Ash Wednesday

Coffin Ship Memorial, Ireland.

https://media.fotki.com/2vzrMuWTx36q9C.jpg

What if it’s not all about me? What if my death is not the only thing to contemplate? Surely this is the day to take up the invitation to meditate upon one’s own mortality. But does not that very invitation lead to wider thoughts? If I am but dust then is not the dust to which I shall return the very same that all mortal beings cling to, are made of, and to which all in their turn revert? 

God promises immortality. Probably not the kind we are waiting for. Unless we are very grand or very humble, we probably have some idea of what we hope eternity holds for us. But we do not know. Nor can we grasp it. 

Like Lincoln on the battlefield, consecrating - or rather, acknowledging the consecration - of that sacred ground at Gettysburg, our own words seem of little significance, if placed beside the suffering, sacrifice, futility, and annihilation awaiting all flesh.

This Monday morning I looked at images, and contemplated words, offered by my friend Suzanne Guthrie, as appropriate for an Ash Wednesday meditation. There was one she left out. 

It was the image of a coffin ship memorial at the foot of the mountain called Croagh Patrick, in western Ireland. No fault of hers. But as I begin to wonder if there is not more to it than me, that is, more to death and life, that image that comes to me from memory more than the internet, comes forward. As with many horrors, there is more to it than can be grasped. And that includes the mortal hope of those on board such a ship that they will survive and reach the new world and a new life. That new world, and that new life, that survivors indeed shared with their descendants. People like me.

When we inventory our antecedents we think sometimes of those who lived. The replete gentleman who could afford accommodation above steerage on his way across the Atlantic. The slaveholder’s son who was shot not fatally at Shiloh. The revolutionary boy, a hale and hearty lad, who did not freeze to death at Valley Forge. The prisoner who did not starve, forgotten. 

Yet all of these could be among our ancestors as they are part of the human family, just as much as those who died on coffin ships or slave ships or desert marches across the southwest. 

Morbid. I know. Because there is also gratitude to be remembered among the dead. We remember some of them, perhaps wrongly: memory is fickle and hope is inventive. And we ourselves must each join the parade, of those who have fallen, forgotten or remembered, honored or not.

Some traditions name a newborn child after someone who has recently died, that their name will live on. This can be an intention to the point of an expected duty. Not to be squandered. We may hope to be among those remembered by others; family, friends, readers of a donor plaque.

But we are remembered, already, where it counts. In the ineffable place in the heart of the universe, in the timeless mind of God. Already if not yet we are present in the heart of God.

That is what Jesus means. Today you will be with me in paradise. You already are. 

Time has no meaning there; there is neither sorrow nor weeping. And when we go to join them, we will, as the poet says, find ourselves welcome in a city we never knew. But it knew us. 

It is the kingdom of God. 

***

Ash Wednesday 

• Joel 2:1-2,12-17
• or Isaiah 58:1-12
• 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
• Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
• Psalm 103 or 103:8-14

http://edgeofenclosure.org/ashwednesday.html

From Sundays and Seasons:

Prayer of the Day

Almighty and ever-living God, you hate nothing you have made, and you forgive the sins of all who are penitent. Create in us new and honest hearts, so that, truly repenting of our sins, we may receive from you, the God of all mercy, full pardon and forgiveness through your Son, Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Amen.

Prayer of the Day (Alternate)

Gracious God, out of your love and mercy you breathed into dust the breath of life, creating us to serve you and our neighbors. Call forth our prayers and acts of kindness, and strengthen us to face our mortality with confidence in the mercy of your Son, Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Amen.

The First Day of Lent commonly called Ash Wednesday (BCP 1662)

The Collect

Almighty and everlasting God, who hatest nothing that thou hast made, and dost forgive the sins of all them that are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we worthily lamenting our sins, and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of thee, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Dust

Dust

We bless you, O Lord our God, creator of the Universe, for the gift of earth, from whence we come and to which we shall return. We ask your blessing on the ancient peoples who first enjoyed this land and ask your blessing upon us as we join the traditional stewards of this land in its ongoing care. And care for us, Lord, as we contemplate our mortality, our absolute dependence upon you, and as we prepare ourselves for life beyond death in the hope of the resurrection.

Remember that you are dust of the earth and to that earth you shall return.

(Reprinted from sermonoats, Monday, February 15, 2021)

Last call for haircuts

Today I confessed to my hair stylist. As one does. Two years ago on Ash Wednesday I asked another barber to ‘reach for the three-eighths’ and mow my hair down to that length. (Pictures not available.) The next day everything shut down. Covid hair. A year later I got re-civilized. 

Minor inconvenience. Since then and before then I’ve been on call one night a week at a local hospital, to provide spiritual care on request. And usually it is not about a haircut. Or lack of one. It is about lack of breath or the hope of a longer life. Often though it is not about a lack of faith. 

Sometimes a whole family gathers around a bedside. Flying across the country to say farewell and thanks to a family member. Sometimes the patient is alone. And sometimes they have traveled a long way to get here. Walking, even, from Central America. Not without hope. Or faith.

