Soli Deo Gloria

To borrow a phrase from a popular musical, during the Lenten season we seek after ways to see God more clearly, love God more dearly, and follow God more nearly. For many of us, this results in a kind of "discipleship by novelty." We try to deepen our faith experience by doing something different--at least until we safely arrive at the expiration date we call Easter.

Some of us give things up. Some of us take things on. Some of us pray every morning. Some of us read the Bible every evening. Some of us seize upon this time as an opportunity to eat or drink less, as if Lent existed to offer a second chance to fulfill our New Year's resolutions.

All joking aside, I appreciate that these sorts of practices are spiritually meaningful for many people. Indeed, for as long as I can remember I have adopted them myself during Lent. They have their place in our life of faith--even a potentially important place.

But I was reminded of something the other day that prompted me to wonder whether Lent might be an appropriate occasion for another, different kind of project as well.

I was listening to a collection of wonderful, recorded lectures that I own on the life and music of Johann Sebastian Bach. The lecturer reminded me that Bach wrote the letters "SDG" at the beginning and end of all of his church compositions and some of his secular ones. (Handel apparently did this as well from time to time.) Those letters signify the Latin phrase "Soli Deo Gloria"--the glory to God alone.

Now, I had heard this story on a number of previous occasions, but it took on a different meaning in the context of a close study of Bach's life. After all, Bach is one of those monumental figures who seem distant and alien to the vagaries of everyday existence. But, of course, Bach was human--indeed, very human--and so struggled with all the same things we do: how to pay the bills; how to care for his family; how to deal with the illness and death of loved ones; how to find a way through the world.

And this repeated, insistent dedication of his music to the glory of God alone was not some sort of quaint compositional tic. To the contrary, this was an act of profound personal significance. This was an offering--to God--of the part of his life that defined him, that he embraced above all others, that was the focus of his greatest passion and energy.

In this spirit, the introspective season of Lent might be a good time for all of us to ask ourselves a few questions:

What is that part of us?

What would it mean to offer that part of us to the glory of God alone?

How would it change things--how might it change everything--if we were willing to do so for more than forty days?

SDG