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. 

hummingbirds and toads

There are cicadas whirring outside my window. It is 9:30 pm and it's already dark outside. It was 85 degrees Fahrenheit today and people were sighing at how nice and cool it is.

I'm on day three in my new stomping grounds in the Raleigh, NC area. The last two months have taken me from Munich to Austria to the Lakes District in England to the West Highland Way in Scotland to Raleigh, North Carolina. It's been a wonderful whirlwind.

I'm not going to lie: transitions are hard and culture shock is real (you can see my friend Angela's take on that here) and there have been tears. This morning, in fact.

But there have also been many small, good things today that remind me that this is where I want to be.

Here are some of them.

~ a tiny toad the size of my thumbnail on the sidewalk
~ hummingbirds zipping in and out of the garden
~ a bunny rabbit meandering through the yard
~ cicadas so loud I hear them through my closed window every night
~ a pool with water that is pleasantly tepid, not freezing
~ gracious people
~ magnolia blossoms
~ crepe myrtles
~ white pine trees
~ a dryer so my laundry is finished after two hours total
~ garlic bread
~ iced tea
~ a screened-in porch

In the middle of so much newness, little things like these go a long way toward helping me keep my chin up. As does the audiobook of Charlotte's Web narrated by E. B. White himself. Just saying.

The Art of Leaving Well

One thing I've learned through many moves over the years is that leaving well is an art form, not a formula.

It would be easier if it were a formula: I could make a list, check off all the boxes, and tie up all the loose ends before moving on.

But that's not how life works. Uprooting is a messy, unpredictable business. Just as I successfully pull up one tie to a place, I inadvertently establish another. Somehow I always manage to be putting down new roots until the actual moment of being transplanted.

I'm moving away from Munich in less than a month, and it is really tempting to check out now. But I’m still here. If I’m called to bloom where I’m planted, that means I’m called to bloom here until the day I go. 

So even while I set up final visits with friends, I allow myself to spend time with new acquaintances. I initiate a four-week Bible study with a teenager from church. I invite a couple of kids over for a tea party.

I visit familiar haunts for the last time while still discovering new, delightful places.

Even while I'm preparing to leave, I still live here. There are still things for me to do here.

None of this means living in denial. Closure is important. But the truth is that there will always be loose ends. There will always be unfinished conversations and unexplored possibilities and things on the to-do list that never got done. People that I wish I’d sought out over the last two years that it’s now time to say goodbye to. It’s enough to make me crazy. 

In the weeks before I graduated from college, I was under immense pressure and immense blessing. I was preemptively grieving the loss of a community that was precious to me while daily receiving all the riches that community had to offer. I did not know how to process it all, and I was afraid that I would leave important things undone - that somehow I would miss something crucial and have no chance to rectify my mistake.

During that time the Lord gave me a word through a friend: "Rest easy. I'll take care of the loose ends. Fear not. Trust Me."

While this transition is not nearly as devastating as that one was, it is good for me to remember the assurance God gave me in the midst of it.

It’s a reminder that the work I’ve been doing here in relationships and community isn’t actually my work: it’s the Lord’s work. And it is being accomplished in His timing. If it feels unfinished to me, that’s ok, because I’m not the one responsible to finish it - He is.  

In the meantime, I write myself reminders, give myself space to grieve and to rejoice, hang out with friends, and practice the art of leaving well.