Sometimes our hopes are let down. Sometimes our family lets us down. Or the prognosis is not good. And sometimes we have to go back home, desolate, mourning what was lost, a child or a chance. 

From one extreme to the other. Trivial, profound. Whatever was in my mind before the hospital calls, disappears. Nothing else matters at that moment. 

So it is also when the call is from a family member or friend if one of us, one of our friends or family, is in the hospital. Or did not make it there. All else drops away.

And we feel our own mortality on occasion, when death-defying surgery or ballistic luck preserves our lives from injury or disease, or stupidity on the road. 

Life is suddenly precious. It goes on, if it can. For a moment, the senses are more vivid. The feelings deepen. The sorrows lengthen. But so eventually may grow the joys. Of remembrance. Of new life. Hope and faith. And, finally, love.

Lent List

Stuff I would like to give up for Lent? Oh yes, I made a list. Space does not permit its inclusion here. Nor does tact. Some of it is pretty common. We have lost so much, some of us, people whom we do not see right now, people we will never see gain. Loss and gain. Anticipation and regret. Possibilities, memories. Waiting. Our current situation is unique. And we are not the first.  

A traveler waiting for a visa. A convalescent waiting for release. Parents hoping for a child, workers looking for a job, people on the move seeking a home. 

Situations that are common and simply our own. 

When I was young I saw a children’s book about Robert the Bruce, waiting in his stone room and watching a spider weave its web. It was slow work, but he had the time. Eventually as an adult I learned more about what he was waiting for as well as what he was going to do. He led a country to unity. And yet that was not the end of the story as he yearned for the Holy Land. As it was, he made it about halfway - to Spain. His heart sought Jerusalem but found its final rest at home. (His heart is buried at Melrose Abbey.)

We hear the Bible stories. A would-be mother waiting with her husband for a place to live, a child to love. A widow with no home to go to but one far away, and no family but one unknown. And a people that wants, that longs, to be free. As we do.

Lent is a season of anticipation. Of preparation. Again, so soon after the Christmas cycle has ended. Advent, Nativity, Epiphany, Presentation. Just weeks ago. And now another cycle, the Easter cycle, begins. But it begins in Ashes. 

Wouldn’t you think ashes are the end of a story, not the beginning? But so it is: forty days from Ash Wednesday, not counting Sundays, Christians arrive where other traditions already are: at Easter Sunday, another feast day of celebration, but not before plumbing the depths of Good Friday. A dreadful anticipation. So we remember our mortality - as if we could forget it! This year of all years. 

Remember that you are made of dust taken from the earth, and to the earth you shall return. And yet all along you are in the hands of God.

Always.

The Rev. Dr. John Leech is an Episcopal priest, a Benedictine oblate, and a friend of the Iona Community. He has served congregations in northern California and western Washington, and now in southern Arizona. 

https://tucson.com/you-are-safe-in-the-hands-of-god/article_2f8cbbff-973c-5bfb-aec7-a1c294536efa.html (Arizona Daily Star, February 21, 2021).

Joel 2:1-2,12-17

or Isaiah 58:1-12

2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10

Matthew 6:1-6,16-21

Psalm 103 or 103:8-14

virtual imposition

As we gather for the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday we seek some sign of mortality and penitence, some sign of preparation, for the culmination of the forty days and forty nights of the season is not sorrow but joy, not death but rising again.

And so today we turn our hearts anew to God.

Receive, then, the gift of mortality, and the hope of resurrection, that is built into us from the beginning by our Maker.

Make the sign of the Cross. Do it slowly and mindfully as we pray together.  And remember - it is not about the ashes. Not even today. It is about the Cross and Resurrection. It is about Jesus, and the work he is doing in us, through the Spirit.

Have a blessed Lent. Give something up, take something on - and remember that you are loved in the mercy of God.

For Ash Wednesday.

Dust

We bless you, O Lord our God, creator of the Universe, for the gift of earth, from whence we come and to which we shall return. We ask your blessing on the ancient peoples who first enjoyed this land and ask your blessing upon us as we join the traditional stewards of this land in its ongoing care. And care for us, Lord, as we contemplate our mortality, our absolute dependence upon you, and as we prepare ourselves for life beyond death in the hope of the resurrection.

Remember that you are dust of the earth and to that earth you shall return.  

got ashes?

Stuff I want to give up for Lent:

Excess zoom participation (who are we where are we going what are we doing here in this meeting yet another on zoom). Use the telephone, write a letter, or meet up outdoors.

Excess indoors time: get outside! Look up! Even if you are at your desk or on facebook or both ... the mountains surround us.

The same old clothes. Some people - even under your own roof - may be changing the scenery...

Excess following the news. Should have thought of this four years ago.

Watching British people on TV - nope. Not giving that up. Imported vintage drama/comedy relief.

Daily meditation and prayer practices, putting off thereof.

