Walking through an extended Lenten Wilderness

It’s easy to do Lent when the world order feels secure. When you think tomorrow is going to be much like today, that the world is stable, if not perfect, it’s easy to dabble in rituals that take you to the shadowy corners of the mind and soul. But when shaken by a constant onslaught of ominous news, pointing to a future that will up-end any sense of security you’ve know – Lent just seems like a bad idea. I’m not seeing the value in entering any wilderness, even a metaphorical one. I’m not sure how fasting and prayer can feed us just now? Wouldn’t a hearty bowl of soup and a hug be more satisfying?

It's hard to stand the ground of any sort of Christianity that purports to be about radical

love. Christian nationalism has coopted the way of Jesus into some perverse form of exclusionary, politically-driven ideology that prioritizes power over compassion, nationalism over neighbourliness, and dominance over humility. Maybe the wilderness could be a good escape but how can it help us out of this mess?

Most days I stop myself from lashing out, on social media, against those who live by this perverse interpretation of the gospel. I remember that I can’t use the tools of hate to grow love. Sometimes I wonder about how it came to be this way. I think about all those who feel left behind as money is increasingly clenched in the fists of a greedy few. I look for the humanity behind the other side. Then I swing back to that place of needing to do something as our collective sense of security crumbles. I wonder if my love-based version of Christian and its accompanying rituals are strong enough to make any difference.

It’s Ash Wednesday, the threshold into the wilderness of the forty days of Lent. I’ve placed a lot of ashes on foreheads over the years. The first year I offered “drive through” Ash Wednesday, a dad and his school age children rode through on their bikes. The children

looked up at me wide eyed as I smeared their foreheads. Locking eyes with the twelve-year-old, my gaze was a promise that I would not forget the interconnection of our futures. His eyes seemed to say, “you see me!”

There was the time I thought “walk by Ash Wednesday” was a good idea on a minus 20-degree day. Uptake was slow. One woman walked by only to turn around, “Can I have ashes? I’ve never done it.” The blessing of dust on her forehead brought a release of gentle tears. She felt blessed, she felt seen.

Those were powerful moments, for those ash-ed and for me. But it all feels different now, like the fractures in our communities have been exposed, like there is no going back, like there is no way out of the polarization. And then I remember, the power of locking eyes with someone in that moment when they feel seen. It’s powerful, it ripples out from the two, it spreads. It’s hard to hate someone who sees you.

Rituals ground us, feed us, connect us. Whether it’s birthday parties, or family dinners, funerals or a prayer before bed, each time we return to a ritual we’re different than last time. The familiar movements of it draw us back to all the times it’s fed us in the past. We’re drawn into a centre larger than ourselves and deeper than this moment. Rituals connect us, they take the broken bits of our reality and pull them together. They’re not an escape so much as an opening. Maybe too, they help us to step back out there, grounded and seen.

The amount of uncertainty we face is huge. Responses will be varied. The right way forward certainly won’t be crystal clear. I’m never sure if I’m doing enough. Maybe you can relate. We don’t need to enter the wilderness this Lent, we’re already in it, no choice but to walk through. I’m going to lean into the rituals that have reliably fed my soul to this point. And I’m going to remember the countless times I’ve locked eyes, even for a moment, and known that I’m seen.