Now I am one of those baby preachers. I’m often aware of all
the things I don’t know, despite a Master of Divinity hanging on my wall. And I’m
often struck powerfully, painfully, truly by the grace that I sometimes talk so
much about that it becomes subject rather than reality.
I’ve been appointed to my church for 3½ years now. I’ve gotten
to know so many of the people deeply. Their faces are dear to me and I know
their stories. In teaching an older adult Sunday school class recently, I was
able to step out onto political limbs for the sake of the gospel because I was
entirely confident that I love them, and they know it, and they love me back.
It’s an amazing place from which to do ministry.
So tonight, on Ash Wednesday, which has never been my favorite day of the liturgical year, I choked up…again.
I didn’t remember it from last year, but as I looked into all of these dear
faces, young and old, dipping my thumb into the bowl of ashes to trace there
the symbol of death which has become a promise of life for us, I found my voice
breaking. I see an upturned face, an expectant waiting. I approach. I press my
thumb into the black grit. I
trace a broad down stroke, with the words, “Remember you are dust…” And as I
seal the sign across their brow, “…and to dust you shall return.”
Ah me! Across the wrinkles, I wrote it. Across the smooth
skin of children, where time has left no sign yet, I wrote it. Across the foreheads
of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, wives, husbands,
grandparents, grandchildren, I wrote it. I wrote the fatal/immortal sign and felt
the anticipated pain of losing them to this mortal sight.
To me, the reminder of our mortality is unwelcome. I don’t
like being dust! I’m so much more, as I preached one Ash Wednesday a few years
back. Death and the fear of death hang around all of us, why must our faith
remind us of it, too? Just look at the pop culture, where men and women spend
small fortunes to remain forever young. We all fear the march of time that robs
us of vigor and spirits our loved ones away.
And yet, I know the hope in this day is that death does not
have final say. Even as we enter Lent, even as we remember that we are but dust
that our Eternal Creator crafted in the palm of an almighty hand, we know we
are precious creatures who find their eternal home in God.
As William Wordsworth puts it in his Ode: Intimations of Immortality,
“The Soul
that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath
had elsewhere its setting,
And
cometh from afar:
Not
in entire forgetfulness,
And
not in utter nakedness,
But
trailing clouds of glory do we come
From
God, who is our home:
Heaven
lies about us in our infancy!”
This is my "who am I?" for the #rethinkchurch photo-a-day project for Lent. Follow me to see more: @UMeldergirl |
So while I may not like Ash Wednesday, I do my best to
wrestle with it and find its blessing, as Jacob taught. And I pray that I never
become so hardened or practical or accustomed to grace that these moments fail
to move me toward tears.
But when I got home, just before my 2½ year old’s
bedtime, grace continued to abound. He saw me, pointed to my forehead, and
laughed. Mommy had a dirty forehead. Oh yes, child, and how much dirtier am I
within. But there is good news for me and for you and for all us dirty folks.
What are your thoughts on Ash Wednesday? I’d love to hear
your take.
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