We often think of Ash Wednesday as the threshold of Lent. And in some ways it is. The Cambridge Dictionary defines threshold as the floor of an entrance to a building or room. But, as I mark on my liturgical bracelet each year, the threshold I cross in stepping from Ordinary Time to Lent spans two days: Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday. A threshold like this reminds me of the entrances to the colleges at Oxford, like the one shown here: one threshold, two arched gates.
Shrove Tuesday was traditionally a day of confession, when confessants were shriven by the priest before Lent. Depending on where you are from, you probably know Shrove Tuesday better as Mardi Gras or Pancake Tuesday, both of which seem more to do with food than confession. In fact, what initially sparked my wonder about the liturgical calendar was my inability to reconcile what I knew about Mardi Gras with what I knew of Lent. How did the raucous festivities of Carnival usher in the somber sobriety of Lent? It felt a little like declaring, “Tomorrow I am going to become a minimalist, so today I’m going shopping.” It seemed to offer more a case of spiritual whiplash than progression through a threshold from world to wilderness.
If you’ve listened to my Fieldmoot talk on Gardening and the Liturgical Year, you’ve heard me say that Shrove Tuesday is, perhaps, my favorite day of the entire liturgical year. On my quest to reconcile Mardi Gras and the season of Carnival with Lent, (being the language nerd that I am) I began with the names themselves. Mardi Gras is, of course, French for Fat Tuesday, and Carnival is rooted in the Latin carnis (meat, flesh) and levare (to put away). Lent is a season where people typically fast, or partially fast, from meat in preparation for the feast of Easter. But Carnival comes to us through the Italian from Medieval Latin for Shrovetide. Shrove Tuesday ushered in the season of abstaining from meat, but also for putting off the flesh. Unlike Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday carries about it an air of solemnity. This summer in Vienna I had the privilege of seeing in person the painting below, aptly titled The Fight Between Carnival and Lent. It drew me in with its contrasting figures and mock joust between the meat-wielding Carnival cart and his fish-toting Lenten opponent. The whole scene is packed with contrasting characters, the fat and feasting, the poor and lame, the solemn and penitent. I examine it like a Where’s Waldo picture and wonder: Which am I?
The season, then, is not just for putting off meat, but for putting off the flesh, the stubborn part of myself that declares “My will be done” in disappointing contrast to Christ’s “Thy will be done”. Shrove Tuesday is a day of walking through the gardens of our lives and asking, “What fruit is growing here? What weeds have taken root and threaten to choke out the seeds that were planted by the Gardener? What does the soil need, and what needs to be pulled?” Shrove Tuesday is a day to prepare the soil of our hearts, to ask the Gardener what fruit He’d like to see flourishing, and to discuss together the vision of the garden before the season of preparation that is Lent. How do you know what needs to be pulled if you don’t know what the Gardener wants to grow in the soil?
In my own life, I prefer to find Shrove Tuesday a solemn day of prayer and presence with the Lord, carving out space to listen well. I am a bit like the character above, still clothed in indulgence, sorting out what life looks like bathed in light instead of shadow. For years I have worked in the morning, and spent my afternoon and evening in quiet solitude. This year I find myself on the brink of Shrove Tuesday with a new work schedule, and not only do I lack time carved out for quiet listening, but I have some challenging conversations and meetings and class on my schedule, spanning the bulk of my day. If the weight of these things were all I were holding, it would be one thing. But they are the endcap to a week that has held both incredible beauty and deep disappointment. I found myself pondering returning to a new week and dealing with some of the fallout from last week as I was flying home from a brilliant weekend in Pennsylvania at the Square Halo Books Conference. I tried to name the tangle of emotions I was experiencing and realized they centered on lament.
Having experienced a profoundly beautiful sense of belonging in the company of other Christian creatives, I realized that the more I see beauty, the more I feel the heartache of brokenness. But far from being the hopelessness of depression, this lament is the tension between the already and the not yet. It is the achingly beautiful intensified in glimpsing the chasm between where we are in time and where we are in eternity. Lament is the liminal space of holding in the present both the shadow and the light, both the veil and the reality behind it.
