Open the Gates

 

Don’t you love it when the Lectionary starts with a line like, “Six days later”? In case you were wondering what happened six days ago, it was when Peter declared that Jesus was the Messiah, the Son of the Living God…and shortly thereafter got on Jesus’ case for saying he would have to die and got called Satan for his trouble. So stuff is getting real at this point in the story. Jesus is getting ready to head for Jerusalem where, he knows, death is waiting.

The New Orleans custom called Second Line expresses the ultimate joy of earthly death, that even when we are gone from this world, resurrection awaits. If you like, we could think of Palm Sunday as a kind of Second Line, a demonstration of jubilation in the face of doom. This was a critical idea for Black people in Louisiana for so many centuries. When your daily walk is through the valley of the shadow of death, it is healthy to believe that this abysmal world with its cruel masters and massive oppression is not the last word of God’s creation. And the good news is, it isn’t. At some time unknown, this will all culminate in what Bruce Cockburn’s song calls a “Festival of Friends,” a great Carnival of diversity to which all are invited—as long as they are willing to leave their hate at the door.

Carnival or Mardi Gras, rightly observed, is a time when we get a taste of this festival of friends. All things are permitted. Everyone is welcome. Even the disapproval of earthly religion can’t touch its liberty. There is no judge but Jesus, and he isn’t judging. He’s partying with us. This is the time when the dishwater turns to fine wine. When bodies are celebrated, not shamed. When we are invited into the sensory cathedral that is God’s good Earth.

It is an example of what novelist and theologian Charles Williams called the Way of Affirmation of Images, this embracing of the material universe as a reflection of its Creator. Its counterpoint is the Way of Negation, the idea that nothing in Creation is adequate to reflect the grandeur of God and should therefore be downplayed. Williams argued for holding these two ideas in balance at the same time. He wrote that when looking at, say, a work of art or a sunset or a beloved person, we can say to God, “This is thou. This also is not thou.”

For much of our history, the Church has leaned into the Way of Negation, teaching us to be suspicious of everything earthly and earthy. Confession was mandatory. Ascetics were celebrated. Lent was emphasized. The Puritans plastered over priceless frescoes in English churches, viewing them as mere idols. But there is a difference between an idol and an icon. An idol, like the golden calf the people were found worshiping when Moses comes down from the mountain the first time, is a coward’s substitute for the ultimate reality of God’s self, while an icon shows something important about that reality at the heart of the universe. Moses became a living icon when he came down from the mountain the second time with his face, as we recall, shining and transfigured from having seen God’s hindquarters.

The upcoming season of Lent allows us to explore the Way of Negation, but its precursor, Carnival, gives a chance to live for a little while in the Way of Affirmation.

In my experience performing with masks, I’ve found that something real about me comes out, often a side I didn’t know was there, when my face is transfigured. In Italian traditional comedy, there are stock characters who wear masks: Pantalone the rich miser, il Dottore the overeducated pedant, Capitano the cowardly warmonger, various servant figures and, most famously, Arlecchino or Harlequin, the holy Fool. Each represents an exaggerated aspect of the human condition. These Masks frequently come out to play during the Carnival season, some as performers in improvised plays and many as random people among the crowds, revealing that all of us, complete with our foibles, are part of the final celebration. A mask brings out this truth of radical acceptance. All, ALL are invited to the Festival of Friends.

Those traditional Masks are icons for me. Even when I was playing Pantalone and what was revealed was less than flattering, it was good for me to find it. When we’re transfigured, we are visible. More visible, I would argue, than in our everyday faces. Like, when my trans friend Luka wears his chest binder, by concealing a body part, he looks more like his true self.

Many people think of masks as a way to allow people to misbehave with impunity. I’m sure some are. We see this dark side of masks with masked Immigration officers whose worst impulses are let loose when their faces are obscured. But that is not the proper purpose of the Mask. There is no joy in those ICE masks, no affirmation, only negation. If your soul is full of hate, that is unfortunately what the mask will reveal.

But if your soul is full of joyful embrace, it is possible for that to be fully released when your everyday outward appearance is altered. You can be free from the constraints of conformity to this world’s skewed norms. Behind masks of anonymity, we are free to be more ourselves. This is the paradox of the Mask. When your fleshly face is covered, your true face can come out, and you can, sometimes, more clearly hear God calling you his beloved.

When Jesus started glowing on that mountaintop, the truth of his nature was unmasked, and it was more beautiful than his friends could have imagined. His everyday appearance, the face Peter, James and John were familiar with, was the real disguise. And here’s the amazing thing: we can all be icons. We can all reveal Truth. We can all light up the mountain.

So I brought some Carnival masks. Nothing fancy, but they will make your face shine a little, like Moses’ coming down from Sinai. Help yourselves. Be transfigured for a few minutes. Soon we will form a Second Line and process around the church. Let’s get transfigured. Let’s shine.