Same old takeout.

Ernest but bad restaurant takeout attempts.

Inattentive cooking. Ooh, busted!

Ashes.

Ashes?

It's not about the ashes. Not even on Ash Wednesday. It is about mortality and resurrection. It is about getting ready for the Great Vigil and Easter Day. 

So we are about preparation for Baptism or the Renewal of Baptismal Vows, as we begin to claim the Christian hope of Paradise, at the end of this trial - trial of mortality, including joys as well as sorrow.

And most of all, surrounding all, love.

***

As we gather for the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday we seek some sign of mortality and penitence, some sign of preparation, for the culmination of all this forty days and forty nights is not sorrow but joy, not death but rising again.

And so today whether you receive ashes on your forehead or only wear them inside, your heart turns anew to God.

Receive, then, the gift of mortality, and the hope of resurrection, that is built into it from the beginning by our Maker.

If you self-administer ashes, please do so during the prayer following the invitation to the observance of a holy Lent. Do it slowly and respectfully - of the sacrament and the others who join you in this solemn moment - as we pray together. 

Make the sign of the Cross, or pinch some dry ashes out of a bowl. And remember - it is not about the ashes. Not even today. It is about the Cross and Resurrection. It is about Jesus, and the work he is doing in you, through the Spirit.

Have a blessed Lent. Give something up, take something on - and remember that you are loved in the mercy of God.

_____________

Dennis Michno writes: The act of receiving ashes must not become the focal point of this day but rather a sign of the day, a sign that is part of the penitential beginning of the season of Lent.

Dennis G. Michno, A Priest's Handbook: The Ceremonies of the Church, ed. 3, 1998. 154.

Howard Galley writes: Lent, the season of preparation for Easter, is a time of penitence, fasting, almsgiving, prayer, and study, which finds its proper climax in the celebration of Holy Baptism and the renewal of Baptismal Vows at Easter.

Howard E. Galley, Ceremonies of the Eucharist: A guide to Celebration. 1989. 42.

* * *

Ash Wednesday: an invitation.

Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have

made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and

make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily

lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness,

may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission

and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives

and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever

and ever. Amen.

Dear People of God: The first Christians observed with great

devotion the days of our Lord's passion and resurrection, and

it became the custom of the Church to prepare for them by a

season of penitence and fasting. This season of Lent provided

a time in which converts to the faith were prepared for Holy

Baptism. It was also a time when those who, because of

notorious sins, had been separated from the body of the faithful

were reconciled by penitence and forgiveness, and restored to

the fellowship of the Church. Thereby, the whole congregation

was put in mind of the message of pardon and absolution set

forth in the Gospel of our Savior, and of the need which all

Christians continually have to renew their repentance and faith.

I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the

observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance;

by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and

meditating on God's holy Word. And, to make a right beginning

of repentance, and as a mark of our mortal nature, let us now

kneel before the Lord, our maker and redeemer.

The Book of Common Prayer, 1979. 264-265.

Marked for Life

Marked on the forehead. That is what we see Ash Wednesday on fellow parishioners – and some people on the street. They are marked with a cross, made of ashes, drawn with a thumb, by a priest or minister. As they were marked they heard words like these:

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

The imposition of ashes serves as a reminder of mortality – and a reminder of eternal life, for at death, to God’s faithful people, life is changed, not ended.

How can this be?

In Baptism you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own for ever.

You are marked as Christ’s own forever. You are no longer your own; you are bought with a price. (1 Cor. 6:19-20)

The life we live now we live no longer for our selves or of our selves, but we live in Christ, for Christ, as Christ’s own people, as the ones of his own fold whom he protects – and whom he guides – and whom he calls.

And he calls us not only into safety and refuge but also into a life that is fully alive – with threats, joys, sorrows, sheer boredom, hard days and soft hours, excitement and pain, and ultimate delight. For ultimately we delight in him and we are his own, brought into his company and welcomed home.

This home is ours – not at the end of time but now, ours from the moment of our baptism. At baptism we are welcomed into the home of faith, received into the household of God.

This household is God’s domain, the Kingdom of Christ. How to see it? How to live it? How to carry it out among ourselves? How to carry it out and make it real in our lives – and the lives of our neighbors?

Who is my neighbor? (Just checking.)

Hmm… maybe a demographic profile of my community will help. Maybe… a parable? (Substitute some stereotype unsavory and challenging for “Samaritan.”)

Or it may be that we encounter our neighbor when we find ourselves helping someone in need, or rejoice with someone in celebration, or simply share a meal.

And it may be that in encountering our neighbors we encounter something of ourselves. It may be something familiar and comfortable – or something familiar and uncomfortable!

And yet somehow Jesus welcomes us all – so that, at the last, and in the first instance, Jesus is able to say to us, with conviction, you are my own, singled out, marked for life.


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For the Gospel Grapevine (February 2012), newsletter of Saint Alban's Parish, Edmonds, Wash. http://stalbansedmonds.org

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