As a piece of my Lenten practice this year, I am going to recommit to this project. (The cursor can be a cruel taskmaster, as it blinks with an unrelenting insistence as I try to decide whether that is the end of the sentence, or if there is more to be said. As I place a period, I ponder placing two more, ellipsis marks to alert the reader of my wandering mind. And I opt for parenthesis instead...)
Today I thought I would share a meditation I wrote a few years ago. Tomorrow, I'll dive in to the scriptures. Which is what I said I was going to do. Over a month ago.
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"Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return." It's all very impersonal, very bleak... even hopeless, really. Especially in the wake of the trying times we all know, we turn to our faith searching for signs of promise, crying out for comfort. And then, Ash Wednesday greets us with the inevitability of our mortality and the certainty of our sin. Again -- bleak, impersonal, hopeless.
Yet, even in the midst of such somber, sober realism, hints of hope, tiny peeks of promise endure. In a poem entitled "Ashes," Ann Weems writes, "... I felt the cool smooth finger of ash upon my forehead, ashes from last year's palms saved for this holy time. I wondered if there might still be some remnant of Hosanna! lingering in the ashes." Indeed, the gentle fingers which trace the sign of the cross upon expectant foreheads today belong to the same hands which will offer bread broken and wine poured on Sunday. The very soot that smudges our forehead whispers of the coming of Easter. The God who firmly reminds us of our finitude today graciously offers us eternity tomorrow.
Frederick Buechner suggests the observation of the forty days of Lent represents a spiritual tithe of sorts. We devote roughly a tenth of our days to embarking upon challenging journeys in the wilderness. We ask ourselves difficult questions. We question easy answers. We wait. Who among us enjoys waiting? Waiting may bring excitement and apprehension, eager anticipation and dull dread. It may be pregnant, full of promising possibility, or it may be stagnant, reeking of discarded opportunity.
A few short months ago, we waited. We prepared our hearts for a journey to Bethlehem. We peeked through the slats in the stable, hoping to catch a glimpse of a newborn baby said to be our savior. And now we wait again.. We prepare our hearts for a sojourn in the woods, a majestic parade on a lowly donkey, a meal shared with dear friends, an all night prayer vigil, and a brutal execution. And then we will wait for three more days...
I once heard Lent described as a liturgical red light -- stopping us in our tracks, forcing us to come to grips with the challenging truths of our faith, to come to grips with the frightening dissonance of who we are, and who we were meant to be. As Buechner concludes, "It can be pretty depressing business all in all, but if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end." Amen.
"Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return." It's all very impersonal, very bleak... even hopeless, really. Especially in the wake of the trying times we all know, we turn to our faith searching for signs of promise, crying out for comfort. And then, Ash Wednesday greets us with the inevitability of our mortality and the certainty of our sin. Again -- bleak, impersonal, hopeless.
Yet, even in the midst of such somber, sober realism, hints of hope, tiny peeks of promise endure. In a poem entitled "Ashes," Ann Weems writes, "... I felt the cool smooth finger of ash upon my forehead, ashes from last year's palms saved for this holy time. I wondered if there might still be some remnant of Hosanna! lingering in the ashes." Indeed, the gentle fingers which trace the sign of the cross upon expectant foreheads today belong to the same hands which will offer bread broken and wine poured on Sunday. The very soot that smudges our forehead whispers of the coming of Easter. The God who firmly reminds us of our finitude today graciously offers us eternity tomorrow.
Frederick Buechner suggests the observation of the forty days of Lent represents a spiritual tithe of sorts. We devote roughly a tenth of our days to embarking upon challenging journeys in the wilderness. We ask ourselves difficult questions. We question easy answers. We wait. Who among us enjoys waiting? Waiting may bring excitement and apprehension, eager anticipation and dull dread. It may be pregnant, full of promising possibility, or it may be stagnant, reeking of discarded opportunity.
A few short months ago, we waited. We prepared our hearts for a journey to Bethlehem. We peeked through the slats in the stable, hoping to catch a glimpse of a newborn baby said to be our savior. And now we wait again.. We prepare our hearts for a sojourn in the woods, a majestic parade on a lowly donkey, a meal shared with dear friends, an all night prayer vigil, and a brutal execution. And then we will wait for three more days...
I once heard Lent described as a liturgical red light -- stopping us in our tracks, forcing us to come to grips with the challenging truths of our faith, to come to grips with the frightening dissonance of who we are, and who we were meant to be. As Buechner concludes, "It can be pretty depressing business all in all, but if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end." Amen.
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