Ashes and All

Stumbling into the bathroom after a long Ash Wednesday, I kick off my shoes, let out a sigh of relief that the tanks I strap onto my feet have been banished for the evening, and I start to wash my face. 

Then I look down at my hands. They are stained by twelve hours of dust-remembering on people’s foreheads and hands. Examining my smoky palms and pitch-soaked fingers, I remember all of the dustfolk who found their way to the small place of earth on which I stood today, with a small wooden bowl in my hand.

“Would you like ashes?” 

It seems to me a strange question. Isn’t that why they’re here after all? But many who came up to me today wanted to learn more. They had questions and this small place of earth was where they needed to ask them. 

“What is all of this?”

“What kind of ashes are these?”

“Do I have to get them on my forehead?”

“Are you a priest?”

“Do I have to be Catholic?”

“Is it okay if I don’t know what I’m giving up for Lent?”

“Will you pray for me?”

How beautiful is this holy day, that it would make room for us to ask questions about our faith! To get curious, to be unashamed in wanting to learn more, to be brave in stepping forward and saying “help me”. 

With the sign of the cross — either in ash or oil, on either a forehead or a palm — I saw eyes swell up with tears and breathing become slower. I heard soft prayers spoken under masks and sighs of relief be released. I felt the weariness, the longing, the suffering, and the hope of every traveler who made their way to this small place of earth and this small wooden bowl. 

This is the sacred call of Ash Wednesday. It reaches to us where we are and invites us to keep going. There are no requirements to get it together because this day is a reminder that we can never get it together. Life is messy. Things go wrong. People get sick. Nations go to war. Loved ones pass away. Children go hungry. Hatred runs wild. 

And this is not how things should be. 

For forty days we take up space in the loss and loom of Lent. We ask questions. We feel our hurt. We name the pain. We know that deep in our core this is not how things should be and we pray that God will do something about it. We pray that God’s doing-something-about-it will be done in us. We keep going, weary and wandering, to a small place of earth and a smallness in our soul as we cry out, “Help me.” 

Help us, Lord. Remember we are dust, after all. We need you. Help us remember what you can do with dust. 

“Would you like ashes?”

Yes, so that I will remember I am not God and that more God is what I need. 

May you find more God this Lent. May you ask questions. May you be honest about your mess. May you have grace for the mess of others. May you get the help you need. May you be the help someone else is needing. May you be blessed by the God who names you Beloved. 

May you be loved. Ashes and all.

A reflection from Ash Wednesday in 2022 that is still relevant in 2023.