Last week a number of us at Two Rivers gathered at St. Andrew’s for an Ash Wednesday liturgy. I had the honour of greeting people at the door, inviting them to sit in the dimly lit sanctuary without speaking as gentle choral music played. It was moving for me to see people arriving from different parts of the city, slowly trickling in from the North, South, East and West.
Beautiful lovely people taking time out of their busy week and possibly hectic day, to reflect on their mortality and receive the imposition of ashes. Fran and Kristen, Tracey and Tricia, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.
The symbol of the cross, marked in ashes on our foreheads, a stark reminder that each of us given a life to live must eventually die. Randy and Eileen, Sharon and Ellen, we are all in this together.
There is something profound in collectively acknowledging our frailty and woundedness, our weaknesses and limitations, all part of the human experience. Thomas and Elizabeth and Joel and dear, sweet Beth, you are not alone. We are not alone.
God is near to the broken hearted, those bowed down and humbled low.
Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. There is something liberating about those words. It is okay, Dan, to make mistakes, all my feeble attempts to love and be loved. All of our attempts to find meaning and make sense of this world. So much mystery, so much out of our control. All of us, just trying our best to make our way through life; Handsome Jim and capable Irene, you are enough and will be enough.
The ashes on our foreheads are created from the burnt palms of a previous Palm Sunday. An invitation to embrace beginnings and endings, rhythms of nature, and liturgical seasons. Life with its times of dreaming and creating, releasing and surrendering, so fleeting, yet glorious: each day, each hour, each moment a gift.
Worshiper or wanderer, the symbol of the cross points us to a deeper reality. Dearest Matthew and Doris and Kathryn and John know that you are marked with love. A love that is with us in our coming and going. A love that enables us to keep humming in the darkness. A love that holds us as we fall asleep and wake again when the sun rises.
I was honoured to welcome my friends that night, and remain honoured to hold these names, and all the others not written here, close to my heart through Lent and beyond.
Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. DV