Oil and Ashes

On Sunday evening, I got a phone call from a member of our congregation.  She wanted me to know about another member of the church who was dying.  She wanted to make sure I knew, and that I would go out to see her as soon as possible.

A little later I got a text from someone else with the same message.  It was already late, so I resolved to go over early the next morning.

That Sunday morning we had been on the mountaintop with Jesus.  It was a brief, shining encounter; we raised up brightly colored Alleluias and shouted and then put them away for Lent.  That morning we remembered the words, "This is my beloved son, with whom I am well-pleased."

Then, on Monday morning, I drove over to the assisted living center where this 101 year old woman lived.   I considered that she had faithfully attended worship almost every single Sunday, but not the day before.  One of her daughters-in-law was at the door of her apartment when I arrived.  She was sleeping peacefully.  I prayed and sang and spoke in her ear; I sang Beautiful Savior and What a Friend we Have in Jesus.  I told her how important she was; how much the children loved her. Her daughter-in-law told her that her husband was waiting for her, that everyone would be all right.

Then I got a small container of oil out of my purse.  It was something I had just received; a hand-me-down from a retired pastor.  I hadn't used it before.  I unscrewed the lid; there was not much balm left, but there was enough to put on my finger, and on her forehead, and to say the words, "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked by the cross of Christ forever."

And I remember that after that, her daughter in law took the container from me for a moment and she smelled the fragrance of that small amount of balm.

It was two days before Ash Wednesday.

On Wednesday morning at 7:30 I was standing in the lobby of our congregation's pre-school.  Parents came in with babies and toddlers, and I was there to offer ashes and strange words to anyone who stopped.  "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."  And although not everyone stopped, some did, expressing thanks, some silently.  One man told me that he was raised Catholic, but hadn't been for awhile.  Several brought their children to be marked as well.

And even though I do this, I offer the words and the ashes, I have to wonder what it is that draws people to the ashes and the words, "Remember that you are dust"?  It seems like the last thing we would want to remember.

A little later, I held a chapel service for the children over in our sanctuary.  We heard the story of Shadrach, Mesach and Abednego in the fiery furnace, and how the fourth man was with them in the flames, so that they were not burned.  And afterwards, two of the teachers and several of the older children also wanted ashes on their foreheads, in the form of a cross.

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

After the chapel service, when I arrived at the church office, and I learned that my 101 year old member had died that morning.

"You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever."

Oil and ashes, we are marked.  We are born and we die.  We die, and we are born again.

At the end of the day I got a message from a young mother from my church.  She said they had really hoped to come to the noon service, but they didn't make it.

But before she went to bed, her daughter went to the fireplace, and found ashes and marked her parents with the ashes.  With the sign of the cross.

You are dust, you are marked with oil and ashes.  You are born and you die.  You die, and you are born again.

Marked

I was going to wear my good alb for Ash Wednesday worship, except that it's not my good alb any more.

I bought this one a few years ago, just before I traveled to South Dakota for one of my congregations' 100th Anniversary.  It seemed like a good occasion to splurge, to show my congregation that I had come up in the world, even just a little.  I had made do for many years with the least expensive robe I could find.  It had velcro at the top, and fastened with velcro too.  The new one had buttons!  and two pockets.  I had saved up a little money, so I bought it.

A couple of weeks ago I brought my robe to a wedding where I would be officiating.  It was an outdoor wedding, and I was undecided about whether I would wear it or not.  I decided I would not.  But when I got home, it looked wrinkled, and I thought I would put it in the wash.  And in the dryer.

When I came out, I discovered that I had left a ballpoint pen in the pocket.

This was a terrible mistake.

There were great big blotches of ink all over the robe.  I mean ALL OVER.  I sprayed and put the robe in the wash again.  I soaked it for a week, and sprayed it again.  And washed it again.  Some of the spots have become a little lighter.

But not much.

I briefly considered wearing the alb anyway, on Ash Wednesday.  If you see it, you might see why.  It is a great (or terrible, depending on your point of view) visual aid of the presence and persistence of sin in our lives.  We are all marked.  And we can't get the stains out, no matter how hard we try.

I briefly considered wearing the alb anyway, but I just couldn't.  I decided that it was just too embarrassing.  I just couldn't stand up there with all those ink spots, and imagining everyone looking at me, thinking, "What HAPPENED?" or "How dumb could she BE?"

There are times when I wonder, too, about wearing the ashes, on Ash Wednesday.  I wonder about it because I always read the gospel of Matthew, which tells me not to practice my piety in front of others, so that they will say, "Good job!  You're so religious!"  And I have thought of the ashes as an act of piety.

