In Lent we remember the 40 days in the wilderness that preceded the ministry of Jesus, and we reflect on our own seasons of wilderness鈥攑ast or present, individual or communal. Of course, the collective realities of wilderness, hunger, and suffering were evident long before we reached Ash Wednesday. Here, Beau Denton (MA in Counseling Psychology, 鈥�17), Content Curator, writes about the Lenten invitation to not shy from those realities鈥攁 reminder of the kind of healing that only comes when we witness and acknowledge each other鈥檚 pain.
The first time I remember seeing people out and about with forehead smudges on Ash Wednesday, I was nearing the end of a brief stint living in Los Angeles after college. I didn鈥檛 even know what it was at first; I discreetly wiped my own forehead to let a woman at the library know she had something on hers. Later I saw it as I passed a bearded man on the sidewalk, again on a barista, then matching smudges on an older couple at the theater. It felt so vulnerable, so naked. They were wearing a mark of repentance for the world to see, which struck me as both brave and desperate.
Though much of my childhood had revolved around church, Lent was not a part of that faith. Like many evangelicals, we wrote off most of the rhythms of the church calendar as empty rituals and religious legalism. We got out of school early on Good Friday and broke out our pastel finest for Easter Sunday, but I remember little talk about Holy Saturday, let alone the larger Lenten movement that starts with the desperation of Ash Wednesday.
I had moved to LA in a fit of restlessness. It was a year after my dad died, and I had come unmoored as I learned that the rhetoric of my faith did not allow much room for anger, doubt, or loss. Death feels all but irrelevant when you think only of the empty tomb. This Lent-less worldview fit quite nicely with our American tendency to believe that we can buy, shoot, medicate, or elect our way out of our problems, but it offered little solace to a grieving son. My faith jumped ahead to resurrection and left me behind, isolated and abandoned.
So when I noticed the day-long pattern of smudges and recalled some dusty memory about what it might mean, I wanted in. It was not that I needed to be reminded of my smallness or my brokenness (though that is often the case). At the time I was well aware of my fragility and pain, but it lacked context. As I passed these strangers, the ashes on their foreheads said It鈥檚 okay, we鈥檙e broken too. We鈥檙e wandering like you, but here鈥攋oin us. We can wander together for a bit.
I thought about that as I walked around the school recently, asking folks鈥攖hose who would let me, considering the microphone in my hand鈥攁bout their understanding of Lent. (You can hear the responses on 鈥淲hat Lent Means to You: A text.soul.culture 惭颈苍颈蝉辞诲别.鈥�) I thought about it again when Daniel Tidwell spoke of stardust and shared humanity as he led the Ash Wednesday service in our chapel. It鈥檚 the joyful surprise of a season known for desert and fasting: something transformative happens when suffering is witnessed and shared.
Maybe you, like me as a fatherless young man in Los Angeles, don鈥檛 need Lent to be reminded of your personal brokenness this year. And we probably don鈥檛 need it to remind us of our shared brokenness, either. Is there any doubt that we are, collectively, lost in a wilderness? Our nation鈥檚 appetite for violence seems without end, and stepping over others for the sake of personal comfort or advancement is a national pastime.
I do not believe that Lent arrives to evoke suffering for suffering鈥檚 sake. But it does insist that we not ignore or belittle suffering鈥攐ur own or others鈥�. Lent counters those who 鈥渄ress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. 鈥楶eace, peace,鈥� they say, when there is no peace鈥� (Jeremiah 6:14; modern translation, 鈥淎ll lives matter鈥�). It reminds us that we are not alone when we suffer, and that Jesus preceded us into the desert and emerged with the clarity and authority of calling.
May we follow his example when we find ourselves drawn into the desert and tempted toward quick fixes or empty promises. May we listen to those鈥攅ven if it鈥檚 a bunch of kids in Florida鈥攚ho follow his example here in the wilderness, those who remind us that the way forward is not in hunkering down or closing our eyes or turning back, but in naming the realities of our woundedness, witnessing each other鈥檚 suffering and healing, and challenging those who benefit from cloaking rocks as bread.
And may we always, always, always remember鈥攊n our suffering, grieving, healing, erring, and returning鈥攖hat we are not alone.