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Today is Ash Wednesday, the official beginning of Lent. The Episcopal service includes these words from Psalm 51: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”<figure id="figure-oeq16ouyxbmlsot97g"><img id="oeq16ouyxbmlsot97g" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/5XsI132lHaEWGnZD6yC9zJJJvNO0N2c9hR74OxXfdABTcvXcVElzUwhKL2sNyOfc.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/5XsI132lHaEWGnZD6yC9zJJJvNO0N2c9hR74OxXfdABTcvXcVElzUwhKL2sNyOfc.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: center center;"></figure>The photo shows a detail of a bed quilt I made for a friend many years ago. It’s been so well loved and used, she brought it back recently for a refresh. That’s what our hearts need too. Even the best of hearts—those that have loved well and been used in all the right ways—need a periodic refresh. Hence Lent. Which doesn’t have to be dreadful and dreary. Just think of it as a heart-and-spirit refresh.I love these words so much that every morning during Lent, I pray them as I get dressed: “Create in us clean hearts, O God, and renew a right spirit within us.” You may have noticed that "me" became "us." I’m praying for you too. Because we're in this together.

Clean Hearts

Christianity tends to equate darkness with evil, and that perilous equation causes harm, especially to those whose skin is dark. This way of thinking may have stemmed from humanity’s natural fear of the dark, or the tendency of evildoers to work under cover of darkness. I’d like to say that only those with a dualistic mindset fall into this trap, but sadly, that’s most of us. I suspect the same is true for the other Abrahamic religions, which also tend to dualism.&nbsp;Nobody I know would say (or think) that the color of a person’s skin denotes their spiritual health. But images and metaphors, especially religious ones, wield power. Imagine a Black kid in church hearing the priest read exhortations to “cast away the works of darkness” and “drive away all darkness.” Or having to sing a hymn with the refrain, “In Him there is no darkness at all.”&nbsp;At our church’s Easter Vigil last year, I was the storyteller for the Creation story, and I decided it was time to give darkness a little love. So I gave it equal billing with light and pronounced both “good.” Think about it. Think about dark, fertile soil for growing crops. Think about the darkness of a womb where new life grows. The subconscious where inspiration bubbles up. The darkness of rest, recovery, sleep, dreaming, healing. The darkness of mystery, invitation, waiting, anticipation. The darkness of the shadow of God’s wings where we are safe. The rich darkness of hidden beauty, simple kindness, enduring love.The season of Advent begins soon for those in liturgical churches. And the prayer for the first Sunday in Advent starts like this: "Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light.” But shouldn’t it really go something more like this? “Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works that grieve you, and take up your work of love.”

Darkness and Light

Old opened book, heart shaped paper sheets, dark background with stars toned vintage selective focus

She intimidated me. Here was this smart, well-read, outspoken woman who’d been an Episcopalian longer than I’d been alive, and we had signed up for the same EFM (Education for Ministry) group. I was in way over my head.&nbsp;But that was just me being cowhearted. Because Sue—that’s her name—has this wonderfully dry sense of humor, insatiable curiosity, and wide open mind regarding who God loves (everyone) and what God thinks (we Christians don’t have all the answers). And going through four years of EFM with her was both delightful and life-changing.In the almost thirty years since then, we’ve continued to be part of each other’s lives. So when I began writing my YA series about a teen named Claire and her adventures in Saudi Arabia and Switzerland, Sue not only supported my efforts but became a Claire evangelist, writing online reviews and spreading the word (and paperback copies!) at her church. She’s one of Claire’s biggest fans.Then two nights ago, I received this email message from Sue:I hope all is going well with Claire in Switzerland &amp; her new book. I need to let you know that I am unexpectedly on Hospice care due to a lung tumor. &nbsp;'One Day at a Time' &amp; give thanks for each one. This is a time of happy memories and I have many. Cheers! &nbsp;-- SueThat’s Sue. I’m still editing the ‘Claire in Switzerland’ book (Lord of All Hopefulness: Waking), with publication a few months away. I’ll print it out as-is and bring it to her, if she’s still with us. And sit with her, because I’m one of her biggest fans.&nbsp;

