Septuagesima

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer. Lord, give us eyes to see and ears to hear, that we may learn Your Word together as a family. We give You all praise and honor and glory, in Jesus’ holy Name. Amen.

Good morning, my fellow Encouragers.

Today, we stand at the doorway of a new season. Septuagesima marks the beginning of Pre-Lent—not Lent itself, but the Church’s quiet turning of the shoulders toward it. The light of Epiphany has not gone out, but it has softened. The road ahead is coming into view.

Lent will call us to discipline. It will ask for effort, endurance, and perseverance. But throughout the Pre-Lent season, we are reminded that none of those things make sense unless they arise from the right starting point. Discipline without offering becomes anxiety. Effort without surrender becomes comparison. Endurance without grace becomes exhaustion.

The Church understands human nature. Before she tells us to take up discipline, she teaches us why we should do so—and who we are before God.

Before fasting, before striving, before self-examination, the Church invites us to consider what it means to place ourselves—our souls and bodies—into God’s hands.

Lent will ask us to train our lives. Pre-Lent teaches us how to offer them.

Today is not about effort yet. It is about orientation. It is about learning again where our strength comes from, where our help is found, and what it means to belong to God before we attempt to serve Him.

That is why today’s readings feel the way they do. They are not sharp commands; they are steady invitations. They gather around one central act of worship—the self-oblation—which we will soon speak aloud at the altar:

“And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, ourselves, our souls and bodies…”

The Offering Comes Before the Training

Saint Paul, in our Epistle, speaks of running a race. It is a familiar image—and often a misunderstood one. Paul is not describing a frantic sprint for God’s approval. He is describing a life that already knows where it belongs.

A runner does not step onto the track to earn the right to be there. He runs because he is already in the race.

So it is with the Christian life. Paul’s discipline flows from devotion. His restraint grows from a relationship. His effort is shaped by direction rather than pressure.

The race is not about outpacing others; it is about remaining faithful to the course set before us.

That is precisely what the self-oblation names. At the altar, we do not offer God a résumé. We do not offer Him a performance. We offer ourselves—our desires and our limits, our strength and our fatigue—and place them into His hands. We trust Him to shape what we bring.

Only then does training make sense. Only then does effort become faithful rather than anxious. Only then does discipline become an act of love rather than a burden to carry.

Joshua and the Courage of Availability

Our Old Testament reading places us with Joshua, standing at another threshold. Moses is gone. The long wilderness journey lies behind him. The future stands before him—real, promised, and still largely unknown.

God does not overwhelm Joshua with strategy or detail. He gives him something simpler and deeper: a promise to trust and a posture to assume. “Be strong and of a good courage.”

Joshua’s strength doesn’t come from intestinal fortitude—having guts. It comes from his availability. His courage is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to move forward while carrying it. He steps ahead not because he has mastered the terrain, but because he trusts the God who goes before him.

This is self-oblation lived out in motion. Joshua places his leadership, his uncertainty, and his future into God’s keeping—and then he walks where he is sent.

Most Christian obedience looks like this. It is rarely dramatic. It is usually quiet. It consists of faithful steps taken before the whole picture comes into focus, guided by trust rather than certainty.

The Vineyard and the Shape of Grace

Jesus’ parable of the laborers in the vineyard unsettles us because it reveals how the Kingdom of God is ordered by a wisdom different from our own.

The vineyard is the Father’s field. The landowner is God Himself, who calls, sends, sustains, and rewards according to His goodness. From the first hour of the day to the last, the Father continues to go out, seeking laborers for His vineyard.

He does not grow weary of calling. He does not close the gate early. His generosity is not reactive; it is intentional. The vineyard is shaped by His mercy long before the laborers ever arrive.

When evening comes, the foreman is sent to distribute what the Father has promised. Many have long recognized in this figure the quiet presence of the Son—the one who carries out the Father’s will, who gives what has been entrusted to Him, who speaks the final word of welcome.

The wages come through the Son’s hands, just as grace always does.

The struggle in the parable does not arise from the work itself, but from watching others too closely.

Some laborers begin to look sideways instead of upward. Their joy diminishes not because the Father is unjust, but because they have begun to measure rather than trust.

The Father’s generosity does not shrink when it is shared. His mercy does not thin out when it reaches farther than expected. Each laborer receives what is sufficient, what is promised, what is given in love.

This is the posture Pre-Lent gently teaches us.

Before we consider what we will undertake, what we will surrender, or what discipline we will practice, the Church teaches us how to stand within the Father’s vineyard—grateful, attentive, and at peace.

We learn again that grace is not something we manage. It is something we receive.

Learning Where Our Help Comes From

The Psalms appointed for today give voice to what this offering of ourselves feels like from the inside. They teach us how to keep going when faith becomes a matter of endurance rather than excitement.

Psalm 121 lifts our eyes—not away from the race, but toward the horizon that gives it meaning:

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills; from whence cometh my help?”

This is the prayer of someone already running. It is not spoken from a place of rest, but from the road. The runner lifts his eyes not to admire the scenery, but to remember where strength comes from when breath grows short, and the legs begin to tremble.

Psalm 20 joins that movement with a confession learned over time:

“Some put their trust in chariots, and some in horses; but we will remember the Name of the LORD our God.”

Here, the psalm teaches the discipline of focus. A runner cannot watch every other competitor. He cannot measure his pace by the noise around him.

He must keep his eyes fixed on the course set before him. What appears strong or impressive—chariots and horses—may catch the eye, but it cannot give endurance when breath grows thin. Only the Lord is the runner’s help.

This is the interior posture Paul assumes when he speaks of running to obtain the prize. The discipline he describes is not fueled by self-confidence, but by trust. The runner lifts his eyes, fixes his heart, and entrusts his strength to God.

These psalms form us for that kind of life. They teach us how to offer ourselves without anxiety, how to endure without comparison, and how to move forward with steady confidence rooted in God’s faithfulness.

The Collect Tells the Truth About Us

Our Collect today does not smooth-talk us. It tells the truth plainly and without cruelty: we are a people in need of mercy. We stand exposed by our own limits, aware of our frailty, honest about our danger.

And yet the prayer is not heavy with despair. It does not ask that we be defended by our own resolve or rescued by our own improvement. It asks that we be delivered by God’s goodness—for the glory of His Name.

This is the wisdom of Pre-Lent. Before the Church asks us to examine our lives, she teaches us how to speak honestly about them. Before discipline is named, mercy is acknowledged. Before effort is required, grace is confessed.

We do not begin with self-correction. We begin with truth, and we entrust that truth to God.

The Altar Makes It Visible

In a few moments, we will come to the Lord’s Table, and there everything we have heard today takes visible shape.

We will not bring perfect offerings. We will bring real ones.

We will not present a record of achievement. We will present ourselves.

And the God who called us into His vineyard will not count our hours. He will feed us with Himself.

The race continues, but it is sustained by grace.

The road stretches ahead, but we do not walk it alone.

So, on this first Sunday of Pre-Lent, the Church offers us a gift—not a burden to shoulder, but a posture to receive.

Offer yourself.

Trust the One who receives you.

And walk forward in hope.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.