Ash Wednesday Homily
Scientists say we are made of stardust. From the iron in our blood, the calcium in our bones, the chlorine in our skin, it is believed that we were forged in the furnaces of ancient stars whose explosions scattered the elements across the galaxy. From the ashes grew new stars. Around one of them, this universe that we call home, took form. The earth was formed as a massive cluster of dust particles came together. And then life emerged when the Creator spoke it into being.
With Divine breath, God enlivened human beings that God had formed out of the dust. For so long the pair lived in the shade of the Tree of Life, flourishing, unashamed. But when this life was no longer enough they sought more from the garden’s only forbidden tree – the Tree of knowledge of good and evil. They thought its fruit would make them like God. But in their grasping and rebellion, greed, they instead learned fear, anger, judgment, blame, envy, and shame. They hid from God when God came to find them in the garden for a walk in the cool of the day. So, God banished them from the garden, away from the Tree of Life, and they understood then that they would die. By the sweat of your face you shall eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken. For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19).[1] Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. It’s a poem of grief and memory - a reminder of Eve and Adam’s finitude.[2] A reminder of ours.
Generations later, humans are still trying to prove themselves in their relationship to God. According to Isaiah, they pray. They fast. They seek the knowledge of God, desiring to know God’s ways, to be found righteous and worthy of closeness with God. They want God to notice them! And that’s when God calls the Israelites out for their sin and rebellion. Though they have all these nice, religious practices to show, God says that’s all it is. Show. God has noticed them alright. On the same day they fast, they mistreat their workers. They don’t pay them a living wage, or they don’t treat them fairly. God also says the ways they treat each other, fighting with words and their fists, nullifies their sacrifice, their words of praise. They want God to notice them, but they have failed to notice what is wrong before their very eyes. Economic disparity, exploitation and abuse of their neighbors.
The kind of fast that pleases the Lord is releasing those in oppressive bonds, setting free the mistreated, breaking the yokes (and systems) that hold people down… feeding the hungry, caring for the poor and homeless, clothing the naked… THEN your light will shine, says the Lord! Then you will call and the Lord will answer, wrote Isaiah. Open your heart to these… then your light will shine in the darkness. And the Lord will be your guide.
This passage isn’t telling us to throw out our rituals and spiritual practices. These should cultivate a spiritual depth within us that moves us to action. Our spirituality shouldn’t only be a matter of the heart. Our prayers and praise must translate into righteousness and justice in our relationships and our life and work in our community.[3]
Two people who showed me what this looked like were Lori and Mark. Lori was tall and thin with long brown hair and doe-eyes. Quick to smile or give a nervous laugh, but her eyes held sadness. She carried a lot on her shoulders. She was married with three lovely daughters successfully matriculating through high school and college at the time. Her husband had been diagnosed with a rare neurological disease that affected his vision as well as fine motor skills among other things. These complicated his ability to work, to drive, to read, to type, to feed himself, to do most things for himself after a while. They were too young to be facing such debilitating health circumstances.
They came to church when Mark felt like coming, and when Lori could manage all that it took to get him there. They were academics whose spirituality (and church attendance) was driven by service and contemplative practices. Before Mark’s disease, he was very involved with at-risk teenagers and helped them succeed in their education and obtain entry to college. Lori as well was involved in hands-on ministries, serving in the community. That’s what they loved to do. That’s what kept them involved at church. They attended and helped facilitate a SS class that focused on justice issues and a social gospel – that is a Christian ethic that seeks to solve social problems like poverty, hunger, illiteracy, racial inequality.
They always came to the Ash Wednesday service. Even after Mark was sick. I wondered why they would want to come to a service that serves as a reminder that death surrounds us. Surely they already felt that truth in every symptom, inconvenience, prescription and limitation. Surely they felt it in every unanswered prayer.
Kayla Craig writes, Some years, Ash Wednesday feels like an invitation. A gentle beckoning to slow down, to zoom out, to consider the vastness of humanity, with its origins in stardust, mortality, and eternity.
Other years, Ash Wednesday is less an invitation and more a validation. Don’t forget—you’re going to die! Yes, you are bone tired. Being human is hard.[4]
I would walk over to Lori and Mark to place ashes on their heads and I could hardly do it. When folks’ lives are already so hard, when it feels like they are living in the ash-heap, do they need to be reminded of their mortality.
There is a story that a Rabbi Bunim once taught that everyone should have two pockets, each containing a slip of paper. On one should be written: I am but dust and ashes, and on the other: The world was created for me. Rabbi Bunim taught that, from time to time, we must reach into one pocket or the other. Both are true. And like the Israelites in Isaiah, we all want to know that God sees us.
On this one night of the year, we come to a quiet sanctuary to receive the mark of the cross on our foreheads as a symbol of our finitude. But this mark also unites us; remember no grief is solitary. What has stricken you is also carried by me.
Christ comes in all who suffer;
from the border, or Gaza, or Ukraine
they rub their ashes on our foreheads.[5]
This smear of ash reminds us that God sees us in our limited, finite bodies and in our belovedness.
[1] Evans, Rachel Held Searching for Sunday, Ash
[2]Riley, Cole Arthur Black Liturgies
[3] Tan, Ee Yan Working Preacher Isaiah 58:1-12
[4] Craig, Kayla Liturgies for Parents
[5] Garnaas-Holmes, Steve Unfolding Light Dust and Ashes