A Month for Lent and Black History
Two observances that are finally, rightly, converging
Lent has usually been for other people.
I didn’t know about this liturgical season until college and, even then, it was an abrupt addition to an otherwise evangelical expression of faith. I’ve abstained from something here and there across the years, but have never observed the season in a formal setting.
This year I’m more compelled by Lent, partly from being in an online community where many people practice it, and partly from a foray into Christianity’s ancient aspects. This Lent (as of three days ago) I’m striving towards the practice of regular prayer. I’ve had the Divine Hours liturgy books on my shelf for a while, now I’m finally diving in. If I’m going to pray, it needs to be written out!
I’ve also been fascinated with how Lent has led me to contemplate Black history, as February is Black History Month. At first glance, they appear to be two distinct seasons with separate observances. They are anything but. The integration between the two is strikingly strong, and it’s making February a very interesting month.
One of my reads this month is Frederick Douglass’s autobiography. I started with an ambition to read it all in one day, which was quickly tempered by the weight of the words. I’ve slowed to one daily chapter, sitting with the uncomfortable, horrifying accounts of slave life. One detail that has lingered with me is his description of the slaves’ annual clothing allowance. By clothing, he means lack of clothing. He writes,
“The allowance of the slave children was given to their mothers or the old women having the care of them. The children unable to work in the field had neither shoes, stockings, jackets, nor trousers given to them; their clothing consisted of two coarse linen shirts per year. When these failed them, they went naked until the next allowance-day. Children from seven to ten years old, of both sexes, almost naked, might be seen at all seasons of the year.” (Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, chapter 2)
This little paragraph has become my lens for the past few days. Yesterday I stepped outside to throw away the first dirty diaper of the morning. It technically wasn’t cold for the Midwest, already in the upper twenties. But, as one dedicated to loathing winter, it felt arctic. In those shivery seconds on the porch, Douglas’s narrative rushed to the front of my mind. I made myself stand there (a tiny bit) longer and imagined being a slave child without clothes or shoes, in the same weather, with no hope of relief. No warmth on the other side of the door. No promise of snuggling into covers at night. It was soberingly incomprehensible.
As I’m typing this, I also realize the privilege of the diaper I threw away. Yes, diapering is unpleasant, no matter how well-off you are. But that unpleasantness is relative. After I changed that diaper, I only had to wrap up the offending bundle, endure a moment of cold on my way to the trash, jump back inside, wash my hands, and continue with my day. The diaper didn’t disturb my life or linger in my house; its minimal nastiness was buffered by the modern technologies of absorbent polymers and antimicrobial soaps. What would I have done as a mom in slavery? What did those moms do? How many more smells and sights did they have to endure that I’ve never given thought to? Sobering.
As I continue to read through Douglass’s narrative, my privilege and indifference compel me to pray. I feel the need to pray. I turn to the Divine Hours, and the prayers become a natural response to the remembrance of Black history, the awareness of present racism, and the contemplation of Jesus’ suffering and sacrifice. They’re all tied together. This shouldn’t be novel; communities of color figured this out long ago. Jesus the suffering servant is close to the brokenhearted and oppressed in ways that the healthy and whole don’t necessarily experience. It goes to show how much there is still to uncover, shed, and learn. There aren’t enough Lents in one lifetime to finish that work.