An Ash Wednesday message about truth, courage and us.

Remember “you are dust and to dust you shall return” Genesis 3:19 

I started off Ash Wednesday much like the past few years: on the corner outside the church building braving the elements and offering ashes to folks on their way to drop their kids off at Waters school across the street in the morning.  This year I was joined by C.  C and I stood at the corner in the rain, a little like wet cats, offering ashes to folks who passed by.  We didn’t have as many takers as past years, but we had a few:  There was the woman with the white haired pixie cut who pulled over: 

“Wait, are you giving out ashes?” I drew the cross on her forehead and she ran back to her car.

As I went through the day, I saw a few people marked with ashes.  It always kind of takes me by surprise to run into someone with the ashes on their face.  You would think it wouldn’t given my line of work, but it does. There was the woman driving her car who waited for me to cross at the stop sign, the school crossing guard, the other parent at the school waiting with me in the rain for our kids to be dismissed.

Usually we start off our days dirt free and well groomed—or at least we do our best.  I for one, trust that someone will at least give me the heads up if something is off when I’m walking out of the house.  There was the time that, as I was rushing to get out the door, one of my younger family members informed me that I had my shirt on inside out.  (I quickly fixed that one—lest someone be let in on the secret that I don’t always have it 100% together.)

Somedays, it’s worse than having the shirt on inside out. Somedays, we’re not sleeping well, or someone we love is sick, or we’re worried about a decision we’ve made, or about the state of the world. Somedays we’re uncomfortable in our own skin for all kinds of reasons.

Most days, we keep up the facade. We go about our business, work hard, go to school, go to the store, blend into the crowd and attempt to appear that we’re either holding it together, optimistic, upbeat, or whatever vibe de jour is most acceptable that day. 

But today—today, we come for the ashes. 

In just a short while, we’ll invite you to come forward and you’ll be marked by dust.  It’s this visible acknowledgement that sometimes things in our lives—which we try to keep running smoothly—crack, crumble, or even break.  When the dust settles, we’re left with a little pile of dirt, or rubble or sand that slips right through our fingers when we scoop into our hands.  

Usually, we try to sweep this dusty reality under the rug a little like it doesn’t matter.  We pretend that we’re not really anxious or lonely or overworked or harried or upset.

But not today.  

Today, we acknowledge that the air is full of ashes, hearts around the world are full of ashes. Today we remember we are human, mortal and, as scripture says, “that we are dust.”

It’s a little strange: this practice of remembering like this. Why do we do this?

We are certainly surrounded by enough worry and pain, disappointment, stress and despair already: What if I don’t get into the right high school or college? What if my marriage doesn’t make it? What if getting old is worse than I thought? Why am I still alone? How could I have messed this up? Failed again? What if… 

What good does it do to go over it again here on Ash Wednesday? Why focus on the dust? Why not just keep our chins up and march forward bright and shiny and perfect so we can rise up and shine and succeed? (We really do put a lot of effort into having it all together…)

Sara Miles is a pastor who writes that “It’s rare in our culture to admit, in public, that you’re not in control—that you, basically, are not God. And, given the din of advertising and political polemic and hype and doublespeak surrounding us, it’s rare to escape the fantasy that money or science, fame or violence or shiny objects will somehow save us from death.”

Ash Wednesday is the most honest day of the year.  “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  Its the day where we admit that we don’t entirely have it all together. That we are not actually in control and the gods of our own lives.

Last year, we had two high schoolers who gave out ashes during the service. I was standing at the side watching until Tom came up as one of the very last people in the line with baby M.  M was very, very tiny—just three weeks old.  

One of the youth made the cross on Tom’s forehead. As Tom turned to walk back to his bench, I locked eyes with him: 

“Did you want her to receive ashes?” I whispered, touching M’s back.

“Yeah—“ he said.  

I’ve never given ashes to such a tiny baby and it seemed almost wrong to remind such a tiny, precious creature of her humanness and mortality, but Tom’s courage was unflinching and contagious and gave me courage. 

I lifted up the front of her tiny hat and made the cross on her soft forehead: Remember, sweet child, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

I’m sure there will be more moments of honesty in little M’s life—moments of heartbreak and challenge—but that was a start. 

The truth is that as human beings, we all crack and crumble sometimes. We break. We are all fallible and imperfect.  Tonight we admit that together.  

It is “profoundly countercultural” as Pastor Miles wrote, to publicly admit this. When we admit this together, and when we visibly see this on each other, we realize that we are human together and we give each other courage and hope.

You, high schoolers, so many of you who are leading the service tonight, give me courage and hope with your bravery towards the way you look challenges in the face, bravely manage your own dusty pain, and call us not to turn away from the ashen places in this world. 

You church grandparents, give us hope and courage with your ever present reminders of God’s faithful presence in our lives, even when you waiver.

God, who is that undeniable essence of love, cherished Comforter, and animating life force is stronger than we are and will ever be. For even in the ash of this world, we are kept safe in the promise of God’s eternal love.