Ashes, Ashes

Here we are: Lent again.  This season takes considerable spiritual discipline, a trust that goes far deeper than human ingenuity and initiative.  In the days of my parish ministry, I remember well the rigors of preparing to preach twice (sometimes three times) a week during Lent.  I remember how sanctuary lighting was always so dim.  It was harder to see at night than in the light of day.  The light was always subdued.  The windows were darkened to those on the inside; the light was reversed, flowing inside out. 

To keep Ash Wednesday among a people who resist a demonstrative faith was always a challenge.  We heard Jesus say, "Beware of practicing your piety before other people."  It gave us reason to resist the smudge of ash.  We had all the rationalizations ready to resist the ancient practice.  But, in every church, there was a group eager for the ashes.  I would number myself among them.  There is something special, holy in the ritual reminder that I am mortal, a creature of the Creator, who belongs--body and soul, in life and in death to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ.

I remember Ash Wednesday and how the line would form, moving forward in silent somberness--young and old, the well-to-do and those with so very little.  We all came for the mark of the cross, a mark that would soon turn to a gritty smudge.  The vestments and thumb of the celebrant were often deeply marked too. 

I remember Ash Wednesday and how I learned a different way.  The imposing expression, "Remember that you are dust, and to the dust you shall return.  Repent, and believe the Gospel" was transformed to "Remember that we are dust, and to the dust we shall return.  Repent, and believe in the Gospel."  I needed to be included in the mortality and in the community that entrusts itself to God.  We are not alone, even as the ashes are imposed.  I remember choking on the ash, as those getting "treatments" came forward in their feebleness and frailty.  It was hard to whisper the word about dust in the ear of the dying; but it was, for many of those with a difficult diagnosis--a call to a deeper trust.  Our hope is in the One who knows the dust and ashes of our lives and is able to create anew.

I remember Ash Wednesday.  In the line would be little children and babies carried forward in the arms of their parents and grandparents.  What is the word for this child on Ash Wednesday?  "Remember, that Jesus loves you and will be with you always."  I took great liberty with the literal words when the little children came.  What more important word for a child at the beginning of life's journey?  "Remember that you are loved by a Gracious and Merciful God, who loves you--dust, ashes, and all.  You will never be abandoned.  You will never be forgotten.  You will never be alone."

I remember Ash Wednesday, and a simple song called "Ashes" by Tom Conroy:

We rise again from ashes,
from the good we've failed to do.
We rise again from ashes,
to create ourselves anew.
If all our world is ashes,
then must our lives be true,
An offering of ashes,
An offering to You.

We offer You our failures,
we offer You attempts;
The gifts not fully given,
the dreams not fully dreamt.
Give our stumblings direction,
give our visions wider view,
An offering of ashes,
An offering to You.

On this Ash Wednesday, deeper than all my remembering, I hope in the God who calls me back to the ashes . . . and through the ashes to life. 

Blessed Lent, sisters and brothers, . . . Blessed Lent!