03\13\25 | A Reflection on Ash Wednesday

(The ideas and opinions expressed within these specific posts are meant to be self-reflective of my theological praxis and are in no way or form intended to be prescriptive, doctrinal, or persuasive. )

"...you are dust, and to dust you shall return." - The Book of the Genesis, Chapter 3, Verse 19b

"The first day of Lent. It marks the beginning of a period of reflection and penance. In the Bible, sprinkling oneself with ashes was traditionally a sign of one's sorrow for having committed sins. In the Christian tradition, Ash Wednesday also marked the beginning of preparation for the understanding of the death and resurrection of Christ." - The United Methodist Church

Beginning my journey of faith within the Indian Baptist tradition, the two prominent Christian holidays we celebrated were Easter and Christmas. It wasn't until I became affiliated with the United Methodist Church that I learned about the 'Seasons of the Church,' the 'Church Calendar,' and other 'holy days' or 'seasons' such as Epiphany, Advent, Pentecost, and Lent.

In learning to appreciate the 'Seasons of the Church,' I sincerely appreciated changing the paraments (church decorations) for each season and the ever-shifting colors of green, gold, white, red, blue, and purple.

In many of the 'Mainline' Christian denominations, we begin the Season of Lent on Ash Wednesday, where the cleric holds a ceremony where the palms paraded through the Church earlier in the year on Palm Sunday are burned. These ashes are then mixed with some oil (I use olive oil) to make a salve, which is then applied to the forehead in the mark of a cross.

The service is solemn, and the atmosphere is generally heavy. For those who observe, Lent begins a brief journey through what I often refer to as the 'Valley of the Shadow of Death'- participants are encouraged to take a step back, reflect on the past years, and take note and inventory of our journies through our faith.

As we travel through this valley through Lent into Holy Week and Easter, the season challenges us to remember our mortality, humanity, failings, and misgivings.

Now, you'll often hear me from the pulpit wax poetically about the Season of Advent- the month before Christmas- where the Church eagerly awaits the birth of Christ and His presence. Advent is meant to be an exciting time of anticipating the end of one calendar year and the endless possibilities of the year yet to come. In this season, I emphasize the four main themes of Advent: hope, peace, joy, and love. In Advent, I find that I'm at my most composed- energized and eager to create worship services, sermons, and hymn selections around these four themes.

Yet, truth be told (and indeed, I tell you the truth), Lent is the season where I believe the most profound transformations can and do occur. In this season, in an almost ironic way, Lent is when I feel in my element.

Let me explain:

Lent begins with Ash Wednesday and, along with Good Friday, composes the bookend holy days of the season. For the past two years, I've invited church members to take some time and write down their regrets on scraps of paper. As I burn the palm leaves, I sit in silence and pray. As the palms burn to ash, I take a separate vessel and burn those regrets alongside them. I never read them or take note of them, although I find there is always one scrap of paper much longer than the others.

I live and carry many regrets on my body, in my mind, around my spirit, and etched within my soul. There are many, many things that I've failed to do, and I constantly struggle to reconcile the reality of the linear passage of time and the cyclical nature these seasons of the Church challenge us to travel through. Every year, despite the embers- despite the ashes- my long list of regrets, mistakes, missteps, and sins grows ever longer.

When Ash Wednesday comes around, I am at my most human.

In this service, I take this salve of ashes and oil, bless them, and apply a temporary mark to encourage those present to consider an eternal and undeniable truth: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Please take a moment and reflect on that statement.

And yes, before you dismiss what I've asked of you, there is, indeed, the "hope of Heaven" spoken of by the likes of the theologian Charles Spurgeon and homilist Billy Graham and the saint Paul of Tarsus- but please, I implore you- take some time to absorb those words.

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

Can you imagine?

Please don't misunderstand me; I don't offer this question as food for thought. I don't pose this for your consideration so that you might regurgitate the doctrine of your religion, nor do I intend to give this as an opportunity for you to conceptualize some intellectual, rational, or rhetorical defense- indeed, I ask you, friend, with all of the seriousness and all of the consideration due to such a question- can you imagine what it means to know, believe, think, feel, experience, understand, and embody throughout of your entire being that you and I are made of dust- of atoms, of molecules, of cells, of blood and sinew and muscles and fat and bone and bile- that we are made of all of the mundane and simple components of the universe, and, when all and all is both said and done, each and every one of us will return back into those things from which we came?

