Lent & the Jig in the Dirge

Guest Blog by Ginny Douglas ~ Lent was always a great time for me, being raised Protestant. There were no liturgical feast and fast dates printed on the annual calendar from the dry cleaners. The Catholic kids talked of having to “give up something” for the six weeks of Lent. Usually candy. It seemed rather sad. And, they seemed none the happier nor holier for it. In my family, the only thing we were required to give up was Good Friday afternoon. Even the public schools did not hold classes on Good Friday. But we were called in from the back yard before noon and sent to play quietly in our bedrooms until 3 PM, in commemoration of the hours that Jesus hung on the cross. That seemed doable.

It took me years to recognize what Fat Tuesday was. We didn’t partake of that, although we’d vaguely heard of Mardi Gras, something I thought was only celebrated by nearly naked people in New Orleans. There was only one bad day in Lent for me, and during my childhood I never recognized the pattern. But it was the last Sunday before Ash Wednesday. We had one family Pre-Lent tradition, faithfully practiced year after year, but without any explanation for it to make sense. My great-uncle and aunt lived in Lyndhurst, while we lived in Westlake. Opposite sides of Cleveland and worlds apart. With no freeways, there was simply no good way to get from here to there. (Somethings never change.) Nevertheless, in the dead of winter, every February we made the treacherous trek across town and down Euclid Avenue to attend my Uncle’s annual Kiwanis Pancake Breakfast. It took all day. Why would we risk life and limb, crawling on icy roads into the “Snow Belt” to eat pancakes with strangers? My parents were usually so cautious. It was such a relief to me when I finally put the Pancake Breakfast together in my mind with Pre- Lent, as the feast before the famine.

St. Patrick’s Day was always a big deal in Cleveland, and I do have Irish ancestors. My grandfather never missed the parade, claiming to be Irish, though he was not; his deceased wife was. I guess generically, everyone acknowledged St Patrick’s Day, by wearing green to school. But then as a young adult, I was introduced to Celtic music. I loved it immediately! I listened to The Chieftains, The Bothy Band, Riverdance. Ah, pipes and fiddles, bodhran drums and tin whistles. Now here were skillful musicians having the time of their lives, celebrating what sounded to me like “life.” Music, song, dance, family, friends, church, neighbors – all celebrated. The green beer wasn’t important to me, but the spirit of the jigs and reels was.

Fast forward, and I learn about something called Fish Frys. Huge fish dinners, inside Catholic churches, with exotic ethnic side dishes like pierogi, and cabbage and noodles. And maybe even magical languages like Polish, or Russian, or German, or Slovak (whatever that was.) And not only the whole church was invited, but the whole neighborhood! Of course, growing up, we didn’t partake in those. But with the invitation of Catholic co-workers, I did partake, sometime in my 40’s. I was hooked (so to speak) on Fish Frys!

So, there we have it. Looking back, I find it curious that St. Patrick’s Day is smack dab in the middle of solemn Lent. Putting aside theories of how liturgical calendars dates got set, St. Patrick’s Day is always somewhere in those 40 days of Lent. Isn’t that fortuitous? If Lent had a musical style assigned to it, it would be the dragging funeral dirge. And I get that. Those forty days can be a sincere way to “walk with Jesus” down the Via Dolorosa to his crucifixion. After all the ways that God walks with us, a symbolic reciprocity can feel right. Traditionally, music of a funeral procession accompanying the grieving as they follow the casket to burial is called a dirge. No wonder, for the devout, Lent is a sober and heavy time. But then, here comes doughty St. Patrick, with a different tune. It’s merriment; it’s a jig, that wakes us from spreading dusk to rising dawn. It reminds me of the one pink candle of joy that is inserted into the Advent Wreath. The other candles represent Hope, Peace and Love, and all those are worthy of attention. But then there is Joy! Something good is coming. Something new is peeking over the edge of the world. And we fill our lungs with Joy. So too, in the middle of Lent, out leaps St. Patrick’s Day. In the middle of the dirge comes the dancing jig! Comes Joy!

And, if that wasn’t enough, there are those six Fridays of Fish Frys. What is really hidden beneath the perch and coleslaw? Technically, it’s a church fund raiser. But it looks to me like comradery, like hospitality, like community, like Communion. Maybe a taste of the Eucharist. It’s an Open Table that says “come and eat with us; at these tables we’re all one big family.” To me, it means “just because we’re following the teaching to eat no flesh but fish on Fridays doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy life.” It’s a weekly reprieve from the toil of everyday concerns. Levity in Lent. In that atmosphere of welcome, we rub shoulders with neighbors or folks we’ve never met before. Their stories may be unknown to us, but their willingness to share the table is obvious. For six Fridays in a row, in the midst of dark Lent, come armies of aproned grandmothers turning out copious amounts of food to anyone who buys a cheap ticket. And the people come. Standing in lines that sometimes wind down the church halls, and out the door, there is chatter and anticipation of good things soon to come. Like Easter ultimately, but with the sooner reward of dinner. It’s a beautiful thing. I’ll gladly partake in that. Maybe that’s even better than the frosted brownies on the dessert table.

Virginia L. Douglas, February 15, 2020.