An Ash Wednesday Meditation

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

On the top floor of the Billy Graham Center in Wheaton, there is a nearly life-sized crucifix. As crucifixes go, it's fairly typical. Jesus' arms are opened wide, nailed to the cross. His head hangs under the crown of thorns and the weight of sin.

It's not the form of the crucifix that's unusual; it's the substance. This crucifix is made of dust. Literally.

The sculptor - whose name I cannot remember, which is why I have no image to share with you - collected the contents of the campus vacuum cleaners for months upon months. Then, he compressed the dirt and dust and used it as his medium to craft a crucifix.

It seems sacrilegious, almost, until you remember: we humans are formed of dust.

In the moment of the Incarnation, God Himself became human - He humbled Himself and took on the form of man - made of dust.

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

I found myself contemplating the memory of that crucifix during the Ash Wednesday service that I attended this evening. Believers throughout the world gather on Ash Wednesday to mark the beginning of Lent - a season of fasting and repentance as a time of preparation for Easter.

In a dimmed sanctuary, the members of the congregation silently stepped to the front to receive the ashes. The priest dipped his finger in a mixture of ashes and anointing oil and imposed the sign of the cross on each congregant's forehead. He spoke softly: "Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return." Somehow, in a quirk of acoustics, all that was audible unless you were the one receiving the ashes was "dust...dust...return...dust...dust...return...dust...dust...return." 

In the ten minutes of silent listening to this refrain, I contemplated the anointing. That cross on our foreheads is an mystery and a reminder: we are dust; Christ became dust for us; though once we were sinners under judgment we are now covered by the work of the Messiah on the cross. We are marked by His grace.

Because He became dust, our return to dust is not the end of the story. When we return to Him, He begins the mysterious work of renewal in us that will be completed when He comes again.

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

This refrain stems from the curse in Genesis 3, when God pronounces judgment on Adam for his rebellion against the Lord. In other contexts, the word refers to ashes; hence, Ash Wednesday. 

But there is another Hebrew word used earlier in Genesis 2 in the account of man's creation. It's actually the word that the name Adam comes from, and it means land, ground, or soil. It is from this idea that the layperson, Mary, who delivered the homily this evening, developed her question:

How is the soil of your soul?

Mary went on to paint an image of Lent that I wasn't familiar with: a time for tilling the soil of our souls, so that we are ready to receive the seed of joy that Easter brings. 

It's a beautiful image, made more beautiful by a story she told. 

Early in her marriage, she and her husband were directors of a community called Selah out in California. The community shared apartments around a courtyard. Initially, the courtyard was barren, with dead bushes and some scraggly plants - not a welcoming place. But the members of the community decided that they wanted it to be a gathering place, so they went to work - weeding, preparing the soil, planting seeds. It became a beautiful garden. 

One day Mary came down the stairs with a load of laundry to find a sweet Japanese lady on her knees in the garden. She had a plastic sieve, and she was carefully shaking the dirt through it. As she sifted, she threw out rocks, twigs, and pieces of trash. 

When Mary asked what she was doing, her friend replied, "If I don't do this, the soil won't be any good."

If I don't do this, the soil won't be any good. 

What an image for the discipline of Lent - a time to sit with the Lord and sift the soil of our souls, opening up to His work in our hearts to sift out rocks and twigs and trash so that we can bear the fruit of abiding in Him. 

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

As I sit on the couch in my PJs, preparing for rest, these images are settling in my heart. 

The sibilant refrain "dust...dust...return...dust...dust...return."

The sensation of ash and oil on my forehead. 

The image of a woman kneeling in the dirt to sift the soil so that living things could grow in it. 

The image of a Jesus made of dust stretching out His arms on the cross. 

Remember that you are dust. To dust you shall return.

We are dust - but thanks to the work of the Creator and Redeemer, we are anointed dust. Consecrated to carry out His work and bear the fruit of abiding in Him as we walk through the brokenness and beauty of this fleeting life. As we dwell on this turning world, may we continually return to Him.