymn. You want to let yourself feel better for only faltering once. But after 40 days of insulating yourself from temptation with neutering self-talk, you are now incapable of distinguishing grace from self-loathing. It does not help things when your youth pastor catches up with you after the service and encourages you to maintain your fast until marriage.

After 40 days of meditating and practicing self-restraint, your are now terrified to touch your own genitals. You decide to skip the coffee hour.

Mike Riggs is a big believer in letting it all out. He lives and writes in Washington, D.C.