Yesterday, on Ash Wednesday, the Christian practice of Lent began: forty days of preparation for Resurrection—the zenith of faith. While in church, I witnessed an eclectic parade of coordinated bodies in procession toward the altar, where the priest marked each person’s forehead with a cross of ashes. By acknowledging every human’s origin and end in ashes and dust, we are moved toward more than a month of fasting and spiritual growth. In the spirit of ecumenism, similar practices are common to different religions and ways of life: Islamic Ramadan, Jewish Yom Kippur, classical Greek Stoicism, Buddhist bodhisattva practices, and the list goes on.

Yet, what is the point of fasting in our modern lives? Giving up food is a kind of outdated practice: we do it every day for our ethos or, much more realistically, our bodies. Complying with social standards, fasting is a year-round norm rather than a Lent exception. Vegetarian, vegan, low-fat, non-fat, low-carb, zero trans-fats… you name it, Whole Foods has it. In a world with staggering numbers of anorexics and bulimics, it would be senseless to argue that such often-paranoid food obsessions clear our minds in the same way they did for those ascetics in the desert, in remembrance of Jesus’ meditations preceding his ministry. Therefore, one of the pillars of fasting has been destroyed: whereas giving up meat, milk, or food in general might have once been a highway to a better spiritual life in the starving Middle Ages, it is not so in the Information Age. Sorry, wrong path to the meaning of life.

But everything is not lost. After seeing the ash-trace on many people across the Yard yesterday, I realized there is actually something we could give up that would enhance our spiritual lives, something as meaningful to us as abundant food for hungry Medieval city dwellers. As I saw the symbol of my religious holiday on my forehead, I also noted the myriad other symbols I carried around: an Oakley backpack, signature iPod headphones, a Nike swoosh on my running shoes, designer jeans and sweater, and I did not even dare look in my closet…the list would require an op-ed. Let’s not be hypocritical: one cannot stand in the Yard for over sixty seconds without seeing a Louis Vuitton bag, Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, or a Longchamps purse. To you, posh Harvard campus, I propose that, instead of food, we give up the excessive importance of brands in our lives.

This is not about a belated Marxist revolution (don’t worry Dad, I root for free markets), but the expression of the undeniable fact that our society makes qualitative judgments based on material possessions. Some years ago, several teenagers committed murder to get hold of Nike Jordan sneakers, just like many have been killed in iPod-related assaults. This is not even about Professor John K. Galbraith’s argument on advertisements creating mirages of brand loyalty, but about our social motto of “you are what you own.” Food obsessions and brand deification are instances of the same materialist problem.

Thus, true sacrifice in our modern lives requires us to give up ephemeral and empty value-association on others and ourselves based on brands. You can call it futile, but there is a romance about lost wars. You can call it hypocritical, as this very article mentions brands. After all, Lent becomes the perfect time to realize that Louis Vuitton bag will also go back…to ashes.

Pierpaolo Barbieri ’09, a Crimson editorial editor, lives in Thayer Hall.