Though I had thumbed Ash Wednesday ashes and been thumb-ashed before, it felt wholly different this week. Somehow, the power and vulnerability, the intimate connection of touching another's forehead and speaking those words - "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." - grabbed onto me in a new and unexpected way. This seemed like that rare ritual in which no one was just going through the motions. This mattered in a way my mouth could not explain, but my hand and my eyes could attest.
My Ash Wednesday ended unconventionally; I joined some friends at a local karaoke establishment for some much-needed unwinding. We immediately talked about Ash Wednesday, and how could we not, given my maximum pastor garb - best black suit, round Anglican collar, sweet clergy vest* - and of course, the ashes prominently marking my forehead. As I stated on Facebook, I was reliably informed that the words "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return" are "totally metal." As in, those words would fit into the culture of the metal wing of rock music, stereotyped to be loud and dark and sometimes anti-Christian. I barely know the first thing about that music, so I won't burden you with my ignorance on the subject.
What I will say is that hearing this description, from a friend whose beliefs differ significantly from my own, resonated with me, and helped me to describe my own experience of thumbing ash onto foreheads earlier in the day. Grappling with mortality is a universal human experience, and these ancient words testify to a truth recognized far beyond the boundaries of the Jesus-following crowd. We are all connected, not just to one another or to God, but to the earth itself, to all of creation. We are, in the end, the same stuff we walk on, the same stuff we take for granted, the same stuff we scowl at as we dig it out from under our fingernails. Humans are insignificant in so many ways, and yet we are wonderful, powerful, beautiful, astonishing, infuriating, and at times capable of more (and less) than anyone had previously imagined.
I can see why people might, reflecting on their brokenness, their sinfulness, their inability to achieve perfection or even sometimes basic decency, might come away with a sense of wonder, even of joy and laughter. Look at what I have been given, and the life I am blessed to lead! Compared to what I deserve, I can't imagine how I got so lucky, why I have been so blessed. In my own Christian language, the grace of God shines forth all the brighter into the darkest places. I am barely a blip in this world, this great mystery of a universe, and yet I have this completely awesome life filled with adventure and hilarity and relationship and joy beyond measure.
And so I am thankful. Thankful that this weird old ritual does still speak to me, and to many more. I've already begun scheming about next year's Ash Wednesday, but more on that later. For now, I'll just add this incomplete reflection to the chorus of Ash Wednesday reactions on the interwebs, and seek to live my thanks in the world.
* I considered taking a picture of my full Ash Wednesday outfit, but I lack either the vanity or ambition to do so. I dare you to guess which. Also, my hair and cuff links are way better than that guy's, which I suppose is a giant clue to the previous guessing game.
Thoughtful Pastor Andrew. I am amazed at the power of Ash Wednesday. I believe it does start the Lenten journey off to a humble beginning, with adventure and hope along the way. I heard on the radio something that to me and maybe not to others: To the world we may be only one, but to one we may be the world. We need to remember who is God--the one who created us from dust and to whom we return daily. However, on the journey, we are called to go into the world empowered by our creator, redeemer, and sanctifier.
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