Lent: Test

When I read that today's prompt was "test," my first thought was of school, and the grades I would get on Fridays in high school geometry when Miss Loughlin assessed how well we understood the week's material.

But we're called to test lots of things that have nothing to do with school. We test ideas to see if they're good or bad by trying them out  We can test ourselves, to see how we measure up to our own expectations and the demands others place on us. And of course we can test others, to measure them and their value. 

It always comes down to success or failure, though, doesn't it? The A you earn is worth its weight in gold, while the F is scarlet and hangs around your neck like an albatross.

It's not supposed to be like that. 

Grades, and the tests that generate them, don't reveal your worth. They measure other things. How well  you understood the material. (Looks like you need to review the properties of a rhombus.) How well the teacher taught you. (Maybe interpretive dance wasn't the right medium.) How well-suited the test was for you. (Maybe asking a turtle to climb a tree wasn't a fair assessment of its ability to hide from birds.)

Those are the measurements we're supposed to look at, not to see if we're any good, but to discover the areas where we can shine and what we have to offer.

That's the longest test there is, and it's the only one worth taking.

Lent: Wilderness

There's not much wilderness out my front door these days.

It was a different story four hundred years ago when the first waves of white settlers started arriving on these vaunted shores. In those days the Midatlantic region and the Northeast were covered in a forest, and settlers claim there were flocks of birds overhead so vast that it could take days for them to pass.

To visitors from Europe, where hills, valleys and moors had long been denuded of their ancient forests, it seemed like a goldmine. There were woods to be felled, land to be plowed, animals to be trapped for pelt or meat, and plenty more.

Not so much these days.

I've got a red oak growing on my property, and there are squirrels that run around the yard; but the birds I can hear at any time can be counted with one hand, not two. You can smell out a skunk at night sometimes, and hear the coyotes yipping in a nearby park. Once I saw a fox trit-trotting up the street like nobody's business, but the wildest this city gets is at the nightclub downtown on weekends.

Paradise has been torn to pieces, and we were the wolves that did it.

That's an idealized view of the wilderness as Eden. There's another, older view, that views the wilderness with caution if not outright fear. In the old days, people didn't go into the forest for a weekend of camping, it was something they avoided. If you had to go in, you went in quietly, to avoid being noticed, or you went in with a small army, to be ready.

The wilderness was a hostile place, without the creature comforts of home, like food, roads, cisterns, city walls and gates that closed at night. It was a liminal place filled with fairies, lawless humans, and wild beasts. The ancients believed it was filled with pagan gods, and as late as the 17th century the Puritans told stories about the Scratchman waiting in the forest outside town, willing to make deals with anyone who'd sign their name in the book he kept.

So take your pick. We tore down Paradise and in its place built a new wilderness of pavement and steel, and filled that wild place with monsters of our own creation; or we pushed the wilderness back, hedged it in and tamed it.

Either way, something else is true. Neglect a farm, a shopping mall or an entire city for long enough, and the wilderness creeps back in. Flowers grow in the cracks of a parking lot, then brush springs up in odd places. WIthin twenty years trees have appeared and ten years after that, the forest is back in business.

No matter how you look it, the wilderness returns. 

Lent: Consume

I was into stories about Thor long before Chris Hemsworth picked up the hammer and started wearing a cape for Marvel Studios.

The stories I knew were written in the 13th century by a man named Snorri Sturluson. In one story, Thor takes Loki on a trip to Jotunheim and Loki boasts that he can eat faster than anyone. He's soon put to the test: a wooden platter is laden with meat, and as Loki starts eating at one end, his opponent begins at the other.

They meet in the middle, but Loki loses because all he ate was the meat. His opponent ate meat, bone and platter alike, leaving nothing. It was all consumed.

Consumed.

There's something so final, so total about that word. A consuming desire is one that devours you, overthrowing wit, wisdom and any semblance of self-restraint. It brooks no distraction, permits no other recourse. It's as relentless as fire itself, and ultimately as destructive.

Years ago in church we sang a tune by Hillsong, "Inside Out," that expresses the longing that drives worship: "In my heart and my soul, Lord, I give you control. Consume me from the inside out." One can almost see the worshiper drawing closer to the Eternal Flame, until they are lit from within, and holy fire consumes them beginning in their chest and spreading outward until nothing is left but embers that soon are gone themselves.

In the end we're all consumed by something, but be comforted. The experience is only as glorious or as terrible as the consuming fire that we choose to be caught in.

Mardis Gras

Today is the last day before the 40 days of Lent.

Mardi Gras caps off a weeklong celebration known as Carnival. It's a period of revelry known for music, partying and alcohol that flows like water. Amid all the hoopla and pageantry of the floats in New Orleans it can be easy to forget that Mardi Gras in its roots is a religious celebration tied into Ash Wednesday tomorrow.

The cynic might look at the Mardi Gras celebration as an attempt by the faithful to squeeze in as much last-minute fun and debauchery as possible. After this, it's off to the confessional and time to put on an appropriately penitent show to satisfy the sad-sack priests during Lent.

This misses the point. While God surely does want us to keep ourselves free of wrongdoing, fun and pleasure were God's idea. It was God who showed humanity how to make wine and rum and their cousins. It was God who gave us music and friends. It was God who invented sex and made having it his first commandment.

People might overdo it getting drunk on Bourbon Street, but Mardi Gras falls into a grand tradition of festivals rooted in the Hebrew Scriptures. Celebrations of spring. Celebrations of fall. New Years celebrations. Private parties. National parties. "They tried to kill us, but we're still here and they're not" parties.

There are common threads running through all of them. Eat. Drink. Let your hair down. Jesus' first miracle involved giving people at a wedding better wine than anything they'd had so far. There's even an entire book of the Bible about the joys of sex.

Enjoy yourself, God tells us. Live a little.

Lent begins Wednesday. It's a 40-day period that leads up to the events of Good Friday, when Christians of all stripes traditionally mark the Crucifixion. It's a liturgical marker of the time between when first Jesus and then his disciples realized that things were not going to go the way they had first hoped, and when things got as absolutely bad as they possibly could.

Carnival is a time for wine and celebration, a season for living large and loving life for all that it gives us. Mardi Gras marks the end of that season.

Tonight is the night we celebrate. It is the last bottle, the last cup, the last drink we will have before we find that there are ashes in our wine.