Ash Wednesday Reflections

(Note- I'm using Lent and Easter Wisdom from Thomas Merton as my Lenten devotional this year. I'll be blogging the journaling prompts most days.)


"Even the darkest moments of the liturgy are filled with joy, and Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten fast, is a day of happiness, a Christian feast." ~Seasons of Celebration, p. 113

Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite liturgical holidays, but a day of happiness? Lent a season of celebration? I've never thought of them in that way. The ultimate outcome of this season: the Resurrection? Sure, that's joyful. But I've always thought of Ash Wednesday and Lent as fundamentally solemn times that make the joy of Easter that much greater by contrast.

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite liturgical holidays. Maybe it's because the corporate world hasn't found a way to squeeze greeting cards, furniture sales, and faux controversy ("keep the Christ in Christmas") out of it. Or maybe it's for the same reason one of my seminary professors talked about existentialists loving Fall "because of all this beautiful death around us".

Actually, the reason I love Ash Wednesday is how its symbols remind us of the cyclical nature of the liturgical calendar, and more broadly, the impermanence of life. Each year, we save the palm fronds from Palm Sunday, let them dry for eleven months, and then burn them to make the ashes we use to mark the beginning of another Lent. As bright and colorful as those palm fronds were last year, and as great as the children's procession into the sanctuary with them was, they end up dry and brittle, and one small spark turns them into a thick, black, ashy dust.

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

Last year, Ash Wednesday took on a new significance for me because it was the first time I put ashes on my daughter's forehead. She was just a few weeks old at the time, and was asleep when I did it, but it was still very sobering to think that even Kate, that energetic little girl with her whole life ahead of her, is just as mortal as any of us.

That lesson was brought back to me again this year, because she's now so mobile and active like a big person, and she was awake and looking at me curiously, wondering why I was smearing something on her when that's usually her job, and I'm the one always cleaning her off! She, too, will one day shuffle off his moral coil, though I pray that it's long after Jessica and I are gone.

I think our congregation was also much more aware of the impermanence of life this year. Our beautiful, historic church building was reduced to ashes, to dust it returned. Before we cleaned up the site, I went and collected some of the ashes in a jar, and I mixed them with the palm fronds this year. It served as a reminder to all of us that despite all the time and energy we're putting into the new building, one day it, too, will return to dust, as will we all.

Ashes

Last night I officiated the Ash Wednesday service, marking the beginning of Lent. I've done a number of these, but this particular liturgical holiday is always amazing to me. Jessica wrote a post about why it's so meaningful to her on our joint blog, The Parsonage Family. I share many of her feelings.

I guess this particular year was extra special since it was the first time Kate got to participate in the imposition of ashes. Smearing a cross of ashes on my 1 month old daughter's forehead and telling her to remember that she is dust was quite surreal, and not just because she has no concept of dust, mortality, or even self yet!

In a very strange way, it was comforting to perform this ritual that reminded us that Kate is mortal. Normally parents don't like to think about the fact that their children will one day die like everyone else. But it serves to counter-balance the tendency that all parents, especially parents of babies, have where we assume that our child is the center of the universe and that the fate of Western civilization hangs on whether we follow every proscribed step and make our child the most functional human being that ever lived.

Jessica, Kate, everyone I have ever known and loved, and I are all just tiny specks in the grand scheme of the universe. And yet we are deeply loved and cherished by God. That means we are freed to pursue our dreams and to do everything we can to make this world a better place. If we fail, the sun will still rise tomorrow, and if we succeed, all the better.

Let us remember that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. Thanks be to God.