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One blustery Ash Wednesday, some pastor colleagues and I went downtown to distribute “ashes on the go.” We spread on sidewalks that ran along towering office buildings and bustling restaurants, dressed in clergy wear and holding small containers of ash and oil. “Ashes for Ash Wednesday?” I asked passersby. Some looked confused, others shook their heads and walked on, a few approached and pulled the hair back from their foreheads.
A middle-aged man stopped squarely in front of me, a typical office-worker type in khaki slacks and a button-down shirt. “What’s your first name?” I asked. He gave small, slightly quizzical smile and told me. I applied the ashes, cross-shaped, to his forehead, starting with his name: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” He smiled again, nodded and walked away. One of my pastor colleagues ran up to me. “Did you know who that was?” he asked. I shook my head. “That was the lieutenant governor!” On the one hand, I was embarrassed that I hadn’t recognized him, even when he said his name. On the other hand, we all receive the ashes as equals. Ash Wednesday reminds us that each one of us, no matter our status, is mortal.
Ash Wednesday might be the most honest of church festival days. We receive a tangible symbol of our mortality on our bodies. We acknowledge that everything will come to an end. Everyone we love will die. Everything we own will belong to someone else. Every situation is temporary. Power, fame, riches, titles, thousands of Instagram followers—none of these will lead to eternal life.
If Ash Wednesday makes us honest about death at the end of life, it also makes us honest about the life we’re living right now. A day of penitence, Ash Wednesday throughout Christian history has been observed by fasting, prayer and worship. Psalm 51, traditionally recited at Ash Wednesday worship, sums it up well:
“Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy,
blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin” (Psalm 51:1-2).
New life
On Ash Wednesday, we all stand before God in the same way: broken. There’s something powerful about admitting the ways that we’ve messed things up, from our pettiness to our selfishness to our apathy. We have spoken unkindly. We have made false claims. We have ignored the needs of others. On Ash Wednesday, the jig is up. We might as well let it all out. Because if we hide our imperfections, we deny ourselves the opportunity to experience God’s forgiveness, redemption and renewal. God’s mercies are always there for us, of course, but it takes a sinner to know it.
On that Ash Wednesday, when I failed to recognize a key political leader of our state (probably not my biggest failing that day), there was something else big going on in my life: I was 8 months pregnant with our second child. There’s nothing like parenthood to put a finer point on all your shortcomings and failures. You also realize, at some point, that you are bringing a child into the world that is destined to die. No one talks about this at the baby shower.
The juxtaposition of bearing a new life in your body while placing a sign of death on other people’s bodies might seem odd. But it encapsulates the journey of Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday. We must go through Lent before we get to the new life; Ash Wednesday is the gateway.
In the season of Lent, we get not just one day but 40 days to acknowledge losses, grief, death and injustices that cause people to die a little bit each day. We can confess not just individual sin but corporate sin: systemic racism, indifference to the devastation of climate change, greed that creates chasms between rich and poor. Not just on Ash Wednesday, but throughout Lent, we can get more honest about naming our own pain, struggles, shortcomings, heartaches and losses. The holy work of Lent begins in with the starkness of Ash Wednesday and leads us to the good news of Easter Sunday: that God is more powerful than death and that nothing can separate us from God’s extravagant love.
I will remember that downtown Ash Wednesday vividly, not because of my lacking political knowledge, but because of the way that Lenten season ended. That child in my womb that day would later be born on Easter Sunday. God is always bringing new life from the ashes.
