THE start of Lent coincided with the fifth anniversary of the Covid-19 pandemic, a sombre reminder of both our shared vulnerability and our capacity for resilience. The ashes of Ash Wednesday, symbolising mortality and humility, take on a deeper meaning when viewed through the lens of the pandemic. We remember the loss and the suffering, but also the acts of kindness of that time. A sense of unity and compassion flourished in the face of crisis. Yet we have lapsed into old habits of complacency, division, and hypocrisy.
Two events prompt this reflection. The football match between Manchester United and Arsenal on Sunday was briefly paused at sundown to allow one player, Noussair Mazraoui, to break his Ramadan fast. And, on Ash Wednesday, the US Secretary of State, Marco Rubio, was photographed with ashes on his forehead. Ashes should remind Christians that we know not the hour of our death and call us to repentance. Ramadan fasting is similarly an exercise in spiritual purification through discipline and reflection. But these two public demonstrations of private piety had vividly contrasting consequences.
Mr Rubio’s ashes ignited a storm of controversy. The image went viral, and the Greek Orthodox Archbishop of Jerusalem, Atallah Hanna, swiftly condemned Mr Rubio’s public display, declaring: “A true Christian must stand with the oppressed, the suffering, and the afflicted — not with the oppressors who commit violence and repression.”
The Archbishop perceived a disconnect between religious symbolism and moral action. Mr Rubio is a vocal supporter of Israel’s military actions in Gaza, where, The Lancet now estimates, these have killed 64,260 Palestinians — 59 per cent of them children, women, and the elderly — and aid and electricity have now been cut off, exacerbating an already dire humanitarian crisis. Mr Rubio’s ashes, a public symbol of private repentance, were politicised because his personal faith was weighed against his policy decisions.
Mr Mazraoui’s fast-breaking was not about making a public statement: it was a practical necessity. It did not invite scrutiny of the alignment of his faith with his actions, and, ironically, conformed to Christ’s warning against ostentation in faith: “When you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites; for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by others.” The footballer, rather, told fans: “Sometimes, I even perform better during Ramadan because it’s a holy month. My faith gives me strength and also drives me on the pitch.” That day, he gave one of his best performances in a United shirt.
But there was another point of contrast. The moment’s pause in the game, which had been agreed in advance with the Arsenal players and the football authorities, was also a demonstration of respect and support from his team-mates and his on-pitch rivals, which had an echo of those Covid times: the acts of kindness and compassion, and the sense of solidarity.
Pope Francis, entering his fourth week in the hospital in which he has beeen treated for double pneumonia, sent out a message to the world in his Sunday Angelus. In it, he called for a “miracle of tenderness” to accompany everyone facing adversity, so that they might perceive “a little light in the night of pain”. Faith, he reminded us, should be a guiding principle for action, not a performative piety.
