Dust and ashes touch our face

Ash Wednesday

Dust and ashes touch our face,‌‌
mark our failure and our falling.
‌‌Holy Spirit, come,‌‌
walk with us tomorrow,‌‌
take us as disciples,‌‌
washed and wakened by your calling.‌‌
(Brian Wren, Dust and Ashes Touch Our Face, ‌‌
© 1989 Hope Publishing Company)

We shuffled forward in the church's center aisle to face our fate toward the front – ashes. In front of me was Jim, a spry elderly man. He was dying of cancer, and the whole church knew it. The community had attempted to absorb the bad news earlier in the year. This would be his last imposition. The minister, my wife, looked him in the eyes, marked an ashen cross on his forehead, and pronounced compassionately,

"Dust you are, and to dust you shall return."

Good theology, harsh reality. How did Jim receive those words? What is Ash Wednesday to the dying?

Next in line back in the center aisle was my antsy son. He looked solemn and uncertain; his presence at this somber service was not his choice. My wife, the minister, looked at this precious child, who came from her own body, and proclaimed,

"Dust you are, and to dust you shall return."

Solid theology, devastating reality. How might a young one understand such? What is Ash Wednesday to the young and healthy?

Back in the center aisle, I was next. The minister, my wife, wiped a tear from her cheek – marking the forehead of her youngest had blessedly cracked open the professionalism – looked at her husband, the one who knew her across two decades, and uttered,

"Dust you are, and to dust you shall return."

Sound theology, startling reality. How might I absorb the news? What is Ash Wednesday to the self-sufficient?

I went back to my pew sensing how enormously odd it is to wear a cross of ashes on your forehead. It feels like a direct repudiation of the self-help industry, but deeper still. A disavowal of my anxious striving for better. A rejection of my productivity. With that blackened cross on my flesh, I walk around with my BEING on full display, and it's my DOING that I'm so eager to show off.

"You are humus, human, and to humus you shall return."

A Benediction (Or Miscellaneous Thoughts)

‌‌1. I would appreciate your help in spreading the word about this newsletter. So, if you know someone who might like to read a weekly collection of writings about the Bible, the liturgical year, and religious diversity, then please share Uncle Ishmael with them. I'm grateful.

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