Why I Hate and Love Ash Wednesday - A Pastor's Reflection

 

Today is Ash Wednesday. In many churches, the pastor will have ground up the dried palm leaves from the previous Palm Sunday, milling them into a fine powder. Then, with his thumb dipped into the grey schmutz, he will place a ashen cross onto the forehead of his parishioner with the solemn intonation, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It’s an incredibly somber reminder of the curse placed upon Adam and Eve after their fateful fall. “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust and to dust you shall return,” (Genesis 3:19). It’s a bit of a linguistic pun for Adam’s name: Adam, the man, will return to adamah, the dirt and dust, from which God created him.  That brief sentence is a prelude to the sentence spoken at the graveside: “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Every year, I wrestle with Ash Wednesday. I wrestle with it because I am placing a physical, tangible, visible reminder of mortality upon the heads of the people whom I serve and the people I love. The irony is they don’t see it until they get home and look into the mirror. Then, and only then, do they see it. Since we have an evening service, it is highly unlikely that anyone else will see it, either, besides a spouse, child, or parent. I see it all service long. I see it, because I placed the mark of mortality on them and I see it all service long.

I usually start out ok on Ash Wednesday, not exactly on “autopilot,” but simply performing the rite – thumb into the ash, wipe on the forehead, speak ten words, and do it again. But somewhere around person number fifteen or twenty, the rite stops being a rite and it becomes a sacred moment. I never know exactly when this happens, or the person who will spark the shift, but it often begins with the eyes. They look into my eyes, and I look into theirs and in that moment, it stops being a rite for the congregation and it becomes words spoken to that person: you will die in your flesh one day, and your body will return to the dust from which it was originally made.

It’s funny how fast thoughts fly through the mind. The speed of sound is approximately 1200 feet per second. I wish there were a way to measure these thoughts. As I look into the persons eyes and smear the ash across the forehead, the realization hits me that it is conceivable I could be burying that person in the near future, repeating the words as I dump a couple handsfull of sand on to the casket, “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”

And in those moments, I hate Ash Wednesday. It isn’t just a reminder to the individual receiving ashes of their mortality, it is a reminder that I am a serving among a dead congregation.

Years ago, I was in such a state of depression that I literally could not do the rite of ashes. As I tried to prepare the ashes in the afternoon for the evening service, I sobbed in the empty sanctuary. I soon realized that it would be impossible for me to complete the rite in the service. The weight of what I was feeling was just too great. To see death’s brand that I was placing on people, and having to repeat it dozens of times, it was too much. I began the service with what I thought was a reasonable explanation – we are Easter people, not people of death, so no ashes tonight – but, like an old cash register, it was “no sale." No one was buying what I was selling. A couple of people were really mad at me. For them, I had robbed them of this pious act and reminder. I didn’t know how to explain what I was feeling, where I was, what I would have to do one day to their kids, or their spouse, or their mother or grandfather, and in that place and time, it was just too much. To them, I offer a belated but heartfelt apology. "I just couldn't do it." 

In the liturgy for leading the casket from the hearse to the graveside, pastors will sometimes speak this sentence: “In the midst of life we are in death…” It comes from an ancient 14^th-century hymn which, in Latin, sounds much more impressive: Media vita in morte sumus. I think those words on Ash Wednesday as I am almost to the point of being overwhelmed by what I am doing, saying, and seeing. If parishioners look closely, they might see my eyes starting to well up, perhaps even a tear sliding down my cheeks.

I have often found it funny that we do this ash-marking with the sign of the cross. In Holy Baptism, I place the sign of the cross on the forehead and heart of the candidate, “in token that you have been redeemed by Christ the crucified.” Later, the passage from Romans 6 will also be read, connecting our baptism to both the death and resurrection of Jesus. In Baptism, we believe we both die and rise with Christ. Just as water washes clean dirty skin, Baptismal water – that is, water with the words of Jesus, “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit – washes away sins.

Yet, here we are, putting dirty ashes on that which has been washed clean in Baptism.

I’ve contemplated writing my own Ash Wednesday liturgy. Someday, some year, I’m going to stand at the back door as people enter and place the ashes on them immediately. I might even have a mirror there, so people can see for themselves what has been done to them. It would be a reminder for them that “the wages of sin is death.” From dust you are… Media vita in morte sumus. Then, in the service liturgy, instead of people coming forward to receive ashes (they will have been previously ashed, remember?) they will come forward where I will be standing the font, the vessel filled with water. As they stand in front of me, branded with the cross of death, I’ll take a clean cloth, dampen it in the font’s water, and wipe the ash from their forehead while proclaiming the words of absolution to them along with the proclamation of Jesus, “I am the resurrection and the life,” or perhaps, “Once you were dead in your trespasses and sins, but now you are alive to God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Then, I’ll give them the ash-stained cloth as a tangible, visible reminder for themselves of what absolution means.

