Ash Wednesday & Stating the Obvious

February 17, 2021

Ash Wednesday

Columbus, Ohio

There are basically two ways to get into the main entrance to the seminary: a long sloping ramp and a staircase. That's the staircase in the picture. Well, somewhere under all of that snow is the staircase. Beyond the barrier that's been erected. Beyond the sign that reads: "Stairs Are Closed." Duh.

Ash Wednesday is a little bit like that sign on the snowy staircase, at least this year. Ash Wednesday is the day in the life of the Church when we remember our mortality. Or to put it in the words of Scripture that the liturgy for the day borrows: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

As a pastor, saying those words to people you love and serve among is a truly profound and holy task. Wise Elder, remember that you are dust. Faithful servant, remember that you are dust. Squirmy toddler, remember that you are dust. Sulking teen, remember that you are dust. Wee babe, remember that you are dust. Pregnant one, remember that you are dust.

This year, or should I say, after this year that we've endured, a year of so much death, a year of so many reminders of our mortality, a year when every time we saw the latest statistics we remembered....we remembered....we are dust....and to dust we shall return. This year, the ashes on our foreheads are like the sign on the snowy staircase. They state the obvious. Of course we are dust. Yes. And we always have been. But this year....this year too many beloveds returned to the dust before their time. And every time we knew it could be us. It would be us.

I will never forget the first time I presided over an Ash Wednesday liturgy. I was a senior in this same seminary and serving as stated supply at a very small parish in a crossroads of a town. The small gathering of maybe a dozen folks included two newcomers. One of them had just gotten out of jail and his face was tattooed with teardrops, which I had heard meant that he had either attempted or committed murder. He and his companion demurred when I invited them to join the others in a circle in the chancel. But encouraged and welcomed by the others, they stepped among them. Ten or so faithful followers of Jesus, serving and following in that place. Remember....remember that you are dust I said, anointing them all with shadow. Remember....remember that you are dust. And I knew at that moment of the depth of God's grace....for that newly released man and his friend and for those wise elders accompanying one another along the way. Because as we began to say the Lord's Prayer, I glanced outward and noted that the gnarled hand of the farmer had grasped the hand of the man with the tattoos and the tears that now marked his face were real and salty and earthy. God's love, like ashes, like snowy staircases that are unwise to use....God's love for us, God's dusty beloveds....is just that obvious.