February 5, 2008
Cycles
There are the so-called crisis liturgies that come only once in a lifetime — baptism, marriage, ordination, burial, and the like. And there are the cyclic liturgies that repeat themselves through the years, for some, perhaps, ad nauseum — Christmas, Easter, anniversaries. But for others, with renewed meaning and vigor as our own personal and communal histories turn through our lives.
The Eve of Ash Wednesday may be one of these. A sort of ordered mad zaniness makes the substance of it, an hilarity over anticipating the rigors (for some, anyhow) of the Lenten shroud that covers ever so finely as the ashes to come. We call it Mardi Gras from the French for Fat Tuesday, and Fat Tuesday from using all the lard in the house for festive baking before the meatless Lenten fast. Some call it Shrove Tuesday in honor of the good riddance of old sins and the exciting anticipation of a journey into new ones.
“New Orleans” is an almost instant thought integral to the image of this day. New Orleans, whose being was savaged almost beyond recognition, now suddenly bursts alive again with the mere thought of it, Mardi Gras. And throughout this planet of storms and quakes and floods and wars and incompetency we all rejoice and let the jazz ring out. We are the saints, our gospel tells us, and once more, we’ve done gone marching in.
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