Ash Wednesday, Etc.

ASH WEDNESDAY, ETC. 

 “…you neglect and belittle the desert

The desert is not remote in the southern tropics,

The desert is not only around the corner,

The desert is squeezed in the tube-train next to you,

The desert is in the heart of your brother.”

—T.S. Eliot, Choruses from the Rock

Ash Wednesday. Didn’t we do that? Oh yes, again and again and again.

Why do we keep doing this year after year, decade after decade—centuries too. 

We stand in the line with all others. And when our time comes some preacher or priest will mark our foreheads with the smudge of the cross. He or she will whisper: “You are dust and to dust you shall return.” And we move away and find our pew again as the line goes on waiting for their sign. Waiting for the strange words. Maybe just waiting.

This is why most of us have come through the years. It is a somber time. It is a holy time. It is a painful time. 

If you are like me you remember the promises you made year after year on this day. And you also remember how you washed that smudge off your face as if that settles it all. But you broke those promises you made this day and this season. 

And old T.S. Eliot is right. This day and those that follow are the desert times. 

Even those set free slaves in Egypt. They crossed the water and found what? Desert. And the whole book came out of that cursed place where water was scarce and hunger was real and fear seemed, like the desert to cover everything.

And marked sometimes I remember that we all berth mark not of the beast whatever that means. But another mark like all our brothers and sisters the world over where one day sooner or later we really will be dust.

But the desert brings dust and it can choke us. And does. It can be a lonesome  place where we remember that, as Mark Connelly reminds us “even bein’ God ain’t no bed of roses.” So we walk the winding trail that he walked. Where the ups and downs and the ups and downs seem to go on forever. 

So we bring our burdens to lay them down. The old song :”take your burden to the Lord and leave it there.” But we don’t. Like the Pilgrim in Pilgrim’s Progress we stagger with our own burden. All of us. 

You name it. Old age. Cancer. Heart. Pain.That baby grave you left behind. Grief of a zillion sorts. Fear. The anger that just comes seemingly out of nowhere. Or the pettiness that cripples and diminishes us. Or the black dog that follows us one and all.

 

We wash off the mark—we think. But it is there. But lurking around us, too are those stained glass windows that tell us of faith and hope and love too. And Jesus hanging on the cross. And somehow those windows tell everybody’s story. 

Gloomy yes. Darkness yes. But we leave the shadowy church and walk out into the sunshine. It’s so bright we find it hard to see. But life is there—despite the ashes. Kids throwing frisbees or footballs. Wearing the bright orange hoping every game will be won. An old woman leaves behind you. On a walker. Knowing somehow she will get in her car and go home maybe to an empty house. But surrounded by her pictures and memories and a pictured cross she got at the Dollar Store. She goes on with her faith, with her hope and most of all her love.

Maybe that’s why we keep coming on this day. To be marked. And to know this matters terribly. Even in the desert.