Why Does Church Smell Like That? (And Other Important Lenten Questions)

A Reflection on the Season of Lent

Every year about this time, something changes.

The music shifts.  The colors deepen.  The Alleluias disappear.  The air smells faintly of smoke and something ancient.  We kneel a little more.  We grow quiet a little faster.

If you are new to the Episcopal Church—or eight years old—or simply paying attention anew this year—you might reasonably ask: why?

In the spirit of holy curiosity (which is a very Anglican virtue, btw), here are some of Lent’s most important questions, asked the way I often hear them from children, and answered for all of us.

“Why do we put dirt on our heads?”

It is a fair question.  On Ash Wednesday, we hear the words from Genesis: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”The ashes are not about humiliation; they are about truth.  They remind us that we are not God. They remind us that our lives are fragile, finite, and deeply precious.

In Scripture, ashes are a sign of repentance and humility.  When the people of Nineveh turn back to God, even their king sits in ashes (Jonah 3:6). But repentance does not mean groveling.  It means turning.  Re-centering.  Realigning a wandering heart.

When the cross is traced on each forehead, the same mark is given to everyone.  Children.  Elders.  Choir members.  Clergy.  We come forward one by one, and we leave marked the same way.  Dust, all of us.  Beloved, all of us.  That is not shame.  That is grace.

“Why is everything purple?

No, the color is intentional. And it's not purple, it’s violet! (Okay, that is purple, but it sounds fancier in liturgy textbooks to say violet…)

In the ancient world, purple was associated with royalty.  And in John’s Gospel, they mocked Jesus by putting a purple robe on him, so by extension, in the Church’s life, purple has come to signal preparation, watchfulness, and repentance.

Lent is not gloomy for gloom’s sake.  It is a royal preparation.  We are preparing our hearts for the King to be declared.  The color itself teaches without speaking.  It tells our eyes that this season is different than the whites of celebration festivals, or the greens of ordinary time.  Slow down.  Pay attention.  Something is happening here.

Purple invites depth.  It invites seriousness, but not despair.  It is the color of expectation, of a people waiting for resurrection.

“Why did the Alleluias go away? I liked those.”

We all do! “Alleluia” means “Praise the Lord” in Greek.  It is the Church’s word of unrestrained joy. During Lent, we fast from that word.  We do not discard it; we “bury” it.  Especially with our children at JoyMass, we make that act tangible.  We teach them—and ourselves—that joy sometimes grows deeper through longing.

The psalmist writes, “As the deer longs for the water-brooks, so longs my soul for you, O God” (Psalm 42:1).  Lent trains that longing.  When we silence the Alleluia for a time, we are not rejecting praise.  We are sharpening it. On Easter morning, when that word returns, it will not be casual.  It will ring. Silence makes joy louder.

“Why does it smell smoky in here?”

Ah yes, incense.  You are not imagining it.

Incense is as old as worship itself. “Let my prayer be set forth in your sight as incense,” the psalmist prays (Psalm 141:2). In Revelation, the prayers of the saints rise before God like fragrant smoke (Revelation 8:3–4).

When we use incense, we are reminded that worship engages more than our thoughts.  We are not brains on sticks. We kneel.  We stand.  We taste bread and wine.  We hear Scripture proclaimed.  And sometimes, we smell prayer.

The rising smoke is a visible sign of something invisible.  Our prayers—spoken and unspoken—are not lost. They rise.  Even the quiet ones. Even the confused ones.  Incense draws us into mystery, and mystery is not a problem to solve. It is a reality to enter.

“Why do we kneel more in Lent?”

Because sometimes the body teaches the heart what the heart has forgotten. Saint Paul writes that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend (Philippians 2:10).  Kneeling is not about humiliation.  It is about humility, which is simply honesty before God.

In Lent we practice that honesty.  We acknowledge that we are not self-sufficient, not invincible, not the authors of our own salvation.  Posture shapes prayer.  When the body bows, the soul often follows.

“Is Lent supposed to be sad?”

Not exactly.  Lent is serious, but it is not hopeless.  Saint Paul speaks of a “godly grief” that leads to salvation (2 Corinthians 7:10).  There is a kind of sorrow that folds inward and suffocates.  That is not what the Church intends in Lent.  Lent is clear-eyed.  It invites us to ask where we have drifted, whom we have failed to love well, and what has captured our attention more than Christ.

But every confession we pray begins with “Most merciful God” not “Most disappointed God” or “Most angry God.”  That distinction matters.  The work of repentance happens inside the larger reality of mercy.

“Why do grown-ups give things up?”

Because love sometimes requires space.  Jesus fasted in the wilderness for forty days (Matthew 4:1–11).  Israel wandered in the wilderness for forty years and learned that they did not live by bread alone (Deuteronomy 8:3). Fasting in Lent is not about proving spiritual strength.  It is about loosening our grip on what we think sustains us.

When we fast—from distractions, from noise, from habits that crowd our attention—we begin to notice our attachments.  We rediscover our dependence on God.  It can also reveal how irritable we become when comforts are removed, which is spiritually clarifying in its own way.

“Why does church feel quieter?”

Because Lent is a training ground for attention.  We live in a loud age.  There is always another headline, another notification, another reason to react.  Lent invites us to stillness. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). Silence is not empty; it is spacious. In that space, the Spirit works.

When we step back from the ashes and colors and incense and missing Alleluias, what is this season actually for?

Lent is not a self-improvement season.  It is realignment season.  It is forty days to remember who we are and whose we are. It is time to return our attention to Christ, to let love reorder our priorities.

Through the prophet Isaiah, God tells the people that the fast he chooses is not performance but mercy: loosening the bonds of injustice, feeding the hungry, sheltering the vulnerable (Isaiah 58:6–7).  Lent sharpens our sight so that we can see where love is most needed and strengthens our resolve to act.

We do not walk this road alone.  We kneel together.  We fast together.  We wait together.  And when Easter dawns, when purple gives way to white and the Alleluia bursts forth again, we will not simply celebrate an event long past. We will celebrate a people reshaped by grace.

So pay attention to the ashes.  Notice the color.  Breathe in the incense. Listen to the quiet.  The Church, in her ancient wisdom, is teaching our hearts how to hope.

A blessed and happy Lent to us all!

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben +