Even now, says the LORD, return to me with your whole heart, with fasting, and weeping, and mourning; Rend your hearts, not your garments, and return to the LORD, your God.
See, dust has turned its back on dust,
has broken limbs and broken trust—
but will return, as all things must,
for dust comes ever back to dust.
But even now, let dust return;
let arrogance to ashes burn,
the joyous with the grieving mourn,
for all alike to dust return.
The trumpet sound! Proclaim a fast,
the first as hungry as the last.
The hoarded seed now sow broadcast,
for harvest day is coming fast.
Reap it before that sun has set
to feed your foes and pay the debt
for all the pain your sin begets,
and join the feast your Savior set.
For there shall all the last be first
to fill their hunger, sate their thirst.
The best shall sit beside the worst.
For all alike shall Christ be first.
Then come to him: Become the last.
Lay down your pride; begin the fast
before another day has passed,
before the feast begins at last.
The day will come: The bridegroom will be taken.
We lay aside our spotless bridal gown.
The sun has dimmed, and all the earth is shaken;
we lay him out, enfolded in his shroud.
So let us fast, e'en as our hearts are breaking;
so let us weep and mourn our sins aloud.
He will return and bring with him fulfillment;
until he does, the fast before us lies.
The promise lives, but cannot be fulfilled yet,
so day by day the tears escape our eyes.
Our bridegroom knew—he wept for us and still went—
and now we fast and lift our heartrent cries.
So we must rend our hearts instead of garments,
and smash the yoke that weighs our brothers down,
share out our bread, give shelter to the homeless,
untie the ropes that hold our sisters bound.
Then light shall break, and he shall go before us:
The bridegroom comes, and we shall wear his crown!
This Sunday I attended, not my usual ordinary-form Latin rite parish, but a Ukainian Catholic church, celebrating the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom half in English and half in Ukrainian. I’d been to an Eastern liturgy before, so I wasn’t completely lost (although leaving the filioque out of the Creed always makes me giggle–really? We schismed over this?). I was, however, not really ready for Sunday to be Fat Tuesday (in Western terms) or Cheesefare Sunday (in Eastern terms). I was not prepared to hear that Lent/Great Fast would start the next day. I was completely surprised by the Ritual of Forgiveness, about which, more later. And I was struck by the homily, calling us to view the Great Fast not as a preparation for the crucifixion, but for the resurrection. I’d never heard it put like that: Lent is meant to be joyful not because we’re dying, but because we’re rising. With that idea in mind, I wrote this for the tune of “Forty Days and Forty Nights“:
Desert stillness, desert heat,
desert days' unbroken sun:
Flame of love that we will meet,
rising when our fast is done.
Empty workings, empty words:
Lay them on the barren ground.
So unburdened, fly as birds
straight to where our grace is found.
Though your steps may weary be,
journey on by strength divine.
Hunger shows our deepest need,
leads to saving bread and wine.
Come, then, to the desert road;
come, embrace the heat of love.
Burn away the heavy load,
free one day to soar above.
Dying to be paschal-born,
oh! what mercy we shall meet
on that resurrection morn,
when our journey is complete!
By Cotton MS Tiberius C VIShow link URLPrintDate3rd quarter of the 11th century-2nd half of the 12th centuryContentLanguage(s): Latin and Old English; Old English gloss (31v–129v); Anglo-Norman French (114r)Dated: 3rd quarter of the 11th century; 2nd half of the 12th century (114r) – British Library, Digitized manuscripts: http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=Cotton_MS_Tiberius_C_VITitlePsalter (“Tiberius Psalter”, imperfect), preceded by computistical texts and tables (2r–7r) and a miniature-cycle of scenes from the Old and New Testaments (7v–16r), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=49863880
Following the liturgy was the Ritual of Forgiveness. I had no idea what to expect when Father announced this; luckily, they passed out sheets with the ritual written on it (in English) for everyone to read their part from. In this ritual, the priests knelt and faced the congregation, asking their forgiveness for anything they–or other priests–have done to harm the people or their faith. The people forgive them and ask forgiveness in their turn for anything they have done to hamper the work of the Church. Then everyone processes up to the priests and exchanges the kiss of peace, as the priests, deacons, and acolytes say to each person, “I forgive you. Forgive me.”
As we sat in the parish hall afterwards eating lunch and chatting with people (What, actual fellowship at a parish? Revolutionary!) my husband remarked that I thought I appreciated the Ritual of Forgiveness. I had to think a moment to find the right words, and then told him, “Yeah, I think I needed that script.” I needed the right words to hear and say in response. I needed priests to ask forgiveness for the actions of priests. I know no church, denomination, or rite is perfect, and none is free from abuse. But maybe the first step in dismantling toxic clericalism is right there in that ritual.
I’d say maybe I should fast from bitterness and anger over church-related things this Lent, so I can make it joyfully to the resurrection, but I doubt my ability to lay those down quite yet. I’ll work on it.
Kate Bluett 