This Year

Ash Wednesday Reflection

Every year, Ash Wednesday sneaks up on me. Everything is going just right along and then suddenly, it’s here, this season of prayer and fasting, where we contemplate our weakness and sin while preparing for the Great Feast of Easter. Woah. And off the sudden I’m in Lent again trying to decide what to give up or take on during the Ash Wednesday service because I’ve been too busy to give it the time or space to think and reflect. 

There are lots of things that sneak up, and honestly, it’s not usually the things that give me joy. Nope. It’s things like jealousy or anger or greed or impatience and suddenly I realize that I’ve been really unkind and rude and grouchy not just for a day or two but for a season. It feels like I’m just sitting there and suddenly, all this icky stuff, the byproducts of the worst part of my humanity just sneak up on me like a cat.

And it’s not just me individually. It happens corporately too, in our society, in our church, in our social groups. Unkindness or hatred or this inability to love across difference or the refusal to see the image of God in one another or thinking without hope or obsessing about these divides. I mean, it seemed like metaphorically yesterday we were ok, and today we’re not. 

The truth is though that it’s not the good things that sneak up, it’s the bad things. The good things like vacations, birthdays, friendships, or joy….those things I work for. Those things I practice as a discipline, planning, caring, loving, showing up, doing what I need to do. 

But every now and again I need to clean it all out. I need to start fresh. My bathtub drain needs to be cleaned out so that I’m not taking a shower in an inch of water. I’ve got to dig in and pull all that hair out of there with a needle-nose pliers, grossed out by the long slick that used to be attached to my body. And it’s not just my hair that causes problems. It’s me, my very being. My heart needs to be turned again to the God I adore so that I can better love my neighbor, better see God in all people, so that I can continue to become the person that God is calling me to be. 

We all know this takes time. It takes intention. It takes focus. It takes energy. And many of us are committed to these practices, this season of Lent where we make the space in our hearts and lives to move closer to God. We give things up. We take things on. We try to remain open. We move closer to our neighbors. 

But this year, it’s not like other years. I’ve never believed in Church more than I do right now, the beautiful and weak and glorious and always almost falling Body of Christ broken for us so that the whole world might have life. But all around us, we see signs of hatred, of venomous words, of groupthink that is not of the gospel. We see lies in the public square. We see those who are neighbors rounded up in the light of day against law. We are having a hard time seeing the image of Christ in those who are enemies. 

This year, it’s not enough to give up sugar, even though it might remind you of your frailty. This year, it’s more serious. It’s not the year to give up chocolate. It’s the year to choose a discipline that opens your heart to love your neighbor, and yes, even your enemy. It’s not the year to give up wine. It’s the year to choose to see God in all people. It’s not the year to give up coffee. It’s a year to practice justice with your body and not just your mind, to choose to love instead of hate. 

I found great wisdom in Pope Leo’s Lenten message. He asks us first to listen — to listen especially to the cry of the poor and the suffering. Then, we should fast from words that offend our neighbor, those  “harsh words and rash judgment” and refrain “from slander.” Finally, he asks that we do this work in community, together. We belong to one another, whether it be the north sider or the west sider, whether you’re from Hudsonville or Rockford, Grand Rapids or Holland, whether your Dutch or Hispanic, whether you’re a Polish Catholic or Christian Reformed, whether we’re Episcopalian or non-denominational, black, white, Asian, Latino, billionaire, stranger, undocumented, single, married, gen X, gen alpha, boomer, millennial, man, woman, non-binary, trans, gay, straight, cis, het, Jew, Greek, slave, free — all of it. We belong to one another. 

Padriag O’Tuama in one of his poems speaks as a priest on Ash Wednesday, saying these words: 

I know you expect me to bless you in the mysteries of God but I prefer the strangeness of each other, darlings. Look around. 

We know this with our very beings; we are indeed our “brother’s keeper.” We as Christ’s body, the church, know(s) this. Our world depends on us remembering that we are interdependent, that we are all related, that the call to care for one another extends far beyond just our kin. We’re all kin. When one of us thrives, we all rejoice. When one of us struggles, we all struggle. 

Every Ash Wednesday, I think about my beloved professor, the Dr. Don Armentrout, a Lutheran in the sea of Episcopalians at Sewanee. He taught Church History, but he really taught us more. He taught us not to take it all so seriously, to remember that at once we are holding the most sacred things in the universe in our hands, human hearts, but to remember at the same time that we are only dust, or as could also be said, we are but dust. This isn’t a time to self-flagellate, to hate the good that God has made (us!), it’s a time to reach out and put ourselves into the hands of God, the God who loves us with all of their heart, the God who asks us to love our neighbor, to respect the dignity of every human being, who created their image in every human being. Don would love being remembered on this day, when we’re reminded both of God’s deep love for the world and us as well as our weakness. 

Sure. These two things seem to be at odds with one another, but we’re Christians. We can hold them side by side, hand in hand, letting the one never outweigh the other, trusting in God, knowing how beloved we are, how loved we are by God and our community, and yet striving and reaching toward the good, that love of God and neighbor. And we also remember that we don’t do this work alone. Our community is with us, God is with us, and with God’s help, let us take on this work, boldly, with strength, with courage, knowing that we are part of this great mystery, Christ’s body in the world, beloved, broken, ready to become the people that God is calling us to be. 

Inspired by Padriag O’Tuama’s poem, “Mother Bredan’s Opening Words” 

Darlings, look around, 
Next to you’s the nurse, the cleaner, the doctor, the child
minder, the waiting, the hoping, the barely surviving,
the can’t get out of bed can’t sleep can’t cope
There’s the teacher out of work, the disaffected
priest, the taxi driver, the shopkeeper, broke shareholder,
tourists, retirees, waitresses, bankers, administrators,
the tired and committed, the excited and the stressed. 

I know you expect me to bless you in the mysteries of God
but I prefer the strangeness of each other, darlings.
Look around. 

In the name of whatever
reason brings you here. In the name of anything 
that works. In the name of nothing.

Are you burning yet? You will be. 
Take this cup and drown your sorrows.
Take this bread and butter it. Lick it. 
Taste the salt. Nothing made you come here.
Nothing stops you going.