Biggest Fan

I confess that I’ve rarely done anything resembling a protest. Introverted and quiet, I find excuses to leave that sort of thing to others. But lately (you knew there’d be a “but,” didn’t you?), my excuses feel threadbare. On the first big day of protests since Trump took office in January 2025, I took part in a day of prayer instead. It seemed a better fit and possibly more effective, considering what we’re dealing with. For the “No Kings” day of protests, though, I decided to make a sign and show up.I and hundreds of others showed up in a small town to line the streets that day and wave at everyone who drove by. Reactions from motorists were mixed. Many honked and waved back or gave us a thumbs-up. Some even regaled us with their own cheeky signs. A few kept their eyes on the road and ignored us. When a red light would strand them in front of us for a minute or so, I would take pity on those and look away to give them respite.&nbsp;After a while, I noticed that my enthusiasm to convey the message on my sign waned. Instead, I longed to just send love to the people in each car that passed. I wanted them to feel a little less afraid. A little more hopeful. A little less alone. Because the damage caused by cruelty, even if the cruelty isn’t experienced personally (because, of course, we’re all connected), is real, and it attacks our minds, bodies, and spirits.&nbsp;Love. It’s what I wish I’d put on my sign. It’s what my heart reached out with. It’s what I offer up every evening when I hold you in prayer.

No Kings

Woman looking up into the sky and thinking about her future.

As I confessed in an earlier post, I began life as a heathen. Well, so do most kids, but my parents didn’t remedy it by introducing me to any sort of religion or good literature. When we moved to Saudi Arabia soon after I turned twelve, however, I witnessed Muslims stopping whatever they were doing five times a day to prostrate themselves in prayer. That got my attention. What was the big deal?&nbsp;I was intrigued but not tempted to become a Muslim—I didn’t want to have to wear a veil (I didn’t know then that much of what the women there endured was due to patriarchal dominance and had little to do with the truth and beauty of Islam). My choices were limited, though, as it’s against the law in Saudi Arabia to practice any religion other than Islam. And then it dawned on me—Christianity, which felt like background noise in the States, was forbidden and dangerous here. My teen self found this irresistible. Becoming a Christian would be the perfect act of rebellion.There was just one problem. I knew nothing about it. Knew nothing about God. Here was this BIG DEAL, and I was on the outside looking in. I couldn’t exactly sneak down to the corner church since there weren’t any. Like Claire in my YA <a data-mce-href="https://alisonvogel.com/beloved-daughter-book-series" href="https://alisonvogel.com/beloved-daughter-book-series" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-selected="inline-boundary">Beloved Daughter series</a>, all I had were stairs to the roof and a wide open sky. From my roof, I could hear the muezzin from the local mosque calling the faithful to prayer. Calling, chanting, taunting me with words I didn’t understand. I would stand there listening, yearning for something beyond myself that I couldn’t describe or contain.&nbsp;I wanted in.

A big deal (and the lure of something forbidden)

Not raised in any faith tradition, I converted to Christianity as an adult, drawn to it, in part, by the writings of C.S. Lewis. Turns out he didn’t start out life as a Christian, either, but was drawn to it, in part, by the writings of George MacDonald. When Lewis later converted to Christianity, he described MacDonald’s book Phantastes as having baptized his imagination. So it was with me—reading their novels had a similar effect on my imagination, as did the novels of Madeleine L’Engle, Dorothy Sayers, and Ellis Peters. Those authors inspired me with the desire to write stories that baptize the imagination of future generations.&nbsp;But how? How did they achieve that effect?&nbsp;Kerry Dearborn wrote an article in 2004 titled <a data-mce-href="https://ifl.web.baylor.edu/sites/g/files/ecbvkj771/files/2023-02/inklingsarticledearborn.pdf" href="https://ifl.web.baylor.edu/sites/g/files/ecbvkj771/files/2023-02/inklingsarticledearborn.pdf" title="link to Baptized Imagination article" target="_blank" rel="noopener">“The Baptized Imagination”</a> in which she identifies three ways fantasy stories can transform the way we see reality. They provide a glimpse of (1) God’s true glory, (2) the goodness at the heart of all things, and (3) our abiding connection to creation and one another. Stories rooted in a baptized imagination do all three things. Stories that are pure escapism may leave us feeling disconnected. Those rooted in a twisted imagination just leave us feeling like we need a bath.&nbsp;Sounds like a baptized imagination is both subversive and contagious. Important, too, because it guides us to keep choosing love. Every day. Every moment. And love is the ultimate resistance to those who seek to divide, dominate, and diminish us.