No ashes without fire...

"There is confidence everywhere in Ash Wednesday, yet that does not mean unmixed and untroubled security. The confidence of the Christian is always a confidence in spite of darkness and risk, in the presence of peril, with every evidence of possible disaster…

Once again, Lent is not just a time for squaring conscious accounts: but for realising what we had perhaps not seen before. The light of Lent is given us to help us with this realisation."

(From "Ash Wednesday", Thomas Merton)

Ash Wednesday finds us early this year. The first day of Lent, it seems ironic to point ourselves down the forty day rocky road towards Easter, the day before the supermarket choc-fest of St Valentine's Day. I know that Ash Wednesday ushers in a time of reflection and repentance, but I find it quite a hopeful day; I like having my forehead crossed and I like seeing other folk, away from the church, going about their daily business with their own crosses still in place. Beyond the Biblical symbolism of humility and mortality, we simply do all have our crosses to bear. There's even a kind of solidarity in it. 

I'm old enough now to realise that the greatest part of repentance isn't all in the acknowledgement of what I've done wrong or failed to do at all; it's in the willingness to put behind and to put right. Just as "Lent" derives from the Anglo Saxon "lencten", for springtime, meaningful repentance has to enfold hopefulness and renewal. For the first time in years, I really "get" that Ash Wednesday's crosses aren't just a more viable echo of the sackcloth and ashes of the Old Testament. I can more easily appreciate the mark on my forehead as a reminder of baptism: perhaps I'm growing up after all.
Certainly, I feel I know myself better than to go through the motions of "giving up" chocolate for Lent yet again: I only eat it as a treat and have just as much of a savoury tooth as a sweet one. And I know I'll invariably reach for a bar of dark chili chocolate after Easter; it would only be a temporary, niggling hardship. My sister always says it'll be "a lifetime on the hips" as I reach for a third biscuit, but untended regrets can do far more damage elsewhere. Aristotle noticed that:"Bad men are full of repentance." I think he knew a thing or two about the great untended elsewheres.

So maybe I should give up some deeper comfort zone: some situations and people can make me very uncomfortable and I retreat behind friends, excuses or naturally occurring delays and barriers. I so often allow myself to be thwarted by criticism, disdain or indifference. This Lent, I should give up giving up so easily. More tricky but far more rewarding for me personally than simply steering past the KitKats and Crunchies in Salisbury's. Although navigating past a bay of bargain treacle tarts might require assistance from in-store security.

"Distant Sun" might seem an odd choice of music for an Ash Wednesday post: if you're looking a traditional sombreness, you might well dismiss it as pop music, playing at being precious. And indeed if you want pop-rock in pure Beatles style then look no further than Crowded House, or Oasis. But I digress: this remains one of my favourite songs, pop or otherwise, because Neil Finn's lyrics seem to be about redeeming and renewing oneself; the possibility of changing and moving forward without forever casting an eye back to excuse or justify.
Have a soothing Ash Wednesday and a hopeful Lent.

"You're still so young to travel so far, 

Old enough to know who you are: 

Wise enough to carry the scars 

Without any blame; there's no one to blame"

"Distant Sun"  Crowded House

"A man who fails well is greater than one who succeeds badly."

(Thomas Merton)

There's something about Mary: The Feast of The Assumption

"Mary is the safest, easiest, shortest and most perfect way of approaching Jesus"

(St Louis Marie de Montfort)

"Who Is She Ascends So High?"
(from the Roman Catholic Breviary)
Who is she ascends so high,
Next the heav'nly King,
Round about whom angels fly,
And her praises sing?
Who is she adorned with light;
Makes the sun her robe?
At whose feet the queen of night
Lays her changing globe?
This is she in whose pure womb
Heaven's Prince remained;
Wherefore in no earthly tomb
Could she be contained.
Heav'n she was, which held that fire,
Whence the world took light,
And to heav'n doth now as pire:
Flames with flames unite.
She that did so clearly shine,
Our day once begun,
See how bright her beams decline,
Sitting with the Sun.

