Somethin's Gotta Go

The pressure builds. The fat’s in the fire. Hell’s gates rattle. Demons run wild. Starvation begins. Lent has arrived. Somethin’s gotta go.

**********

Lent…a forty-day fast, the penitent’s primordial curse. Conscience compels sinners to re-consecrate their bodies and rebuke the devil. The carnal pleasures of the flesh are sacrificed for the sanctification of our souls. It’s worse than a root canal.

WWJD? We’re afraid to ask. We won’t like the answer. Stones will not become croissants. The approved give-up list doesn’t include Vienna sausages. Cell phones and all sweets must go; but, Oh, God be merciful, please not pork chops!

Fasts are abominable afflictions. They set on fire the course of human nature. People become mean and desperate. They disfigure themselves with ashes. They’re zombies in sackcloth. Hunger drives them wildly into the streets. They wail in grocery stores, drooling on the cookie aisle. They swoon in visions of ecstasy at the very sight of a Hershey bar.

This madness began in the 4th century at the pinnacle of the Epicurean era. Like today, everyone was fat and happy. Hedonism ran rampant, collection plates ran empty. Preaching lacked efficacy and sin lost its sting. Churches needed power to convince congregants of the reality of Hell, the punishment of sin and the ubiquity of the Devil.

An ecclesiastic convocation was called. St. Leo was chosen as its leader. He was an itinerant preacher experienced in river baptisms. He concocted the theory of a forty-day fast. The experiment was based on the clever, but perverted contextual precept of the Holy Writs. Its leitmotif was to affirm that Lucifer, the lictor of the lower regions, controlled the gene pool of the descendants of Adam. That’s us, by the way.

In the scripture story is a river, a bird, a spirit, angels and a desert like Death Valley. The wind is a restless spirit. Rocks, like popcorn, crack and pop in the stifling heat, not unlike the sound of a prison chain gang. Large ominous black birds hover overhead, looking for another carcass to pick.

I re-read the story. The bird adds a nice touch. I once had a pet bird. A parakeet named JoeJoe. I used to baptize it. It drove the creature mad. It flew in crazed circles. It often lit on my shoulder or head, whereupon it would deposit the remnants of its latest meal as a show of displeasure, or appreciation. Who could tell from such an unstable bird? I was a child then. I often wondered if its droppings were signs from heaven.

St. Leo’s theory had legs. Along with the fast came the Devil and his legions of minions. Like carnival barkers, they made absurd promises to those who were driven mad by hunger. Promises of omnipotence, self-prominence, immortality, invincibility and renown. Hordes of weak penitents relapsed. Laughter rang in the halls of Hell. Church pews filled as backsliding recidivists returned to the horror of primal sin.

The Catholic Church discovered Lent was a solution to the shrinking treasury. It offered to sell ‘indulgences’ to converts for compensation for their weak fortitude, and to buy repentance. The ruse was revealed. The Pope loathed the deception but loved the lucre.

The devil’s real! Avoid him. Never publically admit to fasting. You’ll be cast as a religious nut, an ascetic. You will be despised, reviled, shunned by society. Verily you will have your reward.

Always fast in secret. Never consume things with expired labels or green mold. Let no alcohol stronger than kerosene touch your tongue. It’s ok to gargle with elixirs over 100 proof, but don’t inhale or swallow.

If you’re rich, join the Baptists. They operate a black-market in the re-sale of unused indulgences. And contrary to popular opinion, they cannot turn stones to bread either.

While fasting, never step behind a church pulpit and recite publically the Apostles’ Creed. Forget ever cleaning off the pinnacle of the church’s roof. Angels will not bear you up if you fall.

Also, stop wishing your name were Buffett or Obama. Delusions of grandeur are the devil’s domain. The penalty for relapse is having to purchase indulgences from the moneychangers of the Democratic Party. There’s no escape from the horror of that abyss.

**********

We also have the Holy Parchment. If St. Leo appropriated it, so can we. Therefore: When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth…especially if thy right hand holdeth a coconut cake.

Did I get that right?


Bud Hearn
March 7, 2014