I’ll do that some day. Tonight... tonight, I’ll place the mark of ashes on the heads of those who gather. I’ll swallow hard while saying those horrible words, “Remember you are dust,” yearning for the moment 46 days mornings later when I will practically shout, “Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!” Then, and only then, I’ll add the wonderful “Alleluia” of Easter.

 The rest of that ancient hymn I mentioned before speaks to that hope. "In the midst of life, we are in death; from whom can we seek help?" Perhaps Psalm 121 is the best answer: 

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.
The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.
The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in 
from this time forth and forevermore.

So, tonight, it’s ashes. And tears. And hope. And faith in the promise that, yes, we will return to ashes, but we will be raised in glory when He returns.

 

Prophets, Mountains, and Promises - Deuteronomy 34: 1-12

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Old Testament lesson from Deuteronomy 34.

As I read the Old Testament lesson for this morning, I found myself standing in Moses’ sandals for a moment. There he was, standing on the top of Mount Nebo, looking around and down into the Promised Land, the fulfillment of the promise that God made to Moses and the Children of Israel when they left Egypt forty years earlier. God promised that they would return to the land of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the land their forefathers left so long ago while Joseph was still second over Egypt, the land they had wilderness wandered for, waiting to see. It was down there, at the base of the mountain, stretching out as far as Moses’ perfect vision could see it, so close he could practically taste the milk and honey. Yet, he would never set foot in it. That mountaintop view was as close as he would get to the Promised Land.

For the preceding forty years, Moses acted as prophet, interceding to God on behalf of the people and proclaiming “thus saith the Lord,” to the people as God’s spokesman. When God had threatened to destroy Israel because of their incessant grumbling and complaining and begin anew with Moses, it was Moses who reminded God that Israel was His people. If He were to destroy them after taking them that far, His name would be a laughingstock among the world. When Israel grumbled and complained about God and His care for them, it was Moses who called them to repentance and pleaded for God to have mercy. 

So why wouldn’t, why couldn’t this faithful prophet of God enter the Promised Land?

Although Moses stood as God’s prophet for the people of Israel, he was not a perfect prophet. He was at times a hot-tempered man. While Moses still dwelled in the house of Pharoah (remember how he was rescued as a boy by Pharoah’s wife?), he saw a slave master whipping an Israelite. In a fit of rage, he killed the master. When the murder was discovered by fellow Israelites, he fled for his life. Years later, in the Wilderness, the constant complaining and whining finally made him snap. They were thirty or so years out of Egypt and, again, they had run out of water. The Israelites assembled against Moses and Aaron, quarreling, blaming them for no water, grumbling Moses led them into the wilderness to die. Moses and Aaron again went to the Tabernacle and, pleading for the Lord’s mercy, cried out for water. The Lord, in His mercy, commanded Moses to speak to the rock at Meribah and water would come out. Even rocks obey when the Lord’s Word is proclaimed!

But Moses had enough. He gathered the obstinate people together and thundered, “You rebels! Shall we bring forth water for you out of this rock?” and, instead of proclaiming the Lord’s Words to the rock, Moses instead struck the rock with his staff, just as he did 30 years earlier after leaving Egypt.

Moses’ anger had gotten the better of him. His anger, his pride got in the way. He saw himself as the answer to the people’s complaints. Did you catch it? He had said, “Shall we bring forth water,” not “the Lord will bring forth water.” He confused the prophet of the Lord with the Lord; his anger with the Lord’s anger; his justice with the Lord’s mercy; his staff with the word of the Lord.

So, God declared to Moses, “Because you did not believe in Me, to uphold Me as holy in the eyes of the people of Israel, you shall not bring this assembly into the land that I have given them.”

Imagine being in Moses’ sandals at that moment: realizing the depth, the gravity of your sin, realizing that your anger, jealousy, and sinful ungodliness had just cost you the reward you had – literally – spent your last three plus decades working toward. And then, finding yourself standing on top of the mountain, looking down at the Land promised to Israel, knowing you will never set foot there yourself because you sinned against God. What do you do?

Have you ever made such a mistake, such an error of judgement, have you ever sinned so greatly against a brother or sister in Christ in such a way that you wondered if you would ever be in their good graces again? That you knew, you just knew, that there was no way out of the mess you got yourself into, no matter what you would do? That’s a hard place to be. In that hardness of space, it seems that mercy is unobtainable, that forgiveness is impossible, that love and compassion are such unattainable ideas that you are left hopeless, helpless, for the idea that the relationship could be restored? You come up with ideas, ways to try to show your remorse and regret, hoping to maybe break down the wall you built.

