Shrove Tuesday has been one of my favorite days for a long, long time. I know what you’re thinking—it’s all about the stacks of golden pancakes, the syrup, and the indulgence. But for me, it has always been much more than a meal.
I was first introduced to the true spirit of the day when Suzy and I moved to Little Rock after law school and joined Trinity. At Trinity, Shrove Tuesday wasn’t just a date on the calendar; it was a cornerstone event. The air would hum with the brassy notes of the Dean’s band, and the parish hall would transform into a sea of laughter and conversation. The men of the church served the dinner, and I was quickly swept into the kitchen to help.
No matter what was weighing on me—the pressures of a new career or the busyness of life—as long as we lived in Little Rock, I was at that griddle. It was a rare, precious opportunity to socialize and visit with friends, all while standing on the threshold of the solemn forty days of Lent. We were flipping pancakes, yes, but we were also flipping the page from celebration to contemplation.
When we eventually moved to DC, we found that our new church didn’t have a scheduled event. Unwilling to let the fire go out, Suzy and I invited friends over to our new home, bringing the Trinity spirit to our own dining room. Later, when I went away on sabbatical, I found myself in a community of two hundred men. I convinced the warden to pivot the evening menu, and soon I was back in my element—cracking eggs and pouring batter for two hundred spiritually hungry souls. It was a “big hit,” as they say, but more importantly, it felt a little like home.
Suzy and I have made it a point to serve up pancakes every year since. I’m sure we’ve missed a time or two over the decades, but not many. Through moves, job changes, and the shifting seasons of life, the smell of batter remains a constant.
We have many family traditions, but for me, Shrove Tuesday is more than just the pancakes. It is the ritual of clearing out the sweetness to make room for the sacred. It is a reminder that before we enter the wilderness of Lent, we are called to feast together, to laugh loudly, and to sustain one another.
Now, as we stand at the stove each year, I realize that the tradition isn’t just about the food we eat; it’s about the hands that prepare it and the hearts we prepare for what comes next. The pancake is a simple thing, but in the sharing of it, we find the strength to walk the quieter path that begins tomorrow.
Brother Webb – hope you had pancakes heaven; wish I could have been there! Home to Davidson in a week!
This afternoon I drove past a church that advertised drive through Ash Wednesday marking. Oh dear. Thanks for this, Webb. Your tradition counterbalances that perfunctory ritual!
Thanks Tammie!