But today I think that the ashes are more like that stained alb that I won't wear, because it's too embarrassing.  To wear the ashes is to admit my fault, my sin, my failure.  To wear the ashes is to confess my impiety.  I am in the company of those who have failed.  I am in the company of those who have done stupendously dumb things, like wash clothes with a pen in the pocket.  I am in the company of those who have done mean things, and ignorant things, who have majored in minors, and not paid attention to the most important things.

So, I will not wear the robe tonight.  I'll wear the older one.  That one has a tear in the pocket, and some other flaws you might notice if you look closely.

Most of the time we don't want people to look too closely.  But on Ash Wednesday, some of us dare to stand together, marked, and tell each other the truth about our sad and beautiful lives.  There is power in that.  God can change us then.  Into what, I only have a vague idea, except that he promised that we would be transformed from one degree of glory into another.

Ash Wednesday Ashes

After our noon service today, we got a phone call from a woman who had missed the service, and would not be able to attend in the evening because she had to work.

She told us her name, and wondered if she could stop by in a little while for prayer and to receive the ashes.  I said that I planned to be around and would wait for her.

At the appropriate time she came by the church.  We went into our small chapel, sitting in the narrow pew nearest the chancel.  A small shiny black teacup with ashes sat between us.

I had brought one of our bulletins and decided to read the poem that opened the service.  It was so beautiful, evoking the frailty of our mortality and the ashes of our lives with the fire of God's love and promise for us.  Afterwards, she opened up and her life poured out:  her desire for a clear purpose and work that mattered, her care for a troubled child and grandchild, other grandchildren that she never knew.  As she shared from the depths of her heart,  I looked down at the cup of ashes, and I thought, What good are these ashes?  Does she really need today to hear that she is dust, and to dust she will return? 

Then, it was time to pray, and just as I opened my mouth to begin praying for her, as I thought she wanted me to do, she broke out in prayer herself. Seeing my surprise, she stopped momentarily, and said, "is it all right?" When I nodded, she continued.

And oh my word, this woman could pray.  She prayed for a friend who had experienced loss.  She prayed for her family, and she prayed for her work.  She prayed for purpose and she prayed for strength.  She prayed citing scripture with ease, words she knew by heart.  She prayed until I wondered if there was anything left to pray for.  She prayed for me, and that God would bless me, and my work.

Later, I prayed too.  I prayed for her, especially, although she interrupted to make sure I included someone else she prayed for.

Then I made the sign of the cross on her forehead, saying "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

"Amen", she said, as if it was the best piece of news she ever heard.

"Wait," I said.  I wanted to read one more thing for her, something from our bulletin.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation
That we may show forth your glory in the world.
By the cross and passion of your Son our Lord
Bring us with all your saints to the joy of your resurrection.

"That's beautiful," she said.  Then, "Tell me, when you came to faith, did you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and savior?"

"Every day," I said.  "In my tradition, it's not a one-time-only thing."

We walked together back down the hallway from the chapel.  "Where do you go to church?" I asked.  I couldn't imagine someone who knew scripture by heart like she did was not going to worship somewhere.

"I haven't been to church for a long time," she told me.  "I always have to work on Sunday.  I usually work Saturday night, too.  I haven't been to church for a long time.  But they told me that I might be able to start getting Sundays off now."

"Thank you for praying with me," she said.  "Bless your ministry.  You are a blessing."

O my heart.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation
That we may show forth your glory in the world.
 

On Being Thirteen

One of the things I hate about doing youth ministry is that it reminds me of being thirteen.

I see the interactions between girls, between boys, between girls and boys, I see the one girl who gets left out, the boy who the girls laugh at because his hair is messy, the girls who are already using mascara, and the one girl who is not, and I remember:  I was not one of the cool kids.

I looked in the mirror some days and despaired that I would ever be pretty.  I sometimes thought that other kids were laughing at me behind my back.  I wanted boys to like me, but didn't know what to say to them.  I was shy.  I didn't always know what the latest style was.  I was a little socially awkward, not good at sports.  I did not like to go to youth group much because, despite the fact that I went to the same school as most of the others, I only had one friend there.  I thought of youth group as being a place for the "cool kids" too, not for me.  When I was confirmed I started helping with Sunday School and singing in the Adult Choir. 

I have heard some youth group leaders say that actually the way to grow a youth group is to appeal to the cool kids, the popular kids.  You can't have a good youth group by appealing to young people who are like I was, shy and a little awkward and insecure.  I get that, but it still makes me sad. 

