On Lent and joyful sorrow
Image: Caspar David Friedrich’s Monk by the Sea, 1808, now newly restored
This post has appeared about a year ago on my blog, also called Wondering Freely. I still feel that everything I wrote there applies, and I think it may be a useful reflection for the readers of this substack, so here it is with minor modifications.
In the Eastern Orthodox tradition Lent is called “bright sadness” or “joyful sorrow” (Greek: χαρμολύπη). We can see it in Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians, where he writes (2 Cor 6): Christians are “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”
But what does it mean? I grew up Catholic and I resented Lent as a child. It meant giving things up. There was a large half-Lent fair close to where we lived. We never went, and our parents did not allow me to go because “it’s Lent after all.” But lately I have found renewed appreciation for the practice of Lent and giving things up (if you want).
That appreciation I gained from living through a pandemic—and I do not consider it to be over, you still see me sitting masked in large gatherings, for instance, in 2024. The pandemic is a time where so many of us had to give up so much. It wasn’t just purely material things we had to give up. It was also social things: family, gathering, connection, we had to let go of things of the heart, of things that nurtured our souls. And I’ve been thinking about what I can learn from this. I think it is sad that the main message people seem to have gotten from the lockdowns and their aftermath is “YOLO! Let’s all get back to normal! Thankfully, that’s over!!”
But I lately have wondered about how a different lesson could have been learnt, the one Paul patiently draws out in his reflections in 2 Corinthians 6. It is about the beauty of humility and limitations that Paul believes Christians can find “as God’s co-workers.” Paul writes “We put no stumbling block in anyone’s path, so that our ministry will not be discredited,”
I think this is so important—do not make other stumble, focus on your own mission, aims, ministry rather than trying to cross other people’s purposes–that’s a limitation you impose upon yourself.
I do not mean to put a spiritual, voluntary exercise such as Lent on the same footing as things you are forced to give up due to a pandemic. They are not the same thing. But what I want to say is that in the pandemic many of us have rediscovered that we have great resources of inner strength, resilience, and endurance. I find it a pity that we do not dwell upon this, upon the impact of this on our spiritual lives, but that we as a society have simply declared the best way to deal with this is move on, not look back, and try to live as we did in 2019.
Later on in 2 Corinthians 6, Paul famously writes how he and others persevere “in great endurance; in troubles, hardships and distresses; in beatings, imprisonments and riots; in hard work, sleepless nights and hunger.” In an uncharitable mood one might read this as a kind of martyr complex. I know some Christians quote this passage and imagine themselves a beleaguered identity, but think this is the wrong way to read it. For one thing, Christianity in Paul’s time (ca 50-60 AD) wasn’t the world religion with all the money and structures and political influence it is today. It was a small, fledging religion.
Rather, I think the message from this is that sometimes you do something worthwhile and that you believe is fighting for and you get no reward, no sign at all your efforts are paying off, where you might be “genuine, yet regarded as impostors; known, yet regarded as unknown; dying, and yet we live on; beaten, and yet not killed.”
What Paul is talking about is a kind of stoic attitude. Paul was influenced by Stoicism, and these ideas shine throughout his writings. In this case, obviously, you would prefer that things went well, that you gained prestige, honors, awards, etc. But it’s crucial to know that you do not need these things to know what you do is worthwhile. As an early career academic, I was often waiting for a win.
That win could be a fellowship, a paper acceptance, things like that, to get me through the psychologically difficult time of being on the job market for several years. I noticed then that it is dangerous to let your happiness depend on these externalities. As the pseudonymous academic blogger Acclimatrix writes,
The hardest part about being in a hole is that you feel like you, really need a “win” to get out. The win is like a rope; it’s a quick exit from a dark, lonely place. That line of thinking is a trap, though, because the rope is totally outside your control. That “win” — a funded proposal, an award, a new relationship, or some other really great news — may never come, but that doesn’t mean you should give up. The only surefire way to get out of a hole is to climb out. Ropes are great, but you don’t need them. A little boost or an outstretched hand from a friend or loved one helps. But sometimes, it’s just going to be a long, tough, slog of indeterminate duration. Come up with a playlist of Power Songs and get to work.
–Acclimatrix “Getting out of a hole”
When things get tough as during the lockdowns, it is (was) possible to find inner strength once you realize you do not need external validation. That you can find faith within. For Paul, there is honor and beauty in limitations. If you can find faith, or hope, then you can find joy in your sorrow. This is not some masochistic delight in adversity, but a realization of inner strength (and for Paul, this is a gift of the Spirit, but importantly, I feel this sort of inner strength works just as well for people from any tradition).
Lent gives us a flavor of how we can find joy within our limitations. Hence the Eastern Orthodox belief that grief can be profound, engulfing, heart-breaking, but never without hope. For you can always find hope, and that hope doesn’t depend on external rewards or recognition.