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Ash Wednesday
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. Matthew 6:19-20
I once heard a conversation on the radio with an old man reminiscing about his life. He talked about time, and how it changes and speeds up as you get older. When you are a kid, time moves by like those green mile markers you see out your window on the side of the road. Bump…… bump………..bump.
You get a little older. Time starts passing like telephone poles. Bump..bump..bump.
Then, later in life, like fence posts. Bump.bump.bump.bump.
He said as an old man, time moved like you were going over railroad ties. One year after another so fast you don’t know where it’s all gone. Bumpbumpbumpbumpbump.
I’ve been thinking about that conversation ever since.
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I read somewhere that Ash Wednesday is, at its essence, the most honest day of the liturgical year. A fierce, hard, no fun, no jokes, kind of honesty. I have to admit that this kind of honesty is not easy for me. My natural inclination is to use humor to lighten dark places and to poke fun. (To my delight, every Lent one of my pastor friends likes to shout out, “Let’s get ready to HUMMMBLE,” like a pro-wrestling announcer).
But for Ash Wednesday, that won’t do. On this day, if on no other, I think we have to be honest with ourselves.
Ash Wednesday is, as Barbara Brown Taylor puts it, “the day we attend our own funerals.” She says that “whether or not we receive ash on our foreheads in the sign of the cross, the liturgy we are about to hear reminds us of our own demise: ‘Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’” That kind of honesty is hard.
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It’s Ash Wednesday.
Whether we are marking our days in mile markers or railroad ties, on this day we are asked to be honest with ourselves. We will all die and everyone we love will die, too.
“Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.”
But I try to remember this, too:
In the wilderness of our lives, when at times everything feels like ash or dust, when it feels like everything might just all blow away, I try to remember that there is one Rock that remains.
This Rock is the Treasure that a million moths cannot consume. This Treasure will never rust. It cannot be stolen because it is already freely given away.
If we remember nothing else, may we remember that in life and death we are still beloved children of God.
All that we have, all that we are, all that we lose, all that seems bright as sunrise, and all that fades to dust matters to a God who loves us more than we can ever realize, who will not let us go, who will not let ash be the final word.
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