In the Shadow of the Cross: A Shared Carnival History

By Camille Mc Millan Rambharat

Recently, my husband and I attended a National Trust event on the Midnight Robber. Listening to the history of Carnival and the stories that time can easily erase stirred, something in us. We found ourselves sharing childhood memories of our first encounters with the Midnight Robber, Jab Jab, and the other ‘scary’ Carnival characters.

I remember that once Dimanche Gras ended, my parents would return home for my three brothers and I,  waking us while it was still dark to head into Port of Spain for J’Ouvert. My father worked at the Express building on Independence Square, directly facing the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, so that corner became our family’s Carnival spot. It was there, quite literally in the shadow of the Cross, that the ‘devil’ confronted six-year-old me.

Black painted faces, red tongues, chains, tails, and figures running toward us shouting “coming for yah” could easily terrify a child. I remember the fear. I also remember the strange comfort of standing in front of the Cathedral. Even then, something about the Church felt steady.

As I grew older, I began to understand that Jab Jab’s black paint and exaggerated features were not about glorifying evil. They were satire. They were mockery of enslavers. They were resistant. Carnival, shaped by slavery and emancipation, became a space where the oppressed reclaimed power through performance. What once frightened me was, in fact, an inversion of power.

Carnival, as carne vale, farewell to flesh, was part of the Church’s calendar long before it became the greatest show on earth. It marked the final days before Lent, the forty-day journey of prayer, fasting, and repentance leading to Easter. It was never meant to stand alone. It was always meant to lead somewhere.

Before the ashes, there was celebration.

Before the desert, there was feasting.

In her wisdom, the Church understood something profound about human nature. We are body and soul. We long for joy, music, colour, and community. Before entering the solemn season that mirrors Christ’s forty days in the desert, Catholics celebrated. Then, on Ash Wednesday, we kneel and remember that we are dust and to dust we shall return.

In our cultural memory, we even sing it playfully. David Rudder’s lyric, “If the priest could play, who is we?” from High Mas captures that uniquely Trinbagonian blending of sacred and secular. Carnival became both Catholic and Caribbean, both liturgical and liberating.

Over time, its spiritual roots have become less visible. What began as preparation for Lent can feel disconnected from repentance. The line between celebration and excess can blur. And yet, the ashes still come.

The Church does not cancel Carnival. She completes it.

She invites us to move from noise to silence, from indulgence to introspection, from performance to prayer. In the tension between flesh and spirit, Carnival reveals our humanity. Lent refines it. Clergy such as Fr Emmanuel Pierre reminds us that the Church is not disconnected from culture. When priests show up, not to endorse excess but to accompany their people, it reflects something deeply pastoral.

Perhaps the deeper question is not whether Carnival belongs in a Catholic society. Historically, it already does. The real question is whether we remember where it leads.

Can we celebrate culture without losing conscience?

Can we dance on Monday and Tuesday and still bow our heads on Wednesday?

As the music fades and costumes are folded away, the ashes remain. In the rhythm between Carnival and Lent, we stand once more in the shadow of the Cross, reminded that every celebration is meant to lead us home.