Again, I ask you to please take a moment and consider what this means.

I am often accused of thinking too deeply about many things, but what could be more profound than affirming that which, it seems, many try and fail to dismiss, make light of, or ignore constantly- the inevitability of death?

As an aside, I've observed that many of my colleagues within the clergy either make light of this ceremony- posting 'silly' or 'funny' pictures of these marks, inviting others to engage in frivolous Rorschach testing- or hastily speed through the liturgy, treating the ritual as one of the many necessary yet unnecessary acts within the great performance of what we call religion. I apologize in advance for writing in such a cavalier tone; I can't seem to wrap my mind around the idea that anyone could leave such a somber and sacred space with a smile on their face.

To this end, I was in equal measure shocked and amazed that I was asked last year to place ashes on the children of our Church and, even more so, being asked to do the same to a baby. It was a great honor, but it was also equally terrifying. I held my composure, but I trembled inside. It shook me. I looked these sweet, innocent children in their eyes, marked their foreheads with this mixture of ash and oil, and said to them, with all sincerity, that, one day, they will all die.

In this ritual, I am at my most human- in this brief act of marking ourselves for death, I can do no more or no less than the Spirit can empower me to do- for I, far too often, cannot yet comprehend nor genuinely appreciate this simple yet profound truth.

In my years of vocational ministry, being asked and called upon to administer this rite or prepare this ritual never gets easier.

Several folks within our local Church who were present to receive the ashes were not here to receive them this year. While I'm writing about making light of such an observance of this ritual, I have never in my life ever been involved in a situation where someone was "ready to go." I've not had the experience where someone has died when it was expected or convenient. I understand that many have, and I thank God for that.

Yet I cannot say with or in good faith that I believe anyone anywhere could ever be truly ready for the end of this journey, regardless of how much faith or assurance they have. I also understand that someone of my station should not admit such things, as it could get me 'in trouble' (whatever that means), but I am not yet convinced. I will one day, but that day is not today, so please pray that God might give me over to understanding or that I may come to believe that such things can and will be beyond my grasp.

That is not to say that faith or belief in whatever may come after this life is a silly thing to hold on to, but I have not yet died. I have, however, had, as they say, one foot in the grave several times over, and from my experience, the knowledge and understanding of soteriology (that is, the study of "how" salvation "works") was never enough to shake the specter of death off of me in those seasons where my body, mind, and spirit failed me.

Enough about me; concerning Ash Wednesday, I didn't truly understand the depth and breadth of the ashes or their purpose until I was presented with a six-month-old baby to impose them on. What sins has this child committed? For what action or inaction does this child need to atone for? What regrets does this baby carry within them?

I am not convinced that God could find any fault in this baby, and yet I held them in my arms and reminded them of something they did not yet know- that this gift, this life, this creation, is, as all things are, made of dust- and to dust they will one day return.

Again, I say, what a profound experience.

Earlier, I asked you to suspend your (dis)belief- to take a moment to consider your morality, regrets, and sins without relying on what you've been told, what you can conjure, and what you've been made to believe.

And so, after I imposed the ashes of palm leaves and retired to the patio for the night, I sat there, praying over an old saucepan filled with ash scraps of scribbled paper.

I began to intercede for the authors of regret- found myself crying over a rusty pot of ashes- imagining all of the sins, mistakes, and missteps unseen- and, like how I imagine the God I serve does, scattered them to the wind.

What an honor.

What a horror.

The Season of Lent represents one of the many cycles- the times in our lives when we lived as people who did not have an assurance or understanding of a life after this one- when there was a high possibility that many could (and would) die on the journey with us as we travel through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

We remember when tomorrow was not guaranteed.

We are reminded that, despite our greatest efforts, we only have today.

Let us never be so self-assured of tomorrow, the next day, or the next life that we do not seek to right the wrongs we've made, resolve our regrets with ourselves, one another, and God, and forget something that we do not yet truly understand nor know- that we, as all things, are made of dust- and to dust we will one day return.