We are midway through this Lenten period and the news and events of the world swirl in and around our Lenten lives. Acts of violence continue, politicians argue and the usual daily events unfold. There are some visible signs along the way that serve as little reminders that we are part of a different time – hot cross buns (in all their variations) are available from the bakeries and there seem to be a lot of chocolate lovers around, given the assortment of Easter eggs on display. The shopping world is offering those with the eyes to see a reminder that it is Lent, and that Easter is approaching.
For me, a powerful Lent visual prompt is the Project Compassion box. Growing up it was always placed on a bench in the kitchen and I have continued this little tradition. But there are other things that make me feel that it is Lent - the mornings are darker and a little cooler and I’ve swept up the first of the fallen leaves. There is something about the rich colours of autumn and an emerging stillness that I always associate with this Lenten time. On my daily walks I observe that the deciduous trees have commenced their work of moving their green leaves to golden leaves to falling leaves.
For some, autumn can be seen as a melancholic time. The falling of the leaves may signify endings and endings can be hard for us. For others the stripping away may offer symbolic permission to let go, perhaps of a trouble or burden. Or perhaps our hearts sink a little with the coming darkness – a reminder that the more relaxed and carefree time of summer is coming to an end – and it did go quickly! For some the rich colours of red and gold may proclaim beauty and the autumn fruits and vegetables offer a reminder of life’s blessings and abundance.
I wonder if part of the grace an autumnal Lent offers is an opportunity to observe how beauty and loss work together to prepare for the new. For every leaf that drops we know that after the necessary period of time the hidden inner workings of nature will create a leaf anew. And as the structure of the tree becomes visible through loss it is possible to see more clearly what needs to be pruned to enable further growth. And then there is something about the tranquillity of autumn that I think sits so beautifully with this time of Lent. The stillness of the days offering a daily invitation to stop and to think, to be still in the presence of the Lord.
So as we continue on our Lenten ways perhaps we can take a cue from the physical world around us. Perhaps it is time to think about what it is that we need to let go of, confident that in the letting go we are preparing the way for something new. Perhaps it is a time to sit with this in-between time, this liminal space time, and allow God to work in the hidden depths of our hearts. I wonder if this is something with which our biblical ancestors were familiar. We can hear the echo of the cries of the psalmist when we ask God to turn to us, to have mercy on us (Ps 51), to remember us (Ps 105), to be with us (Ps 34), to listen to us (Ps 145), to guard us (Ps17), to bless us (Ps 145). These are some of the cries, perhaps, of the autumn Lent heart.
Or in the words of Michael Leunig’s poem, ‘Autumn’:
We give thanks for the harvest of the heart’s work;
Seeds of faith planted with faith;
Love nurtured by love;
Courage strengthened by courage.
We give thanks for the fruits of the struggling soul,
The bitter and the sweet;
For that which has grown in adversity
And for that which has flourished in warmth and grace;
For the radiance of the spirit in autumn
And for that which must now fade and die.
We are blessed and give thanks.
Amen.
x
Cathy Jenkins
Director