Yesterday was Ash Wednesday – a day that, for Christians in the west, marks the first day of Lent. The period of Lent is the 40 days leading up to Easter and echos the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert fasting and enduring temptations (Matthew 4:1-11; Mark 1:12-13; Luke 3:1-13). For those who observe it, Lent is period of reflection, repentance, confession, and sacrifice.
In Biblical times, ashes were often associated with repentance and lament. A common practice at Ash Wednesday services is to receive a cross of ash on one’s forehead – this is called ‘the imposition of ashes’. (Hopefully this clarifies some things for the clerk at the pet food store last night).
The imposition is often accompanied by the words such as “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” This language recalls the creation narrative in Genesis 2 (“Then the Lord God formed an earthling from the dust of the ground and breathed into its nostrils the breath of life, and the earthling became a living being.“) and the words from Ecclesiastes (“All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return.“)
My attendance at Ash Wednesday services is irregular, but I did attend last night and this reminder of origins and ends rolling around in my head since.
My daughter’s first reaction when I told her what was said was “That’s mean!” and promptly repeated them in her most threatening voice. That’s one way they could be understood – as a threat – though I don’t think they’re given in that spirit. Last night I received these words and the ashes from my pastor. She spoke them with a factual solemnity, acknowledging the reality that I, the person standing in front of her with whom she’s shared laughter and tears, was of the earth and would to earth return.
To hear these words not in an abstract sense, but spoken about and to you, as a shared recognition and reminder of who I am, was powerfully (re)orienting. “You, Chris, are made of dust, and to dust you will return.” As funeral director Thomas Lynch said, “…living as if you’re going to die does bring a certain meaning to life.”
Two somewhat paradoxical feelings arise in me as I reflect on this experience. There is a sense of urgency to hold on to this one life I have, to treasure and protect it. This perspective acknowledges the fragility of my life as a frail and precious thing. I can see my life as a thing of value precisely because it is so fragile.
The other feeling was one of release. I’m not sure I can explain this well, but it’s almost as if acknowledging my ‘smallness’, my ‘meaninglessness’, I am released from protecting my life and freed to use it. To act with a boldness and courage not possible if I’m busy holding on to or protecting my life. Think of those who take actions they know are risky, but nonetheless choose to act.
I’m not talking about being an adrenaline junky or some sort of personal growth strategy. I’m thinking of those working to protect their homes from industrial predators knowing they might be assassinated. Those who challenge the rich and powerful even though it might cost them their careers or reputations – just this weekend I spoke with Mennonites in the US who are struggling with exactly this, knowing that their questioning the policies of the new presidential administration may well result in the loss of federal financial support for their academic institutions, ultimately resulting in job losses. I think of those who enter places of violence and war to bring peace. People who, rather than clinging tenaciously to their lives, hold their lives loosely, to the point of offering them to others.
By accepting the insignificance of their lives, they are able to live lives of great significance.
I am insignificant dust, and in this find my significance. This is a gift of Ash Wednesday and Lent: the freedom of insignificance.
“For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it.” ~Jesus
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