Looking back, I realize that part of my problem was that I was so focused on myself and my insecurities, all that I thought that was wrong with me.  I supposed that is part of being thirteen, whether you are a "cool kid" or not.  But the other thing I realize, when I look out at all those thirteen and fourteen and fifteen year olds now, is that it isn't just the lonely, shy ones who are full of doubts and insecurities, who wonder if anyone will love them, who look in the mirror and despair.  Most of the "cool kids" don't think they are so cool.  Not really.  Some of them are worried that they are going to be discovered.  They're all struggling.  It's just that some of the struggles are so painfully obvious, and some of them are hidden behind the surface of a pretty face or a group of friends, or the ability to throw a ball.

We're all struggling, whether we're thirteen or thirty or fifty four or eighty.  Some of us are able to hide it better than others.  But on Ash Wednesday, some of us go public, come out of hiding, and show the world that we are dust.  You thought we were cool kids?  No.  We're dust.  We're losers.  We're insecure, we can be self-absorbed, we're awkward.  We confess to you, O Lord.

And yet we are also beloved.  God has marked us with the cross, and said, "You are mine.  You are beautiful.  There is a place for you.  Even if you are thirteen."

One of the things I hate about youth ministry is that it reminds me of being thirteen.  But, that's one of the things I love about it, too.

Visiting the Dying on Ash Wednesday

Today was Ash Wednesday.  I have the cross of ashes on my forehead to prove it.  I heard again the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."  I said the same words this evening and made crosses on babies and on a man in a wheelchair, on a young couple I had never seen before, on a woman whose cancer has returned, on another woman whose husband now lives in a nursing home, on teenage triplets, on a single mom and her son.  "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."  These words mark and form the day, no matter what else I do.  And usually the day gets consumed with the worship services (we have three) and all the preparation for them. 

Today, between the worship services, I spent some time at a home nearby, praying and giving communion to one of my parish members.  He and his wife had been in my office not a month ago, telling me of his diagnosis.  We talked and prayed and they wrote down a few of his wishes for his funeral.  I found out that he had been in the navy long ago, but never on the sea.  He was a navy flyer.  Yesterday they called and said they wanted me to visit.  So today I came with communion and with scripture readings.  "Return to the Lord your God," I read, "For he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love."  "It's the perfect verse," his wife said.   "Abounding in steadfast love."  "God's arms are open wide."

Later on, I drove down to a nearby nursing home, where I stopped in to see a woman who has dementia.  Her bed was near the floor when I walked in.  I bent down low to hold her hand.  I don't know for sure if she knew who I was, but I said she had on a lovely shawl, and she said "good."  I sang a couple of songs for her, because that's what I do when I don't know what to do.  And I made the sign of the cross on her forehead, "Gloria, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever."

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

"Return to the Lord your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love."

I made the sign of the cross on many foreheads today.  I visited the dying.  They were dying, and they were being born again, by the mercy of God.

Taking Out the Garbage as a Lenten Discipline

This morning, Ash Wednesday, when I got up to take the dog out for her morning walk, I realized that we had forgotten to take the garbage out last night.

What a coincidence. This is Ash Wednesday. It is also garbage day.

In the wintertime, taking out the garbage involves a few more steps than it does at other seasons of the year. For one thing, I often have to kick the garbage can a couple of times because the lid freezes shut. We also have to wheel the garbage can through the snow past one or two cars parked in the driveway. I have become an expert at the graceful "swoop" down as I wheel the can past the rear view mirror.

This morning, I spent a little extra time going through bags, deciding what else could be "garbage" and what I might want to save. There are a few things that are clearly useless. There are a few things that "might come in handy." There are a few things that should not ever be considered garbage.

So, this morning, as I was kicking the garbage can to loosen the lid, and as I was sorting stuff and considering what was valuable and what was not, I considered as well that this was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.

What would be a good Lenten discipline this year?

One friend of mine has an exercise plan in place. It sounds guaranteed to change her life, or at least help her lose a few pounds. A teenager I know always gave up soda. Another friend refrains from chocolate. One year I gave up buying (not reading, just buying) books. The Mayo
Clinic Diet book, which I recently bought, sounds positively Lenten to me these days. The very beginning pages tell about 5 New Habits to Develop and 5 Habits to Drop. Sounds exactly like the twin disciplines of Lent: giving up something (fasting), and taking up something.

And yet, I can't help thinking about taking out the garbage as a Lenten discpline, starting at the beginning, with kicking the can. Sometimes you have to do that, you know. Sometimes your life is just frozen shut, and nothing new can happen unless you kick it a couple of times.

Then the discernment begins; what is valuable in my life, and what is "garbage"? What things "might come in handy someday" and why do I think so? Is it true? Where does the true value of my life lie? And in the midst of it all, I remember these words:

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

During Lent this year, I will throw away, or somehow get rid of, one thing every day.

I'll let you know, occasionally, how it's going.

How about you?