In many ways, this is the very essence of sin; this is what, in a certain sense, all of us do. We make ourselves into God, which is to say, the center of the universe. We really believe that everything revolves around us and our needs, fears, and expectations. Everything ought to serve us.

But one message at the heart of the Christian faith is this: your life is not about you. It is about God and God’s purposes for your life. And so Jesus affirmed: “You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test.” God tests people all the time in the Bible, but he himself should never be tested.

A good Lenten question to ask is this: Are you the center of attention? Do you allow God to test you?

Thomas Merton once commented that the needs of the body–food, drink, sleep, and sex–are like insistent children that demand to have their way. Just as children have to be disciplined lest they come to dominate the household, so the desires of the flesh have to be curtailed lest they come to monopolize all of our energies. Merton said that we fast from time to time precisely to allow the deeper spiritual hungers to surface and be satisfied. The use of bodily discipline is thus a vivid reminder to oneself that the pleasure of the body is not one’s determining and ultimate good.

This is not unique to Catholicism. Stop and consider for a moment the activities that go on every day in the typical gym. People labor away on stationary bikes, elliptical machines, and treadmills; they sweat their way through pull-ups, push-ups, and deadlifts. In all sorts of ways, they discipline their bodies so as to overcome the natural tendency toward laziness and self-indulgence. More to it, these same people most likely deny themselves all sorts of pleasurable foods, resisting cravings.

All of this punishment is in service of a healthier body. Why can’t we apply similar techniques to produce healthier minds and spirits?

Today, discipline your body in some small way. Maybe give up snacking between meals, only drink room-temperature water, or pray an entire rosary while walking. These simple bodily disciplines will undoubtedly strengthen your soul.

During Lent, we must consciously take the time to raise our hearts and minds to God. We seek communion with God through friendship and conversation. But how do we do this in our busy lives?

One thing I often recommend is praying in the car (or in the subway, bus, train, etc.) For those of us distracted by a thousand things, and who are constantly on the move, the car can be a bit like a monastic cell. It encloses you within a quiet, meditative space conducive to prayer. Also, as an added bonus, when you treat your car as a monastery, traffic becomes a welcome opportunity for more prayer and silence, rather than a cause of frustration.

Now, I understand this will be easier for some than others. For example, mothers of young children may have a difficult time cultivating a quiet space. But to the extent that you’re able, consider turning off the radio today. Put away your phone. Use your travel time to raise your mind and heart to God.

Maybe you pray the Rosary, or perhaps you converse with God about your day. But whatever you decide, take the time. Turn your car into a monastery.

Paul encountered the risen Jesus Christ, and in light of that knowledge, everything else in his life seemed like rubbish, like a total loss. Paul became elevated to a new life, a new vision, a new pitch of existence. All his accomplishments and the great things he inherited seemed like nothing compared to this life that was opened to him in the resurrection from the dead.

What does the Resurrection mean? It means the elevation of this life to a new pitch, a new perfection, a new beauty that we can’t even imagine.

Imagine a fish who spent his entire life under the sea, and then is hooked by a fisherman. He’s pulled up out of the water and for one moment he glimpses this world of light and color that he had never imagined possible. Then he wriggles off the hook and falls back into the water.

“I saw that world up there,” he would tell his fish friends, “which I never knew existed! Yet now, compared to that, this ordinary world seems like nothing to me.”

That’s what Paul is communicating to the Philippians in his letter. And that’s the new vision, the new pitch of existence, we’re moving toward this season of Lent.

The problem is that the vast majority of us live in the “ego-drama.” We think we are the directors, writers, and above all, stars of our own dramas. We’re convinced the cosmos provides a pleasing backdrop to our own performance. Other people function as either our supporting players or our villains, against whom we shine all the brighter.

The ego-drama is on display in a wonderful scene in Robert Bolt’s A Man For All Seasons. Richard Rich, a promising and ambitious young man, petitions the saintly Thomas More for a position among the glitterati at the court of Henry VIII. But disappointingly for Rich, More offers him a position, not as a courtier, but as a simple teacher.

