Ash Wednesday

I used to dread Ash Wednesday. Seemed like such a dreary affair - all that talk of sackcloth and ashes, of fasting and penitence. As a pastor, I would dip my finger into the ash with reluctance. Sometimes I could barely bring myself to say the words while tracing the sign of the cross on a forehead, particularly one of tender young skin. “From dust you came and to dust you shall return.” How was that supposed to inspire our Lenten discipline? It made me want to curl up in a ball.

I saw death as the enemy who would come snatch us up sometime, most likely against our will. I feared the sound of the footsteps down the hall or the call in the middle of the night, bearing the news of death’s visitation. The empty place at the table, in the mind and heart, felt like a wound that would never heal. And what of these I’ve known and loved longer? I couldn’t bear the thought. So why dwell, even for one day, on our mortality?

“I’m just so glad you weren’t there Sis,” he kept saying to me over and over again. We had both just received the news that my house had burned down. Trying to wrap my head around all my worldly possessions and beloved home going up in flames, I couldn’t quite grasp his sense of relief. Not until about a week later, when in the middle of serving communion, that truth punctured my fragile heart: I might never have looked in a beloved’s eyes and handed them the Bread of Life ever again.

All I can say is that the acute awareness of death’s possibility then and certainty sometime changed the way I experienced life. It is all gift. For however long it is given. It is precious. It is fragile. It is not to be taken for granted. And in the light of the awesome gift of life and the reality of death, a lot of stuff simply doesn’t matter, not one bit. I was so grateful for that startling clarity.

Of course, like many revelatory moments or wake up calls, that one passed. The luminosity faded with time, and I can fall prey to sweating small stuff while taking the Big Picture for granted with the best of them. I can live my days as if they're innumerable.

But it has changed the way I approach Ash Wednesday. Death comes to some too soon, and to others not soon enough, but it comes to us all. That is the sobering truth. Being reminded of that is not a call to despair, but a call to life.

The invitation of Lent is to relish as gift this moment, this day, this life, this self, these companions, and this Love stronger than death holding all of us together. It is about knowing we are God’s Beloved, experiencing God’s longing for us and our longing for God. It is about returning Home to the Heart of our hearts from wherever we have been, whether we stormed away with willful determination, or just drifted away unintentionally in the rush and confusion of these days. It is about taking a long, loving look at how we are living or not living these precious lives we have been given, and how with God’s help, we might live with more grace, generosity and purpose.

On this Ash Wednesday, may we know that we are dust and to dust we will return. But by God’s exquisite design, we are also beloved, and to Love we shall ultimately return. Why wait? God is with us even now, waiting, waiting, always patiently waiting for our return.