The Natural Order of Grace

Ivan Kramskoi, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Crazy to think that Ash Wednesday 2026 is already behind us.

As we bearers of the Good News attempt to enter into Lent and detach a bit from our chaotic lives, it’s important to remember something simple but profound: there is a methodical order to our reality. Different processes, gradually unfolding, in their proper time. That’s how God made it:

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
Ecclesiastes 3:1

However, we can become so accustomed to the day-in, day-out rhythm of work, family, sleep, repeat, that we forget life is more than reacting to whatever is in front of us. Emails, notifications, obligations, responsibilities … they keep us moving, but not always growing. Without noticing, we drift into survival mode. We begin measuring fruitfulness by productivity instead of depth.

Lent interrupts that pattern.

When we intentionally pull away from routine, slow down, and step into the quiet stillness of the desert, something begins to reset within us. We stop living on autopilot. We become aware again. And in that awareness, we begin to grow back into the people we were meant to be. Sons and daughters first, missionaries second.

Consider how many good things develop slowly over time. Children spend their formative years close to their parents, learning, maturing, and receiving love before stepping into school, friendships, relationships, and eventually a career. Identity is formed before mission is embraced. Dependence precedes responsibility.

Maybe some of you golf. You didn’t begin on the most challenging private course in the region. You started at the driving range, working on your swing. Then came the easier public courses. Only over time, with patience, repetition, and more than a few frustrating shots, did you grow into the golfer you are today. Skill is formed in obscurity long before it is tested under pressure.

Or think of birdwatching. At first, it takes effort. You set up feeders. You buy a field guide. Maybe even a pair of binoculars. You learn to notice subtle differences in coloring and song, to distinguish one species from another. You pause. You listen. You pay attention. What once seemed like a blur becomes distinct and beautiful. The trained eye sees what the hurried eye misses.

As Chesterton once said, “Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.” That is true, but it is also worth doing slowly … in hiddenness, with repetition, with patience, even with struggle. Growth rarely announces itself dramatically. It unfolds quietly.

This is the pattern Jesus Himself followed.

The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. And he was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels ministered to him.
Mark 1:12–13

Before a single sermon was preached or a single miracle performed, He went into the desert. The Son of God did not rush into public ministry. He embraced hiddenness. He allowed the Father to strengthen Him in solitude.

And the temptations He faced were not random. They struck at the heart of His mission. Turn stones into bread … use power for self. Throw yourself from the Temple … perform for applause. Bow down and receive the kingdoms … grasp glory without the Cross. Each temptation offered a shortcut.

Jesus refused the shortcut.

Only after the enemy was rebuked and the angels ministered to Him did He emerge proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” The desert was not a delay. It was preparation. It clarified His mission and fortified His obedience.

The same is true for us. We enter silence so we can hear God’s voice.

And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.
1 Kings 19:12

The still small voice requires attentiveness. It requires stillness. It requires that we not be drowning in noise.

How can we evangelize others if we are not first deeply connected to God and attentive to His heart, His timing, His desires? Without that intimacy, our efforts may be busy, but they will not be deeply fruitful. We may speak, but without the resonance that comes from having first listened.

Many of us drift in the busyness of life. We grow distracted. We explain away our initial fervor. The fire cools slowly, almost imperceptibly. That is why we need Lent.

These forty days are not a punishment; they are a gift. An invitation to begin again. An opportunity to let the Father recalibrate our hearts. Through prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, we loosen our grip on lesser things. We detach from what dulls us. We make room for grace.

Fasting exposes attachments. Silence reveals interior noise. Generosity softens self-centeredness. The desert does not weaken us; it strengthens us by showing us where we truly stand.

And this strengthening is not for ourselves alone.

When Jesus left the desert, He began a mission that would change the world. He called disciples. He healed the sick. He preached the Kingdom. The hidden years and the forty days were not wasted time. They were the foundation.

So, this Lent, let us follow Jesus into the desert. Let us embrace quiet, contemplation, and even the strengthening that comes through temptation resisted. Let us fast from what numbs us and lean heavily on God. Before we attempt to be evangelists, let us rediscover what it means to be sons and daughters.

Then, when Easter comes, we will not simply celebrate the Resurrection. We will be renewed. Sharper. Clearer. Stronger. More rooted. And from that rootedness, our proclamation will carry weight.

The desert is not the destination. It is the training ground. It clarifies. It strengthens. It prepares us for the mission ahead.

That is the natural order of grace.