As a convent schoolgirl, I grew up with a fascination for the traditional Catholic devotion to Mary, the Virgin Mother of God. As a "Child of Mary", I joined with other bustling little girls to decorate the chapel with flowers during the month of May, all of us proudly wearing our blue sashes. I still have my little rosary from my First Communion; the cheapest, mass-produced plastic, but sugar-pink and precious. Family holidays to my Dad's homeland would always incorporate a trip to Our Lady's shrine at Banneux: I can still picture the rows of souvenir Blessed Virgins; a regiment of serenity with celestial blue cloaks and rose-cheeked inclined heads. These days, I belong to the Catholic Women's League, where each meeting starts with The Rosary. I now have a frieze of The Black Madonna in my living room: I managed to paint the alcoves there almost the exact same shade as her vivid red cloak; I only wish I had found my blue sash before the family home had to be sold...

Why do we so love Mary?

Yesterday, 15th August, was the feast of The Assumption, celebrated across the Christian churches; a Holy Day of Obligation and also a public holiday in Austria, Belgium, France, Greece, Italy, Malta, Spain and many other countries. The word "assumption" is literally from the Latin for "taken up": we celebrate that Mary was assumed into heaven, body and soul. Many Catholics do believe that Mary died physically before she ascended to heaven, but this aspect of The Assumption is not fully defined in the theology of the Catholic Church. It's a beautiful and joyous feast: Mary's Assumption is seen as a divine gift to her as the mother of Jesus; but also serves as a reminder of the saving grace that awaits us all.

Christian "Mariology" (the study and theology of Mary), explores not only her life but also the veneration of her in our own daily lives. The Virgin Mary has been a divine muse for artists, musicians, composers of hymns, sculptors and architects throughout ancient and modern Christianity. Non-Catholics have often accused the Roman Church of "loving Mary too much": deifying her in fact. However, now that I'm no longer the awestruck child with an armful of unruly roses, I appreciate that most Catholics feel a strong personal relationship to Mary because of her essential humanity; she is effectively, mother to all. As a woman, I also feel that Mary is Eve redeemed; femininity and loveliness without treachery, artifice or blemish.
We feel that Mary is our intercessor, "Our Lady": when something seems too trivial to place directly before God, Mary is there to support us through our trials and irritations and small but poignant hurts. Just as a child might run to a mother for comfort with a grazed knee, we feel Mary is accessible in this way. The emphasis is actually on her being fully human rather than any notion of deity. She is a figure of warm hope, sympathy and compassion.

Mary's selflessness and compassion as a human being are seen as ultimate. She acceded to God's wishes; a bewildered and guileless young girl, at a time when being an unmarried mother could have catastrophic consequences. Later, this very real mother would willingly sacrifice her child for the fulfilment of the scriptures and, therefore, our own. In a very practical sense, Mary supports the role of women in what is all too often viewed as a patriarchal "firm". Although Mary obeyed the word of God without question, I've never thought of her as subservient. She may be a vessel without sin, but she is far from empty: "full of grace", she is the embodiment of God's love at work in us, she gives birth to Christianity and Catholicism. Far from dismissing her as a meek, blindly following virgin, I rather believe she was only too aware of the enormity of what was before her and what would come after. Her selflessness actually required courage and resolve: this combined with her immense tenderness makes her uniquely powerful and important within our faith.

The Catholic priest, Trappist monk and poet Thomas Merton wrote many devotional Marian poems, although he felt that her greatest glory was her "nothingness": I love that he compares her freedom from all egotism to the purest glass of the cleanest window, but I've always felt that Mary the woman and mother had a great deal of substance to her! I believe that our devotion to Our Lady is flamed by her innate preciousness, which she carried with utter humility: this is what makes her complete. Sadly, I don't have a daughter: if I did, I would be thrilled to see her set aside her magazines of teetering, collagen-tampered WAGS and wannabes to don a blue sash for a real Lady.

"Mare Mia"  Diana Navarro

"Because my will is as simple as a window

And knows no pride of original birth,

It is my life to die, like glass, by light:

Slain in the strong rays of the bridegroom sun."

("The Blessed Virgin Mary Compared to a Window"  Thomas Merton)