Together [Ash Wednesday]

Together

 

You don’t need the ashes that will be left on your forehead today.  You do not need to wear the charred remains of burnt palm leaves on your face.  You do not need to showcase my dusty thumbprint for your co-workers or for the other parents in the school pick-up line.  You don’t need these ashes.  These ashes, they only say what is already known.  To some they will say that you are strange; people probably already know that, probably already think that.  To some they will say you are religious, a Christian; hopefully people don’t need ashes to know that.

 

And while these ashes might remind others that you are strange and religious, that is not the point of this Lenten exercise.  These ashes are nothing more than a sign of your frailty: of the mistakes you make, of the comings of which you fall short, and of the death you will someday die.  They are for you, but you do not need them.  I suspect you do not need any more reminders of your mortality.  You already have the news, your doctor, and also the mirror.

 

It’s actually kind of amazing that any of us can even get out of bed in the morning.  The sad state of the world dominates the headlines; sin and misery barrage our weary souls.  We live on a planet with earthquakes and mass shootings and COVID and wars and car crashes and heart disease and cancer.  We hear stories of horrible freak accidents; we watch videos of people doing terrible things to other people.  Death is stalking us – and it is not even all that subtle about it. 

 

We are dust, and to dust we shall return.  And we know it.  Even if we successfully put mortality out of mind temporarily, we know it.  And I wonder how is it even possible that we are all just walking around every day knowing that our story will, one day, any day now, suddenly end.  We are forced to know this life’s final destination but also are left to puzzle helplessly over the what, when, why, and how.  We only know the “who” in advance.  And the “who” is you and it is me.

 

I think about it, death – maybe more than I should; but then again, for me it is part of the job.  And, I’ll admit, despite my hope, and my faith, and my trust in the love and goodness of God, it still makes me anxious; it still makes my stomach turn.  Like climbing an impossibly steep rollercoaster ascent or peeking over the edge of a dizzying cliff.  When I see those black ashes in my reflected face, I see the future.  And I do believe that it will all be OK and also I wish I knew for sure.

 

It’s hard to have to speculate about something so significant and permanent.  But I’ll tell you what strengthens my hope: every time I have sat at a bedside or touched the cheek of someone dying or held a hand going cold, I have felt, deep in my soul, that death is not as terrifying as it seems to the living.  In those moments I always feel peace – like there is nothing to worry about.  It does feel like there is something eternal and beautiful in the moment after the moment.  It does feel like the presence of God, like heaven is not as far away as we have been told.

 

Every time I am in that place of dying, it feels like death is something we do not face alone.  Like in the moment of death we are held in the heart of God and surrounded by a great company of love and prayer.  And more than ashes, that is why we are called to spend these first moments of Lent together.  We wear the same ashes.  We carry the same mortal burden.  We bear the same frailty.  Ash Wednesday is not for me; it is not for you.  It is not something we pick up on the street corner or in the midst of the bustle.  Ash Wednesday is about the us.  It is about this holy solidarity.  It is about how we live and die together.

 

Because the living and dying are too hard to do alone.  Today we wear ashes on our faces and blood on our lips and scars on our hearts.  Together.  And we fill this room with our desperate prayers and vulnerable confessions.  Together.  And we take on this Lenten season – with its demands and salvations.  Together. 

 

You do not need these ashes.  But you do need these precious piles of dust, these mortals, these people with whom you share this space.  You need them; they need you.  We need each other.  Ash Wednesday is a reminder that we have hands to hold, that we do not stumble into the future alone, that we do not fall into the abyss alone.  We die together.  And we do so with this eternal Easter promise: that the community that lives and dies together will also rise together.