"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

Beneath Thy Cross

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon -
I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.


-Christina Rossetti

Ash Wednesday Blues

Normally, I love Lent. Normally, Lent and Advent are my two favorite seasons of the church year. And I was all about Advent this year, had my planning done early, did some cool creative stuff that I was totally stoked about.

But I have been dreading Lent. For weeks. No energy, no creativity, no interest in planning for it whatsoever. I have done the bare minimum to prepare for it, and have become noticeably anxious and agitated over it the past couple weeks as it's drawn ever closer.

And yesterday I finally figured out why: it's because last year's Lent was so awful. Not in terms of worship and planning and all that, but in terms of what was happening to my people, all the dustiness that was afflicting them. Two days after Ash Wednesday, Peg had a major stroke, a few days after that, Lily died, and on and on it went - in sum, I think I spent 30 of the 40 days visiting someone at one hospital or another.

And as another Lent rapidly approached, it brought with it the memories of all the awfulness we lived through in this season last year, brought with it some terrors that this Ash Wednesday, too, would kick off another cycle of pain and misery.

And the thing is - the actual anniversary of these events is still a couple weeks away. Lent started earlier this year, but in my mind these horrible happenings are so closely tied to Ash Wednesday that I'm already reliving the grief now.

That is the one problem with these movable feasts - because they are not tied to a solid date on the calendar, they can draw out grief and anxiety at weird times, in weird ways. Like, Grandpa Ed died solidly in Lent. Even though Lent moves around, there is no way that the anniversary of his death will ever fall outside of Lent, so my grief for him doesn't take me by surprise or come in multiple waves, because it always happens "when it's supposed to." But in the year that Nana Ciccone died, she died 10 days after Easter, we buried her 2 days before my 30th birthday, and I came back to PA just in time for the bishop's retreat. The following year, my birthday and the actual day of her death stayed the same, obviously, but Easter was several weeks earlier, and bishop's retreat was also moved, and because I associated her death with all these events, the grief hit me anew with each one, and basically meant I was sad and irritable for about two months straight.

And so now too with Lily - even though we are still a couple weeks away from the anniversary of her death, because I associate it so strongly with Ash Wednesday, grief is already messing with me.

At this rate, it's going to be a long Lent, no matter what happens this year. . .

Peace,
C.

A Night Unlike Any Other Night

Maunday Thursday is one of my favorite services of the whole church year, it is such a bummer to me that more people don't come out for it. Especially this year, when I've been preaching a sermon series through all of Lent, basically running through the whole history of humanity's relationship with God from Genesis forward. The basic underlying tension in my telling of the old, old story has been God's continual desire to be our God, to delight in us and dwell with us in the world of shalom; against our continual rebellion and deep desire to be our own gods (in other words, the basic Lutheran understanding of Sin and Salvation).

This evening was part of the series, and it's not that someone still won't get something out of my Easter sermon (hopefully) without having been there tonight, but Easter would just be that much more powerful after this service, because tonight's sermon was about God through Jesus choosing us, even though we never choose him; about Jesus deciding to reconcile us to God and to one another even if it kills him [which it did]. It's all heading to Easter Sunday, of course, which I'll proclaim as God's validation of Jesus' choice for us and the ultimate triumph of God's life-giving will for the world over our self- and other-destroying wills and habits.

So, like I say, it's not that someone can't get something out of that message in itself, but it's all the more awesome having come face-to-face with your inner God betrayer/Barabbas-lover, which is part of what I was doing tonight.

But I digress, the real reason I wanted to write tonight was because our kids once again demonstrated why they are the best theologians of the church.

My children's sermon on Maunday Thursday is always to wash the children's feet. It's a custom I picked up from my internship supervisor, Jeff Russell. When I first started the tradition here, I think the kids were a little unsure about it, but they've since grown to love it. Most come up to the front with their socks and shoes already off, they are so excited for it.

Tonight we had a pretty big crew - I was close to running out of water and towels! And when I finished with the kids, for the first time I turned and offered for anyone in the congregation to come forward as well. None of them did, but then one of the kids said, "Pastor Catrina, can we wash your feet?" And I said sure. So I took off my socks and shoes and held my feet over the basin, and the kids gathered round and poured the water over them, then carefully wiped them dry with a clean towel.

I've always found it a humbling experience to have my feet washed in the context of worship. But this was probably the most humbling and most profound, to see how these little ones get it, and how they long to embody the serving love of Christ.

You know, in their baptisms, we adults all made promises to teach them the faith. But they sure have plenty to teach us as well. . .


On a final note, a blessed Passover to all my Jewish brothers and sisters, as you celebrate your own night unlike any other.

L'Chaim,
C.

Remember That You Are Dust. . .

Maybe it was because I know so many folks who are wrestling with the dustiness of this life right now: the parishioner who just kept vigil with her sister as she died an awful death of cancer; another watching his father lose ground to the same disease every day; the couple my age agonizing their way through a complicated pregnancy; the young woman also losing her battle with a vicious cancer, knowing she only has a couple weeks left to live. . .and these are just a few examples of what people I know are dealing with right now. . .

Or maybe it was because I started thinking about Jean and Ethel and Mousy and all the other saints who were still remembering that they were dust on Ash Wednesday of 2008, and have subsequently returned to the dust over the course of this past year. . .

Or maybe it was because two year old Jindrah, who absolutely loves to remember his baptism and make the sign of the cross on his forehead, approached me and the kneeler last night with this huge anticipatory smile on his face, but left with a look of confusion and hurt when I didn't smile back this time and had marked him, not with water, but with ash. . .

Whatever it was, Ash Wednesday really got to me last night. It pained me to be making those crosses, to be reminding these people I love and care about that they're going to die, every last one of them, from the two year old to the ninety year old and everyone in between - and only God knows when each of their journeys will come to an end. I've certainly buried some folks I didn't expect to this past year, as well as those I knew were dying and would not make it to be marked in ash once more.

Life is precious. . .life is so, SO precious. . .and we squander and abuse and disregard so much of it. . .

Seize the day, friends, and rejoice in it, whatever it may bring. Because today itself is chock full of life, and this day is the only day you know for sure you've got.

Peace,
C.