The young man is crestfallen, and More tries to cheer him up: “You’d be a good teacher.” But Rich fires back: “And if I were, who would know it?” The patient More explains: “Yourself, your friends, your pupils, God–pretty good public, that!”

What More assumes is the profoundly spiritual truth that the only audience worth playing for is the divine audience, and the only drama worth acting in–even in the smallest role–is God’s.

Rich wants a starring role, but More reminds him that it profits him nothing to play even the biggest part in the ego-drama if he misses his role in the theo-drama. The key is finding the role that God has designed for you, even if it looks like a bit part. And when you find that pearl of great price, you must sell everything else and buy it.

Han Urs von Balthasar said that what you see on the Cross is the greatest act of love, because the Father, out of love, sent the Son all the way into our human condition-but then, even more, he sent him into God-forsakenness. Jesus went to sinners, the sick, the marginalized, but then even further than that.

In the most dramatic way possible, Jesus ventured into what frightens us the most: death. As St. Paul says, “He accepted death, even death on a cross,” which for someone of that time, and maybe of any time, was the most brutal way to be killed.

So the Father sent the Son all the way out into the furthest limits of God-forsakenness, but why? To usher into those places the divine light. Is death a place that God is not? No, because God is present there in Jesus. Is suffering a place that God is not? No, because the Son entered into suffering. Is sin a place where God is not? No, because God became sin on the Cross, says Paul.

Through Jesus, the divine light journeys into our worst darkness. His aim is to divinize us, to allow us to “share his divine nature” in St. Peter’s words, even in those dark places and conditions. Sin is a turning away from the divine life, and death is a fearful place that seems alien to God. But Jesus invades all those places, and thereby illumines them. He offers us new life even when we’ve wandered as far as we possibly can from God.

In that sense, the Cross was necessary for our salvation since it allowed the Hound of Heaven to hunt us down, even in the darkest places.

By noting “the time of fulfillment,” Jesus is referring to something humans have been longing for, hoping to see arrive. It’s as if he’s saying, “The privileged time is here.” These words provide a sort of wake-up call, a warning bell in the night. They’re similar to what worshipers hear repeatedly in the Byzantine liturgy: “Be attentive! Let us be attentive!”

But how should we be attentive? Jesus is eminently clear: “Reform your lives and believe in the Good News.” The Greek word for “reform” is metanoiete, a term derived from two words, meta (beyond) and nous (mind). Thus in its most basic form it means something like “go beyond the mind that you have.”

Jesus is commanding a change that takes place at a an elemental and all-embracing level of one’s being. He’s telling his listeners to change the way they see, the way they think, the way they imagine.

Change your attitude. Change your perspective. Change your angle, your mode of vision.

The new state of affairs has arrived, but you are not going to see it unless you change. Today, go beyond your mind and see through the eyes of Christ.

How do we signal that public use? We give alms. Lent is the perfect time to survey our material possessions, which often results in realizing we have too many, and then give some away.

There are many practical ways to do it. For example, during Lent, whenever you get a letter in the mail from some reputable organization asking for money, give them something. Now I know you’re probably on every mailing list in the entire world, and maybe you only give $1 or $5 to each request. But decide that over the next six weeks, whenever a respected person or group asks you for money, you give them something. This is a tangible way to follow Jesus’ command from the Gospel of Matthew: “Give to everyone who asks you” (Mt 5:42).

Here’s a similar idea: whenever you see a homeless person or beggar asking for help, give them something. Don’t ask questions, don’t weigh the pros and cons, just give them something. It doesn’t have to be money, in case you’re worried about enabling an addiction–you could give them gift cards, bottles of water, or bus tickets. But give them something.

One final suggestion: this Lent, whenever you buy something–whether a big purchase like a car or television, or a smaller purchase at a restaurant–choose the option you like best and can afford, and then buy the next cheapest alternative. Take the difference and give it to the poor.

Commit yourself to these simple but challenging choices, and you’ll discover concrete ways to give alms throughout Lent.