On the paradox of Ash Wednesday
Ash Wednesday | Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Today is different. The beginning of a new season. In the church and, hopefully, if we embrace its character, a new season in our lives.
Ash Wednesday is the first day of Lent. And in a few minutes, we will be invited to participate in the rhythms of the season. Rhythms that are intentionally different from the rhythms of the rest of the year. We give about six weeks out of 52 in the year as different. We offer them like a sacrifice, a gift, which are, in fact synonyms in a life of faith. Of giving away, of generosity, of self. Small offerings for the sake of others.
The most common way we think of this sacrifice is in the practice of abstinence. Christians all over the world will take as a discipline the refusal to consume red meat or sugary sweets or caffeine or some other indulgence that has become for us too common, too easy, perhaps even too necessary for making it through the day. It is a ritualistic sacrifice, a gift. To God and self. To make ourselves a shade healthier, no doubt. But also to free us. From obligation. For communication — to commune with God. Without obstruction. With intention.
Some History
Historically, Ash Wednesday was also the start of the catechumenate season, when newcomers would give their time to learn, opening themselves to become members of The Way. And notorious sinners, people whose sin was public and had hurt the community, would repent, opening themselves to become members of The Way again. And the community, witnessing these two groups, would reflect, opening themselves to welcome both into The Way.
Ash Wednesday reminds us that our normal isn’t good enough. Our culture, our impulses, what we’ve been taught . . . we need to keep learning. Keep studying.
Ash Wednesday is also a vibe. We pray these downer prayers and these psalms and some of us really like it. The rest of the year with all the people wanting happy stuff — ugh. It gets so old. How refreshing it is to contemplate our wretchedness! Did you know that 70% of the psalms are laments? But only 25% of the ones we use on Sundays are? The church knows which way our bread is buttered! But on this day, people come to church looking for this. Because we need the reminder, don’t we? To be different. That we can do this life differently from now on.
In Secret
This gospel passage invites us into thinking about our world differently, doesn’t it? It is a radical idea, in a culture of networking, of naming things, of being publicly known, seeking popularity, to give in secret, to be known by God for our goodness, not the world. Not our neighbors.
And it offers a radical departure, too for those who seek to connect the notion of blessing to morality to evidence of goodness. To make God’s connection to us secret, not the visible fruits of abundance, of wealth and power as public proof.
It makes a kind of sense, doesn’t it? Personal, internal. A contrast to the perpetually public. It is a call, then, to do the work. Do the work within. Strive. And through God, become. Become generous, compassionate, loving. Give to others because it is good, not so that you look good.
The same, too, can be said for God. That God needs to give in secret because the goodness of God needs to be held to the same standard for it to work, doesn’t it? For God’s goodness to be good, it needs to be good for the sake of the good. Not for the fame. So that the world can see the good, but, instead, to experience the good.
Ashes
A recent piece in The Living Church explores some of the history of the practice of Ash Wednesday and how it has evolved. How we read this gospel about secret prayer and come forward to receive ashes on our foreheads, have someone, usually a priest, smearing the ashes there in the sign of the cross, connecting it to baptism and confirmation, to chrism, to blessing. Bringing death and life into their proper tension.
And I note that baptism, too, is a sign of death as much as it is a sign of life. It is about our dustiness and our new becoming from the dust again. Life and death are always present with us, Friends!
The article reminds us that the Prayer Book doesn’t prescribe how we receive the ashes. It simply says that they are “imposed”. In ancient liturgies, the ashes were sprinkled. Like we do with the cremated remains of loved ones. They would sprinkle on the tonsured heads of the devoted, skin bared, prepared to receive, to fall off in time, in the movement in the world, the standing and sitting and kneeling of worship, the walking out of doors, the shaking of hands, the singing in the car, the greeting of neighbors at Kroger, and all of the blessed things we are prone to do. Ashes fall off and we are left with the memory, the command, internalized and present.
To Wipe or Not To Wipe
While I agree completely with this article from The Living Church, I also completely disagree with it! What? Well, it is because the tradition reveals that it isn’t about the secret prayer or the public witness, as if it must be one or the other, but that these two live in constant tension. We are in public and so we find a way to give in private. Because that is good. But we are also called to be witnesses to the love of God. We are called to communicate in private and public: both.
I often invite us into this conundrum because this day is the best example of how we are called to both and we can’t always do both at the same time. So we have to choose. Choose to do our best with humility.
So I say: To wipe or not to wipe. That is the question. Do we receive the ashes, imposed on us, perhaps cruciform, perhaps an ambiguous smudge, and let them fall away? Do we wipe them away on the way out? Do we make sure to have them in public, to be seen? Or remove them? Are we like politicians with flag pins, where it becomes a required part of the wardrobe, chastising one another for not having dirt on our faces? Or do we chastise each other for not wiping? Or for the crosses rather than the sprinkles on the bald heads? What is right?
The real question, the better question: is there a right? No. There is no “right way” with a paradox.
Shalom
This gospel passage is in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, just a few verses after Jesus said that we are the light of the world and that our light should not be hidden. That the sun rises on the good and bad alike. That we are to not resist the evildoer. And in the space between, in the middle of this gospel reading, Jesus teaches them to pray. What they are to pray when they are praying in secret. To pray the words and familiar phrases we know as the Lord’s Prayer. A prayer that isn’t personal and selfish. Calling for personal blessing, power, or wealth. But public reconciliation. Justice. Health. Equity. Peace. Shalom.
The paradox of Ash Wednesday is that the personal and public are inseparable. That we are what we pray for. We are light and hope in Jesus. But it can’t be about ourselves, only. And it can’t be for ourselves, only. It is about us and each other. Our common lives and common life.
We’re called to remember all of this today. So that we take this season with intention and devotion. That we look at ourselves and our world. That we study and make new habits that help us remember to listen for Jesus this whole season. So that we remember what we’ve learned during this season, to practice sacrifice and giving and welcoming and becoming so that when we do get to the feast of the resurrection, we can be reborn. We can be forever new. Alive. True.