We sometimes mistakenly allow that same fear we have about sinning against our brothers and sisters to carry into our perception of the Father in heaven. If my brother or sister in Christ can’t forgive me for the singular offense of what I did to him or her, then, we falsely conclude, the same must true of God who knows all – all – my sins and against whom all – all – my sins ultimately fall, and He finally declares “enough.” In this view, when we stand before God, we only see our own sins. The forgiven becomes the unforgivable. The mercied one becomes the one not worth mercy. The loved one becomes the unlovable.

Satan loves to tell us this view is the only view. He drags us into the valley of the shadow of death where all we can see is our sins, our unworthiness, our failures. The shadows lengthen and, surrounded by the darkness, we feel trapped with nowhere to go in the valley.

SO, what do you do when you are in the Valley of the shadow of death because of your sins, knowing you can’t restore the relationship with God no matter how you might live the rest of your life, and no matter how well you have done before. Your sin, your great and grievous sins against God, are there and they will otherwise prevent you from ever leaving the Valley of the shadow. What do you do?

You repent of your foolish, sinful arrogant pride. And, you trust His promises.

Go back to Moses for a minute. About mid-point in Deuteronomy, God had promised that He would send Israel another Prophet, one even greater than Moses, and this Prophet will do that which Moses could never do. It would take a long time, millenia, for the Prophet to come. This Prophet would be a human, like Moses, raised up from among Israel. He would be the perfect intermediator between God and man. With both words of Law and Gospel, He would speak the truth of the Lord God. Where Moses mediated the promise of grace and truth, grace and truth would come through this Prophet. Moses offered sacrifices for the sins of the people. This Prophet would offer Himself as the sacrifice. Moses’ covenant would come to an end when this Prophet would fulfil the once-for-all sacrifice, satisfying the Father’s wrath against man’s sin, and this Covenant would be without end.

Moses trusted this promise of God. Just as he would not set foot in the Promised Land, he would not see this Prophet with his own eyes. But, Moses had the promise of God. Faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen, and Moses had faith that God’s promise of a prophet, of THE Prophet, would come about, in God’s time, in God’s way.

The Valley of the shadow of death is a lonely road, filled with desperation and despair. So God, in His mercy and compassion, which is without end, reaches into the valley and puts this Prophet on the road. The Prophet enters the Valley for us. The Valley road rises to another mountain. It wasn’t much of a mountain, really. It was more of a hill, on the outskirts of the city walls. If you were Roman, you called it Cavalry. If you were a Jew, you called it Golgatha. Translated, it meant the Place of the Skull. The Prophet, the sinless Son of God, would die on that mountain, raised up those who mocked and laughed and scorned Him. Instead of striking with His staff, He spoke, praying His Father’s forgiveness for those who crucified Him, finally declaring the payment price to be complete. With a final word, “It is finished,” His blood served as the propitiation, the covering, over all our sins.

When Moses stood on Mount Horeb, permitted by God to see the Promised Land, it was because God, for the sake of the Prophet to come, had mercy on Moses who trusted that very promise. In spite of his sins that deserved his eternal death, Moses trusted God would rescue him into eternity. That hilltop moment was a gift of mercy, a demonstration of God’s grace for sinners. Although Moses would not enter the earthly promised land, and he would die in his body, the eternal promised land was already his, and his sins of idolatry, anger, and foolishness were already redeemed by the Prophet who had not yet come.

Today is Transfiguration Sunday. Between Horeb and Golgatha was another mountain: we simply refer to it as the Mount of Transfiguration. Jesus would be transfigured; His clothes and appearance shining brightly in holiness. Moses would make an appearance there, along with Elijah, and they would speak with Jesus. Luke says it was about Jesus’ departure; Matthew describes it as Jesus’ exodus. Either way, the conversation is one about the cross. Peter wanted Jesus to stay up on the mountain where it was safe and sacred. Jesus would not stay on that mountain. He would descend into the valley of the shadow below, and then ascend to the holy city where He would be crucified, the sinless One for the sin-stained ones. 

That is what you do. When you realize you have sinned against your neighbors, your brothers and sisters in Christ, against people you don’t even know, and against God Himself, you stand at the hillside cross and repent of your sins, trusting the promises and words of God, that Jesus both entered that valley and hung on the cross for us, rescuing us and redeeming us from satan’s clutches. In His death, He paid your price. In His life, He promises your own resurrection. And, in joyful thanksgiving, you renew your battle against the devil, the world, and our flesh, trusting the promises of God for you in Christ Jesus your Lord. Amen.