By Ryan LeBlanc

Lots of believers prefer the sombre, deep-dark flavour of dim churches, stark purple vestments, stripped bare sanctuaries and probably some chest-vibrating male-voiced Latin chant. Ah yes, that’s the stuff that tells me I’m in Lent.

A slight variation on this theme is the hot, stuffy, humid flavour of many devotional candles lighting up sad-eyed statues, weeping lots of tears and blood, fingering beads of repentance over and over again: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Now that’s turning away from sin.

Some like to go in a different direction, a flavour of natural light and materials. The prayer centre has artfully draped purple and pink, with the bowl of sand and stones arranged to be interacted with, comfortable seating where I can sit until my heart unfolds. I hold a word that symbolizes my separation from God and then I let it go.

Others open all the way up, getting outside the building. Turning up eyes and hearts, this has the flavour of starting something new, digging deep and airing out, cleaning out the corners and making ready for new growth and delight, no hymns, not a church in sight. What is Lent but making ready to receive the new life of resurrection?

See what I mean? There’s lots of flavours of Lent available. Just like the ice cream store. And I think it’s generally a good idea to put some thought into what you would like to receive while you’re waiting in line, because you and I, we have choices to make.

Knowing our personal Lenten taste palette

In Lent, as in romance, the choices of others astound us. C’mon, admit it – you thought I was making fun of at least one of those flavours I was describing!

It’s possible just one of those fully resounded with your heart, while the others left you dry, confused or confronted. See, sometimes we even get attached to our religious sensibilities, and our perceived preferences and aversions become just another thing God asks us to let go of.

I have tasted all of these flavours of Lent, and more. Many of them have led me to greater holiness, and I’ve probably rolled my eyes at all of them at some point.

Variety is a spice, right?

Often, I associate what I experience in my interior environment (in-vironment?) with what I experience in the natural world. With Lent happening across varying months on a land with outrageous seasons, the people of my land encounter many opportune metaphors.

Early February can find us locked up frozen solid, immobilized by bitter cold. Throughout March there are many thaws, where bit by bit winter loosens slightly, then grips again. Hidden filth becomes exposed, safe paths flood with melt and then freeze into treachery. Light grows, plants drink, by the time of April there are often indications of possible budding. We work the soil, hope in seeds, see our trust in warmth fulfilled.

Pick your heart’s metaphor! How is God bringing new life to your soul as he always does, as he always does for this gracious, beautiful planet of yours?

These are great and weighty mysteries to play with.

Our familiarities with our own sinfulness and holiness I think need the occasional dash of irreverence, a kind of gentle clowning. By juggling with them, we practise holding them lightly but securely, and letting them go.

Our preferences, our images, even our religious devotions, they are good to be familiar with, to explore and be open to. They only go so far, of course, because they are ultimately up to us.

What flavour do we prefer? In itself, it’s not a very Lenten question.

Imagine Christ wearing classic black with an apron, coming up to my table with his hair tied back and maybe a beard net, saying, “Good evening, my name is Jesus, and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Before I take your order, perhaps you’d like to begin with a few drinks?” As much as I’d like to imagine this irreverent picture, it won’t stick in my mind.

During Lent, during the path to the Cross, Jesus says something I’d prefer he didn’t.

He says, “You used to go where you want. Now someone will lead you where you do not want to go.”

Yech. Way to kill the fun, Jesus.

But he has a point. At some point in our lives – which Lent is meant to remind us of – the particular flavour doesn’t matter.

Because everything is ashes.

One parent has a few weeks between diagnosis and goodbye. Another takes a decade to go, bit by bit, starting with the smallest joys.

One person’s spouse cannot get out of the house, wrapped up in their childhood trauma. Another person’s spouse never comes home from work for the same reason.

One person arrives in a new land, the desolation of their homeland etched in their mind and body. Another person receives them, without the means to welcome them, dispossessed of their ancestral home.

A different flavour of ashes, I call it.

Actually, I call it a different flavour of something else, but I cannot write that here.

What I mean is, every single human being suffers something they do not want to.

Where are our preferences then, at that moment?

What difference does it make what we’d rather be doing?

I’m beginning to think that every religious observance we make, every tradition we receive, live in, and pass on, seems to serve us best when we see daylight between us and what we want. A kind of playful setting down and taking up again, as practise.

Practise for those moments when everything is taken for us. Practise for those moments when it all tastes the same, bitter and burnt. Practise for those moments when we ask for the cup to pass by, but it doesn’t.

Whatever flavour your Lent comes in, I pray that we will rejoice in tasting God’s goodness, in such a way that we also embrace those graces that are difficult to accept.

And whatever we would prefer, let us be at peace with what is.

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