Two Interesting Questions

I grew up in a somewhat liturgical tradition, yet never paid much attention to all the changing colors and candles and fabrics or what they symbolized. The last few years I’ve become more intentional about marking the church year, which enriches my personal and shared celebration of the living Christ. However, just before Easter last year, I commented to my small group that “it doesn’t feel like it should be Easter time.” I still felt the dreariness of my winter--or spiritual--hibernation. Maybe that’s why I’ve been trying to pay more attention this year. Advent, then Christmas, then the Twelve Days of Christmas, and Epiphany . . . until finally Ash Wednesday was on my horizon. Several years ago, my kindred friend, Melinda, told me how meaningful the “St. B’s” Ash Wednesday service was. I mentally filed her suggestion away, but have never attended one . . . but this New Year’s, when I was marking special days on my new Mary Engelbreit calendar, I remembered her words.

Last week, I was reading about Ash Wednesday as “an invitation” to the Lenten season. I’ve always considered Lent a cheerless, rather legalistic tradition—usually revolving around a diet of some sort. I hadn’t considered that, celebrated correctly, it is a time of being refreshed by a loving God with the purpose of strengthening our spiritual lives. I totally missed the point that forty days to focus on the meaning of my life in Christ is not so much about taking off something as taking on a spiritual discipline or practice to cleanse my mind and focus my soul before Easter. Oh . . .

The evening before Ash Wednesday (aka Fat Tuesday), I looked up the times for Ash Wednesday services and texted Kristi to see if she wanted to join me. “Yes!” she replied. But by the next morning I had a nagging headache . . . maybe from some trepidation about being an outsider for an Anglican tradition I didn’t really understand. I told Kristi that if she really wanted to go she would have to talk me into it. All she said was, “Melinda would want you to go.” Oh . . .

So we met, and happily, found our friend, Deb, who knew what to expect and helped us navigate all the readings and prayers and kneeling and going forward and kneeling and going forward and kneeling again. It was a rich experience . . . especially the serene quietness and unhurried pace . . . for that hour I was truly an insider because it was not me-centered, but Christ-centered. Everyone parted after sharing The Peace, with little crosses of ash gently drawn on our foreheads (not fireplace ashes, but the cinders saved from last year’s palm fronds from the Palm Sunday processional) Oh . . .

As we drove away, each person had an inner conflict to resolve—do I rub off the ashes or leave them for a while? You don’t want to make someone to feel “irreligious” for not acknowledging this holy day; yet you don’t want to be ashamed to share an outward sign of your faith . . . these days, the most common question is not “Where did you get your ashes?” but “What is that mark on your face?” I drove through Starbucks to get some tea (not what I’m taking off during Lent) but the well-trained barista acted like he didn’t notice and said nothing at all!

I went on to the office, and began my Wednesday afternoon ritual. . . making copies for my ESL classes, spreading them out on the floor, and crawling around on my hands and knees to collate them. But while I was kneeling for this totally different purpose, I felt a little POP! and a weird sinking feeling all through my way-lower back (aka boot). Even though it took me about ten minutes to get up, move to a chair, summon my husband for some Advil, then shuffle to the car, I found myself giggling at the irony. My ashes were washed off within a few hours, but for a few days now, I’ve had quite a few people ask “Why are you limping?” The only honest answer is, “I guess I don’t kneel often enough.” Oh . . .