“…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…,” echoes the burial service. Unmistakably, we will die and return to the elements. Ash Wednesday reminds of our fate.
“Remember, oh man, thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.” These ominous words accompany the imposition of ashes in the old Book of Common Prayer liturgy.
Palm ash represents our mortal remains, but it misleads us. At least, I felt surprise when I opened a container of cremains. I did not find ash, earth, or dust. The residue of what was my mother was gray and gritty, somewhat like powder.
I recall, years earlier, kneeling beside my teenage son one Ash Wednesday as an elderly member of our congregation hobbled his way up to the altar rail. Too infirmed to kneel, Tim stood with the help of his cane and received the ashes. Smudged, he turned and staggered back to his pew. My son felt outrage. “He shouldn’t have to do that,” he hissed. I could see his heightened color and the moisture in his eyes. I did not reprimand him. I was just grateful to share the moment.
This year, when the priest’s thumb marks the cross of ashes on my forehead, I will receive an extra blessing because I will know the woman who prepared the ashes. I do not have permission to share her name, but she is the head of the altar guild at a small church. Each year, she personally burns the psalms from the previous Palm Sunday in a steel pot and collects the ash. Next, she grinds the ash with an apothecary’s mortar and pestle. “This is the blackest ash in the country,” she boasted lifting the lid of the square marble box in the sacristy. Indeed, she had every right to be proud of her work.
So, we begin the journey of Lent, forty days of penitence that winds through the earth, ashes, and dust and finally, rises to eternal life.