Lenten Candles and Icons
Photo by Michael Vasilkovsky on Unsplash
Somewhere along the road, buried under the weight of commerce and convenience, Lent lost its fangs. What was once a season of privation, of cutting away at the soft fat of the self, has been diminished to a six-week-long nod in the direction of sacrifice. People announce, with a weary sort of bravado, that they are "giving up" chocolate, social media, or—God help us—"negativity." These modern Lenten renunciations have more in common with self-help than self-denial.
The Orthodox ascetic tradition has never lost sight of the purpose of Lent, which is that denial is not an accessory. One does not forgo sweets or alcohol as a performative gesture; the fast is total, austere, and demanding. Meat, dairy, eggs, and oil are removed from the diet as dangerous indulgences. Orthodox believers are not afforded the luxury of “cheat days.” Even fish—surely the most pious of proteins—is prohibited for much of the fast, allowing only the bare sustenance of bread, vegetables, and, when permitted, shellfish (since, by some divine bureaucratic loophole, shrimp do not count as fish).
True asceticism is an act of resistance. It rejects the modern world’s grand illusion: that comfort is the highest good. Orthodox ascetics understand something Protestants do not—that self-denial is not an empty ritual but an act of war against the self. The self is an unruly beast: bloated with appetites, perpetually ravenous, forever seeking indulgence. Waged on these terms, Lent takes the self and wrings it dry, leaving behind something leaner, sharper, unclouded by desire. This is not self-care; this is self-erasure.
In the Orthodox imagination, excess is not just a distraction but a form of spiritual decay. The world is a landscape of temptations that lure the soul away from God. To indulge—even in something seemingly harmless as a cut of meat or a splash of milk—gives ground to the enemy. The Orthodox Christian fasts, not out of masochistic delight, but because suffering is the chisel that shapes the soul.
This is a difficult proposition for the modern Westerner to accept. We are accustomed to the idea that hardship is to be avoided, pain is inherently harmful, and suffering is a sign that something has gone wrong. The Orthodox tradition—brooding, unflinching, mystical—suggests otherwise. Suffering is not an aberration; suffering is the point. To suffer is to participate in the Passion, to enter the agony of Christ, to carve away at the self until what remains is something that can bear the weight of grace.
What does this mean? It means our usual, feeble attempts at self-denial—the chocolate-free weeks, social media detoxes—are insufficient. Lent is not a diet, nor a challenge, and certainly not a minor inconvenience. Lent is an invitation to hardship, an opportunity to glimpse what the world looks like when we remove everything that numbs, placates, and lulls us into believing that comfort is the same as happiness.
True self-denial is neither comfortable, easy, nor pleasant. It is demanding and rigorous, requiring a lifetime of effort. We may discover something unnamable within that hardship. If we do, we should hold on to it. It may be the most sacred thing we ever find.