Dust

Ash Wednesday was almost two weeks ago, I realize. This post is a bit late.

I attended the evening service at my parish. Many of my fellow parishioners were there. The choir processed in silence as is our custom in Lent. Ashes were imposed at the proper time. Our director of faith formation helped the rector with the imposition. I was in the line that would go to her - Anna.

As I approached Anna to receive my ashes, she looked directly into my eyes and said, “Marguerite, you are dust and to dust you will return.” Just like that. The same to me as to everyone. What did it mean, that she would say this? That she would make this obvious but nevertheless profound proclamation?

I think this is what church does for us. I can walk in the woods and understand God as creator. I can volunteer at a food shelf and see the face of Jesus in every customer. I can sit in my room and pray to my father in secret, but nowhere but in church can I get Anna to tell me that I’m dust. 

This holy and ancient moment, this world-defying practice of kindly reminding each other that we are like the grass in the field that blooms one day and the next is known no more – this blessing is the stuff of Christian faith, of being part of a church.

There was another person of note in Anna’s line. Little Andy who is about three. He is in line roughly 15 people ahead of me, with his family. Anna squats down so she can look him right in the eye as she always does with children.  There is no peering down form a lofty height for her. And she says the very same thing to Andythat she says to everyone else. Why wouldn't she?

Andy, marked with the ashes, runs back to his pew, grinning like a crazy fool. Oh, dearest God, please let him stay a fool. Please let this mark remain on him for his whole life. 

That’s the other thing church can do for you. It can mark you for life. It can put a dab of faith on you that nothing can erase. It can look you in the eye, in your three year old eye, and tell you that you are dust. And, in doing so, make you so happy you might burst.