And this is the invitation on Shrove Tuesday, to hold in our hands both the vision of flourishing imagined by the Gardener and the sight of a weed-filled bed that is not yet what it will become. I’ve been mourning a Shrove Tuesday without the space to meet with my High Priest for confession, penance, and absolution, yet I find that as I offer up my day, insufficient as it feels, my open hands not only give but receive. I find that in the midst of a day when I have not held space, my Priest has held space for me and meets me in the moments of my day, in the difficult conversations, in the meetings, in the class, present to my confession, pointing to my penance, and declaring that I am absolved through no work of my own. In the shadows I am given light, and for a moment I glimpse the reality behind the veil.
Pondering: Beauty and Belonging
I wish I knew how to describe what I experienced at the Square Halo Books Conference this weekend. Everything I try to say sounds too superlative for my sensibilities and not superlative enough for my soul. So maybe I will let snippets of what I wrote down during our time speak for now, along with some questions I’m still pondering. These are some of the seeds I feel sprouting roots within me.
From Elissa Yukiko Weichbrodt:
How does being a Christian change how we see the art we don’t like?
Viewing art can be an entry into the Biblical practice of lament.
Art cuts a path for our prayers to follow.
From Malcolm Guite:
The painting always has more to give than the viewer has the capacity to receive.
If you want to wake up the hidden semantic meaning of words, explore the tension of their polarity to watch the field that is formed around them.
Nature has a vested interest in our redemption because she is impacted by our inability to care for her rightly.
I don’t set out to memorize poetry, but I do read poems out loud. And if I love them, I read them more than once.
Poetry’s job is to remind us that the world is not ordinary at all, but is filled with the splendor of God.
From Douglas McKelvey:
I reached a point where I realized I didn’t want to leave this life without leaving behind artifacts that reflect the sorts of things I was made to create, whether or not those ever pay the bills.
When you’re in community you are willing to listen to truths from others you’re not willing to hear from yourself.
From Amy Knorr:
Where is the generosity of God filtering through your life and days right now?
I felt like I was being welcomed to a feast where there is always room for one more chair and having someone pull up a chair and invite me to sit in it, that together we might taste the goodness of the Lord. The Bustards crafted such a hospitable gathering that at no point was I the awkward imposter in the corner. I was just greeted, welcomed, and accepted for who I was, no matter who I was. Leslie’s ability to carry a sense of belonging with her and extend it to whomever she encounters permeated the weekend. It felt like such a beautiful form of hospitality.
A Practice: Visio Divina
Part of my Shrove Tuesday practice this year includes practicing Visio Divina and I invite you to join me with either of the paintings I’ve posted above, or another that you’re drawn to. Visio Divina is an ancient form of Christian prayer in which we allow our hearts and imaginations to enter into a sacred image, in silence, to see what God might have to say to us.
Begin by centering your thoughts and steadying your breath. Close your eyes and ask for God to allow you to see beneath the surface of things.
As you gaze at the image with your eyes and the eyes of your heart, notice your breath and your body.
Simply be present to the image and allow God to speak to your heart, without any particular agenda. You might notice God’s voice in words or wordlessly.
How do you feel looking at the image?
If you had to describe the image in a sentence or two silently to yourself, what would you say?
Where would you find yourself in the image?
Listen for what you are being invited into in this moment. Open yourself to whatever God may be saying to you, and simply receive it without trying to understand, judge, or analyze it.
You may want to hold your hands open, palms up, to reflect the receptive posture of your heart. How does it feel to hold loosely what you are being offered by God?
When you are ready, gently close your eyes and re-center your breath, sinking into stillness, gently bringing the practice to a close when you reopen your eyes.
The purpose of this practice is not to achieve anything or come away with answers. It is simply an invitation to be present with God in the presence of art and to practice listening to His voice. It is a gentle invitation, like walking through your heart’s garden with a trusted friend. Which is, after all, the invitation offered in Shrove Tuesday.