Strangly Smudged

By Lenora Rand

Ash Wednesday. It's a jarring day to me. A few random people show up in the morning at work with black smudges on their foreheads and when I first see them it takes a second to register, to recognize the sign of the cross, the thumbprint of ashes. Yesterday, one of the administrative assistants at my work, a hard-working recently divorced young Mom, slipped back into her chair after lunch with an ashy cross on her face and a slightly guilty look. Like she was sorry to admit it, in and among her group of "too cool for God" co-workers, that she believes in this whole crazy Jesus/redemption/Lent thing, even though she may not know why. Or maybe that's just me, reading too much into everything. Maybe she was just feeling guilty about taking a little longer for lunch.

Last night I went to the Ash Wednesday service at our church and I was struck by the reading of Isaiah 58 about how much people wanted to be connected with God but couldn't quite get it right. They were doing what they knew how to do--fasting, prayer, sackcloth and ashes--but it wasn't really getting them anywhere. But they wanted it to. Like those people at my work with strange markings on their foreheads, they were looking for some kind of relationship with God, and some kind of insight into why we're here and what the hell we're supposed to do with ourselves while we're here. And they weren't afraid to admit it.

I was sitting in one of the pews close to the front last night,  so I was one of the last to go forward for my ashes. Which meant I had a ringside seat for the line of people walking up, kneeling, receiving their cross, turning to go back to their seats, a newly marked man or woman. Everyone was quiet and orderly and serious...even the 5-year-old, angelic-faced blonde girl who walked up to the front with her Mom, but went alone to the pastor at the railing for her ashes. When she came back the girl was smiling, like she'd just gotten away with something.

While I was waiting I was thinking about the words the pastors say when they draw the cross on your forehead. You come from dust and to dust you will return. In years past those words have annoyed me, troubled me. I get the whole Lent as a time for penitence and personal reflection thing, but why must we start it with those words that seem to be just a reminder that death is going to come at some point…as if we'd forgotten. How many are dead in Haitii? In Iraq? How many people have we lost this year to cancer, to car accidents to old age? Do we really need a reminder that death is stalking all of us? Couldn't we start Lent off with something more positive and affirming? Couldn't the cross on our foreheads symbolize that we are loved by God, claimed by God, that we belong to God? To me, that’s always seemed like a "nicer" way to kick off Lent--with a message of God's love, with the symbol of God's touch on our lives.

But last night those words finally made some kind of sense to me. You come from dust and to dust you will return. Which basically means. I am not God. You are not God. We are simply human beings.  We can't fix things. We can't do things perfectly. We don't know everything. We can't DO everything. We don't have all the time in the world.

So I want to start there with Lent this year. Reminding myself that I am human, not God. Too often I think I should be God, or at least powerful and perfect and all knowing.  Rather than simply flesh and blood, finding my way through every day like a blind person touching an elephant--what is this whole thing?

Ashes on the forehead to remember that I am a mere mortal. And I'm not afraid to admit it. To admit that I can't do everything. I can't do everything perfectly, I can't control any of this. I can only live honestly and openly and lovingly in the midst of all I can't fix or manage or control.  This strange smudge on the forehead to remind me that life is short. 

I just have today. What will I do with today?