By The Editorial Board
It is a strange thing to watch a sacrifice become a performance.
Every February, as Lent approaches, conversations begin to shift. Hallways turn into confessionals of a different kind. Someone announces they are giving up sugar. Someone else counters with coffee, social media, all forms of entertainment. Soon enough, what was meant to be a season of quiet repentance sounds more like a leaderboard. The question is no longer why we sacrifice, but how impressive the sacrifice appears.
Lent was never designed to be a competition. Yet increasingly, it feels like one.
The Christian tradition, particularly within communities shaped by both Baptist and Catholic influence, treats Lent as a period of preparation — a 40-day journey toward the cross. It is meant to mirror the 40 days Christ spent in the wilderness, fasting and resisting temptation. The purpose is not deprivation for its own sake but reorientation. We empty ourselves so that God, not comfort, becomes central again.
But the structure has begun to eclipse the substance.
It is not uncommon to hear someone say, half-laughing, that they didn’t even last a week. The remark is meant to be humorous, but it reveals something deeper. Failure in Lent has become social embarrassment rather than spiritual reflection. Success has become a badge of religious credibility. The language of repentance has been replaced by the language of achievement.
This shift should make us uncomfortable.
When practices of faith become external markers, they risk drifting toward legalism. The problem is not the discipline itself. Discipline is good. The problem arises when the visible act becomes the goal. Christ’s warnings in the Gospel of Matthew about public displays of fasting were not abstract. He cautioned against those who disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting. The issue was not that they fasted, but that their audience had changed. God had been replaced by the crowd.
In the Gospel of Matthew 6:16-18, Jesus says, “When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”
The emphasis is not merely on fasting, but on secrecy, audience and motive.
In a school environment like Baylor, where faith is already visible and communal, this temptation multiplies. When everyone around you is sacrificing something, the pressure to keep up can quietly transform Lent from devotion into comparison. Instead of asking, “What is drawing me away from God?” we begin asking, “What will look impressive to others?”
Christians share a concern about hollow religiosity. Reformers like Martin Luther warned against practices that became detached from inward transformation. Though Christians disagree about many things, there is broad agreement on this: external performance without interior renewal is spiritually dangerous.
The deeper question, then, is not whether Lent has value. It does. The question is whether our posture has changed.
When Lent becomes a scoreboard, it loses its power as a season. Instead of confronting sin, we curate it. Instead of humility, we cultivate pride. Instead of repentance, we boast our supposed self-control. The danger is subtle because it wears the language of faith. We can look disciplined while remaining unchanged.
True sacrifice is often invisible. It may not be impressive or noticeable. It might mean giving up bitterness, resentment or the need to be right. It might mean being intentional with your time to practice forgiveness, generosity or silence. These sacrifices are unlikely to result in good conversations or admiration. Rather, they are often the ones that reorder the heart.
Perhaps the most honest question we can ask this Lenten season is not “What am I giving up?” but “Who am I becoming?”
Lent is not a stage; it is a wilderness. Wildernesses are meant to be endured, not observed.
If we want this season to matter, we must resist the urge to compare. Stop announcing your sacrifices. Stop evaluating others. Choose disciplines that confront your own weaknesses rather than impress your friends. Pray in secret. Fast without broadcasting it. Let God, not the hallway, be the audience.
