This period is a welcome chance to practise restraint and self-reflection whatever your beliefs, says Guardian columnist Dawn Foster
It’s Shrove Tuesday, and by fortuitous circumstance, I’m in Brussels – home of crepes, frites and endless television segments on Brexit – for a conference. The city is perfect for the beginning of the period of fasting then feasting, and saves me the stress of attempting to flip pancakes. Last night, my parish hosted a baking contest to celebrate the advent of Lent, sharing wine and cake before we enter a more sober period of spiritual decluttering and fasting.
Christmas might be the festival that captures public attention in an increasingly secular society, but Easter is particularly resonant for many Christians. The frenetic lead-up to the festive period seems to comprise little more than a never-ending to-do list and a series of work parties. Easter is quieter, centred on anticipation; it forces you to engage in self-reflection and mental self-flagellation, and hopefully you’ll emerge a better person.
Modern asceticism seems to have been embraced with particular enthusiasm by millennials: many of my WhatsApp conversations include a casually dropped: “What are you giving up for Lent?” While older friends noncommittally mention cutting down on chocolate, tea or coffee, people my age seem more extreme, and serious, in their choices: quitting Twitter, no alcohol or smoking (as in my case), becoming vegan, or even looking into fasting regimes previously practised by monks. My gang who come together for holy days and Easter vigil are all younger: even friends who have never been involved in regular church-going tentatively ask questions about services, theology and reading, and “where to begin” if they wanted to understand why people believe.
A rise in interest in different forms of spirituality, not limited to organised religion, isn’t entirely surprising for a generation deprived of the traditional markers of the passage of time, and the milestones of adulthood. Marriage, home ownership and children punctuate life profoundly: when such life events are out of reach, for whatever reason, it can leave you bereft. The comfort of ritual lies in reminding you you’re alive, through moderate inconveniences that bring the boredom of existence into sharp relief.
The run-up to Easter is particularly enjoyable because of the intrinsic delayed gratification, and the discomfort of low-grade self-mortification. The frantic pace of life in 2019 pushes you towards excess: exhaustion and stress encourage unmoderated self-medication. Lent offers a brief period of slowness and abstention – it proves that you can exhibit self-control, forces you to step back and take stock of what perturbs or disappoints you in your day-to-day habits. Unlike Christmas, which is structured largely around social rituals, Lent is an insular process, a chance to examine your own behaviour, your relationship to the world and belief.
The latter is particularly fraught for me. Every Catholic I know is furious at the church structures that have perpetuated and covered up abuse for decades, destroyed lives and let down the laity. Regaining trust seems an impossible task at this point. It is only possible with genuine, prostrate acceptance of responsibility from senior figures. Instead we have contrite refusals to accept the reality, coupled with the fury of people within and without the church about Cardinal George Pell.
But withdrawing into the quietness of Lent provides a welcome break amid this horrific news cycle, a working culture that prizes presenteeism to the point of exhaustion, and a digital culture that leaves you contactable, and thus on edge, at all times. The mild suffering we subject ourselves to in Lent is endurable because we know it will end. Other problems – ill health, grief, poverty – linger for longer, but we can teach ourselves to cope better with practice, and develop strategies to survive.
Giving up cigarettes as a penance is difficult but in no way comparable to getting over the death of a close friend. However, learning how to recognise your emotional response to trauma and shock is important. It can be profoundly helpful in the long term, helping you to avoid destructive habits that can last a lifetime.
The hope is that you will come out of this period a better person, less prone to excess, less rapacious. You don’t necessarily need to take the Gospels as gospel to participate: many of us could find comfort in and benefit from winnowing down our bad habits. Hyper-consumption does not bring happiness: whatever your beliefs, why not use this month to prove that you have more restraint than you imagined, and embrace the promise of self-improvement.
• Dawn Foster is a Guardian columnist
Read more: www.theguardian.com