The Irony of Being Marked with Ashes: A Reflection for Ash Wednesday

I’ve always thought that the Matthew lectionary text for Ash Wednesday was a bit of an odd choice. I’ve wondered about what person (or committee) made the decision to read this particular text on this particular day. I wonder if maybe they had a bit of an ironic streak in them. After all, here is Jesus, telling his disciples not to display their piety in public, and yet this is the one day of the year when we walk out of the church with a very visible symbol of our faith displayed for all the world to see-- a smudge of ashes on our foreheads in the shape of a cross. It’s a little bit ironic, don’t you think?

Yet, I do realize that at the heart of it, Ash Wednesday has never really been about a public show of piety. The ashes on our foreheads are a physical, outward manifestation of what the prophet Joel describes as the inner rending of our hearts--the act of turning away from all of those things that distract us from God and God’s purpose for our lives.

The dust on our foreheads is a reminder. It reminds us, first of all, of our own mortality. It reminds us that we too, someday, will die. No one really likes to be reminded of such things— even though it’s a reality we can hardly escape. It’s impossible, for example, to turn on the morning news without hearing word of a suicide bomber snuffing out the lives of innocent passers-by, or of a car accident that tragically ends the life of a young person. Not to mention there are very few of us who haven't had the experience of losing a dear friend or family member. Yet despite the fact that death intrudes upon our lives almost every day, we don’t often confront the fact of our own mortality— the fact that our lives are precious but frail, that we are not immune to death, and that every moment of this life is a gift. And so these ashes on our foreheads remind us to slow down, take stock of where we are, and to think about what really matters— to us, and to God.

Second, the ashes on our foreheads remind us of our own sinfulness. “Each and every one of us,” writes St. Paul, “falls short of the glory of God.” Now again, none of us really like to think too much about this. We like to think we are basically good people, doing the best we can. And in many ways, we are. But we all get distracted. We all find ourselves, at times, doing what is easy, rather than what we know is right. We might not be doing things that we consider evil or wicked, but perhaps sometimes, we let ourselves stay angry a little too long, or perhaps we act in ways that are a little too selfish. Or maybe we ignore the things that we know we ought to be doing. Remember that sin is not only about doing things we shouldn’t, but also neglecting to do the things that we know we should. Lent isn't only about saying 'no' to certain things. It's also about saying 'yes' to those things that will bring us closer to God. And so receiving the ashes on the first day of Lent serves as a reminder to us that we are imperfect creatures, and that we all need to take the time to be intentional about turning back to God.

Finally, the ashes on our foreheads remind us of who we are and where we come from as creations of a wonderful and awesome God. The dust on our foreheads reminds us that we are made of the same stuff as all of God’s wondrous creation— the earth beneath our feet, the grass and the trees, the ants and the butterflies, the giraffes and the honeybees. We are part of something so much larger than ourselves, so much greater than our own frail and imperfect bodies. We are part of an indescribable network of life-- connected at our very core with all the wonders of God’s creation.


Quite frankly, at the end of the day, I can’t help but be a little glad that our response to this text from Matthew, year after year, is to do something that makes our faith so clearly visible to the world around us. I’m glad because very often this text is interpreted to mean that faith is a private matter— not something to bleed into our everyday lives. Not something to be brought up in polite company. Such interpretations of this text can lead us to believe that our faith is something to be tended to only in the quiet solitude of our homes or the safety of church on Sunday morning. However as we enter into yet another season of Lent, as we prepare to be marked with ashes yet again, it seems to me that the world can no longer afford such a view. Our world has so much brokenness in it. So much suffering, war,
disease, and destruction. If we recognize our interconnectedness with every other life and creature on this planet, then we recognize we are not only connected to the glory of God’s creation, but to all of it’s brokenness as well. We are connected to all who suffer from broken hearts. We are connected to those who struggle with disease and inadequate health care. We are connected to the poor and homeless members of not only our own local communities, but also all across the globe. The dust that marks our foreheads also marks the foreheads of AIDS orphans in Africa, migrant workers in Florida, and refugees in Tunisia. We are connected with those who sit in jail cells, those who are victims of violence, and those who perpetrate it. We are connected with those who struggle for freedom and those who have no freedom to speak for themselves. Finally we are connected with this earth that God gave us to tend to. We are connected to the tress that give us the air that we breath, and the plants that produce the food that we eat. If we recognize our connections to all of these things— then we also must recognize that our fate is bound up in theirs—that their peril is our peril. And if we see that, then our faith is never merely a private enterprise.

And so the question for all of us this Lenten season might be: what are the things that are distracting us-- not only from God-- but also from our deep connection to all of God’s creation? What is distracting you from your connection to our world in peril, and how is God calling you— in this moment-- to begin to mend it? As you receive your ashes this morning, and as you journey through this Lenten season, take some time to think about how your life is bound up in the lives of others. Take some time to think about how your precious life— given to you as a gift by God— can become a gift to the world.

Entering the Wilderness

I often think to myself that Lent is one of my favorite seasons. Which is kind of funny, since I also seem to be particularly bad at it. As a former Catholic, I still tend to associate Lent with self-deprivation-- a season of fasting, of giving up luxuries like television and chocolate. And as a Catholic, I was never very good at self-deprivation. I remember years that I gave up chocolate, and finding ways to sneak a bite before Easter Sunday came around. I remember one year in particular, when I decided to give up sweets, and then, about halfway through Lent, my order of Girl Scout cookies came in. Needless to say, my Lenten discipline went down the drain in about as much time as it takes to open a box of Samoas.

Every year, I gave up something. And every year, I failed miserably. Yet Lent has always remained my favorite liturgical season. I guess the only explanation is that it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the meaning of the season.

I love Lent because it is a time when we get to be explicit about our foibles and failings as human beings. It is a time when we don't have to pretend to be perfect. It is a time for us to recognize our own brokenness, and the brokenness of the world around us, without feeling like we're killing the mood. Lent is all about being in the wilderness-- it's all about journeying into the dark places of our lives, and having faith that we can make it out again come Easter time.

To help me reflect on the meaning of Lent this year, I have been reading the theology of Sallie McFague. She uses a metaphor that I find particularly meaningful as we enter into the Lenten season. She lifts up the metaphor of the world as God's body. Every aspect of creation, she says, is a part of the very Body of God. As the creator of the world, God is "radically present" in every part of the world. This Lent, I would like to keep that metaphor in front of me as I seek yet again to enter into the wilderness. If I see the world as God's body, how does that change the way I interact with it? How does it change the way I interact with other people? With creation itself? In so many ways, it seems, the world is broken. If I see the world as God's body-- would I not see it as imperative to try and mend it? And if I see the world as God's body-- am I not a part of that as well? Is not my own fate connected to the fate of all God's creatures? Is not their peril my peril?

This Lent, I seek to interact with the world as if it is indeed God's body. I seek to act on the knowledge of my connection with all of God's marvelous creation. If I give up anything, it is my own complacency and apathy-- which may turn out to be a much harder thing to give up than chocolate. But I suppose if I'm serious about my faith, then I have to try. Who's with me?