Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Matthew 6, Psalm 51, Joel 2, 2 Corinthians 4.
Ashes. Marking foreheads with the sign of the Cross.
"Remember you are dust..."
On the face of the woman who just buried her mother.
The little child. The newborn baby. How can I make sure not to get any of it in his eyes?
"...and to dust you shall return."
On the forehead of the young man now a couple of years into living with a brain tumor. On the wife of a man whose doctor just had to use the "c" word, cancer. Do I really need to remind these folks of mortality?
The almost intimate act of brushing aside hair, the sloppiness of ashes. The heartbreak of saying those words to someone who likely won't be with us next year.
The teen who is invincible. The retiree who can hardly stay standing as I touch his face.
"Remember you are dust..."
To the man who labors for the church behind the scenes every day. To the couple who backbite and spread gossip but are sweetness and light to your face.
The man whose secret sin, exposed for the world to see, would crush anyone not sustained by the grace of God: he staggers away, stained and tear-drenched.
"...and to dust you shall return."
I can still feel the ashes on my own face, my visage marked by a sign of cleansing, repentance, mortality, and renewal. I need those ashes. I need God's grace.
But I can still feel the ashes on all of their faces too. What a terrible, wonderful beauty God's mercy is. What a piercing love Jesus brings; a sword, indeed.
Remember that you are dust. And to dust you shall return.
Remember that you are God's. And to God, may we all return.
Technorati tags: Ash Wednesday Lutheran dust repent

