ashes to ashes

photo by The Cleveland Kid, flickr

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the 40-day-journey toward Easter. I didn't grow up noting this liturgical holy day. I began experimenting with the idea of Lent in college, and though I love the symbolism and the beauty and the intentional focus of this season of the church, I've never been very good at sticking with it. I may begin with an intention to give up something for 40 days, with the idea that it will remind me of Christ's sacrifice, but I always fail at it. I think the only time I ever stuck to a Lenten sacrifice was the year My Man and I gave up meat for Lent. But that's pretty easy for me. I don't mind giving up meat, so it's not actually a sacrifice.

Ann Voskamp says that failure is part of the purpose of Lent. It reminds us of our frailty, our sin, our hopelessness without a Savior. I don't subscribe to all of Voskamp's theology. I don't actually believe we deserve hell, as she states. But I think she may be right that getting Lent wrong is part of the point. Though I wouldn't say it reminds us of how wretched we are, I would say it reminds us of how much we are still on the journey. We are still in the midst of a life of work and care and hope and despair and success and failure. We set intentions because they are important guides, but we don't stick to our intentions (always) because life is hard and messy and sometimes we're just tired or lazy or downtrodden. We don't suck because of that. We just need help. And grace. Lots and lots of grace.

Last year I tried adding something to my life (praying at certain times and making/giving something every day) in Lent rather than taking away. I failed, miserably. Because of the way certain circumstances converged in my life, Lent ended up being truly a time of darkness, and for a moment, I wondered if I would come through with any real faith intact, which is quite scary for someone whose life so often revolves around church. I did come through with faith still present, but it's a looser faith (and I thought my faith was already loose!).

It's a faith that sustains me, but it's also one that I easily ignore. Life has been busy. So very busy. Life has been purposeful, which is good. But all that purpose makes it easier for me to ignore the inner workings of my soul, and when I do suddenly hear the inner workings, usually it's because they're bubbling over and I can't ignore it anymore - not necessarily healthy.

Last night at our Ash Wednesday service, I started to think about that ash that the pastors put on our foreheads. What is ash? What is that dark smudgy stuff? Does it matter that it’s ash and not something else? I’ve typically heard that this is the time for us to remember our mortality and Christ’s death. It’s a somber time. We don’t say “Alleluia” during this time. It can be kind of depressing. And I’m OK with that – life can be kind of depressing. It’s good to acknowledge that. But as I was thinking about this ashy stuff, it occurred to me that ash is the result of fire (duh) – ash is the result of a great, burning light (usually). Ash is the result of expended energy when that energy has performed its work.

Ash is rest.

At the end of these 40 days, we remember that Jesus died. After years of amazing, meaningful work, Jesus rested. His work was done. I don’t mean that God/dess was done, but Jesus, the man, he was done. His purpose was fulfilled. His love had been shared to weave its strands of pulling-life throughout the world. His life continued to work among us, but He was at rest.

We are not done with this life, and there is much good work to be done. But I need to be reminded that ultimately, whatever light I shine will burn only so long before a time of restful ash. Periodic rest and ultimate rest. I cannot continually feed the fire. A fire out of control is a dangerous fire. Sometimes that fire must be stilled.

So this Lent, I'm not adding anything to my life. I'm not even setting a very intentional intention. I'm just going to attempt to find more space in these 40 days. Space to listen. Space to draw. Space to hear. Space to commune. Space to rest.

May this season be a time of welcoming the darkness, for it is often in darkness that the light shines brightest.