The Smudge

Those of us who are pastors, are about to encounter one of the most gripping moments of the year: Ash Wednesday, the day of the smudge. 

It seems simple enough. Take last year's palms from Palm Sunday. Burn them. Sift them so
that only the black powdered ash is left. Invite the people to come and kneel before the altar. 

As they kneel, dip your thumb in the ashes, put your thumb to the kneeling person's forehead, make the sign of the cross, and say the simple words "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Simple, yes, but profoundly gripping. 

I ponder all the foreheads my thumb has traced. Some are smooth and young and fresh, wondrous examples of God's creative powers. Some are wrinkled with deep furrows: evidence of worries and struggles, past and present, and exposure to harsh elements in the world around us. Sometimes the thumb passes over skin as soft as cashmere; sometimes it bounces roughly over furrows like a car going over uneven railroad tracks.

But all of these foreheads came from the same source and all are destined for the same transformation. They all came from dust. They all will return to the dust.

Sometimes an infant is brought in mother's arms, a child who last Ash Wednesday was literally dust, but now the dust is transformed into tiny fingers, eyes, and lips: God has brought the dust to life. It is hard for a pastor not to feel God looking over his shoulder, and God whispering in his ear as the thumb reaches out to make the smudge: "Pastor, do you see the miracle before you? Do you see what I have done with the dust? Have you shared the joy of this miracle with your people?"

Sometimes, one stricken with cancer or heart disease, comes and kneels with a knowing expression upon their face, knowing full well that the time is near for their body to return to the dust, to become again like that smudge on their forehead. No words need to be spoken between pastor and parishioner, but both know the meaning of the smudge.

Sometimes, one who has stood at the grave of a mother or father, comes and kneels with all of the questions, uncertainties and hopes that death brings. Sometimes the smudge helps that person connect again with their loved one, to hold their dustiness in common, to acknowledge the truth about dust, and to hold on to the promise for dusty people beyond this life.

We are people who should never go too far afield from the smudge. We should never get so far away from it that we can no longer see the smudge. We should never lose our reference point of from where we came nor to where we are going. People who know they are dust know that it took a miracle for dust to be filled with life. People who realize that only God could make life out of dust know that if God made life out of dust once, God can do it again. God knows the secret. God knows the recipe. When we have returned again to dust,

God knows what to do with our dust. We won't be just a smudge. We will have life!

Time for the Naked Truth

It was one of those rare days in March: sunshine, 60 degrees, nothing I had to do, and enough energy in my reserve tank to get the old body moving and out of the house.  I picked up my latest “must have” tool, the pruning stick, and began sauntering around this old homestead, seeing what I could see, fixing what I could fix and trimming what I could trim.

Such a day in March is just the time to do that.  March is the “naked truth” time of the year.  Things can be seen in March that can’t be seen  the rest of the year, things hidden by green grass, tree leaves, heat induced laziness and our own busyness.  By March though, the grass has gone limp and been matted down by snow, the leaves are not there to hide what’s underneath, and the stark sunshine probes deep, all the way to the ground.

I took my pruning stick and began nipping away stems of unwanted bushes and briars around our pond.  In the heat of last summer, when just keeping the grass mowed between rain storms was an arduous task, I was willing to turn my head from these few little leaves along the pond bank.  But in the stark light of March, I can see what they’re up to.  It’s not one stem; it is a dozen stems!  It’s not just a foot high; it’s 3 feet high!  It’s not just that one scrub bush, it is briars and weeds and even some poison ivy vines slinking along the ground.  And they are swelling.  They are massing brigades at their stemmy borders. They are ready to reach for the heights this season.

Now I can see.  Now it’s clear what furtive plans they have.  Well, on this sunny day, when the Ides of March are raising their ominous hackles, I for one am acknowledging the naked truth---- and doing something about it.  Clip, clip, clip to you Mr. Transgressor! You shall not advance just now.  Yes, I know you will still be there. I know you will push forward wherever you can push forward, but today I have punched the “reset button.” It shall not be business as usual for you.

Is this not the business of Lent?  God’s business and our business?  It is the most stark time of the year, a time for the naked truth about us, and about God.  There is no hiding in the Lenten story of Gods love.  We cannot hide from what we are and how we have allowed brush and brambles to grow where they should not be growing in our lives.  This too, is the season of the stark love of Jesus hanging on a cross.  It will not be hidden any longer.  It is there for all to see.

A post script to my March pruning madness: what I was never able to see before today amid the brambles and brush there on the shore of our pond.  There nestled under all this unwanted clutter was a beautiful, young arborvitae bush.  Somehow, it had the courage and tenacity to sprout and hold its own in that very scruffy setting.  It will be a wonderful addition to that shoreline. 

That’s another part of the naked truth.  When our Lenten journey gets rid of some of the brambles in our lives, the Son can reach down to warm and invigorate some of the good parts of us that have been hidden. Maybe that will be the naked truth for you this lent!