Ash Wednesday
In the name of the God of all that is, and all that was, and
all that ever shall be. Amen.
A couple of months ago, Michael decided that he needed to be
drinking less caffeine, so he switched to “half-caff” coffee. For a few weeks I tried to go along with
this. Though I don’t drink a lot of
coffee each day, cutting my caffeine consumption by half was decidedly
unpleasant.
My first attempt at resolving this low-grade crisis was to
have one cup of “half-caff” in the morning before coming to the office, but
then, making a cup of “real” coffee in the Keurig once I got to the
office. That worked alright for a while,
but even so, weekends came. There were
still days each week when my coffee just wasn’t right.
After much debate and discussion in our house, and
researching the various options, and lobbying for what I thought I could get
away with, I finally convinced Michael that we should get a single-cup brewer
at home. That way he could have his
“half-caff” and I could have my “regular”.
One of the concerns we faced from the very beginning,
however, was what to do about those blasted little plastic pods. We liked the flexibility of being able to
brew our own coffees at our own times, but we hated the idea of leaving a trail
through our lives of plastic pods that would each take thousands of years to
decompose. They can be recycled, but it
isn’t easy. They have to be disassembled
and separated. It’s time consuming and
messy.
Eventually, Michael settled on refillable pods. They’re still plastic, but they’re
reusable. And when they do eventually
need to be discarded, they will be much easier to recycle. I, on the other hand, have settled in on
pre-filled pods, but I’ve found some that are biodegradable and
compostable. I can still have the
convenience, without the guilt of the lasting impact of all that plastic. They quickly break down and return to the
earth. In not very long at all, they
disappear, as if they were never there.
The thing about it is, though, on a long enough scale,
everything on earth does exactly the same thing. No thing
is actually permanent. It’s all
impermanent. It all fades away. The impact we leave on this earth, for good
or for ill, even though it may sometimes be long-lasting – it isn’t eternal. The impact may even be too long for the good
of the earth and for the generations who follow us, but it’s not forever. Eventually it will be consumed –
reincorporated into all that brought it into being. Eventually it will die.
The gospel says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures
on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but
store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there
your heart will be also.”
Where is your heart?
Where is your treasure? Will they
be consumed or stolen? Will they fade
away?
Ash Wednesday begins the season of Lent – a time in the
church year when we prepare ourselves for the annual commemoration of
impermanence falling to all that is truly real, and truly forever. It’s realized in the physical body of Jesus
dying – the way all things eventually do.
But for once, death is proved to not be forever. For once, the treasures of heaven reach down
to kiss the earth, and to show us that there’s another way.
But to embrace the new reality that God has given us in
Christ, we must first remember that we are dust. We must first remember that we, too, will
eventually blow away. We will return to
the earth as have all who have gone before us.
It’s only in remembering that fact that we can begin to embrace that
it’s not really true – at least not the whole truth. The final word on this earth can’t stand up
to the Word of God, made living in the Christ.
The ultimate Word of God, once dismissed as dead, is given new life at
Easter.
As a symbol of this season, and as a symbol of our role is
this ever-unfolding truth, we mark ourselves with ashes. And not just any ashes. These are the ashes of the palms that once
heralded the triumphant announcement of Jesus as a savior over all the forces
of oppression. These are the ashes of
the palms that once stood for joy and respect and authority.
But, if you held on to your palms after Holy Week last year,
you probably noticed that they didn’t last long. Their green quickly faded to shades of tan
and white and brown. They became dry and
brittle and they died. But now they’ve
taken on new life, and new meaning. It’s
still impermanent. They are still of
this world and they will still fade and return to the earth. But they remind us that there’s something
more. Even when death has declared the
once-living to be of no use, there’s still some life to spare.
So remember that you are dust. Remember that you will return to dust. But also remember that even then, God isn’t
finished. God used dust and molded the
whole world. God used death to show us
that death wasn’t the end. God will use
us – in this life that is passing away, and in the true life that still awaits. Amen.
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