"Humanity and death and the cross and all that is sort of messy business. . ."

Well, I made it through another high holy day in which I did not have any of the usual responsibilities. Kind of weird to wake up this morning and not have to burn last year's palms to make ashes for tonight's service.

Though, not being in charge, I did find myself paying attention differently today, noticing things I have overlooked in recent years.

For one, I realized I don't like the ELW service as much as the LBW service for Ash Wednesday. Even though we had the new hymnals, which actually prints the Ash Wednesday liturgy in the hymnal, we never used the ELW service, we printed the liturgy in the bulletin and kept on with the LBW service. I don't think I even realized until today that it had changed, but it's condensed. And of all days on the church calendar, this is not the one to condense. . .

I also stumbled into a moment of profundity during chapel. I was singing with Schola this morning, we were directed to the far side of the chapel for the imposition of ashes, which happened to be the line that Mary was imposing. There was something kind of profound and soberly perspective-granting just in that, to have my doctoral advisor remind me that I am dust. But then later in the service, Schola was directed to a different side of the chapel to receive communion, and this once again happened to be the line that Mary was serving. And it occurred to me, the same hands that had marked me in ash and reminded me of my mortality also handed me the bread of life.

And that was true in PA too - I was the one marking everybody's foreheads and the one handing out the bread. Cami was usually my assisting minister for Ash Wednesday, which meant she would have both marked my forehead and served me communion over the last five years. But I was always so busy worrying about the service as a whole, I never noticed that before. And I don't know that I would have noticed it today except for some fortuitous traffic direction.

So I basically had ashes on my forehead all day, which I am not used to. I kept forgetting they were there, and inadvertently smeared them all afternoon. By the time I got to church tonight, I needed another cross, because I had essentially - though not consciously - wiped the first one away. I wrote something about how I kept smearing my ashes on facebook, and Kristin's response was "Well, humanity and death and the cross and all that is sort of messy business. . ."

And that it is. Messiness and dustiness we'd really rather not be reminded of, if truth be told. Maybe not such a big surprise, then, that as I went about my day my hand kept unconsciously grazing my forehead, slowly brushing that reminder away. Except that didn't really get rid of the cross, it just moved the mess out where I could see it, on my hands, where I could spread it around unless I dealt with it.

That's the thing about Ash Wednesday - it won't let you escape the mess.

And that is actually its gift.

Blessed Lent,
C