Almighty God, you have created us out of the dust of the
earth: Grant that these ashes may be to us a sign of our
mortality and penitence, that we may remember that it is
only by your gracious gift that we are given everlasting life;
through Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Last night, my wife and I had these words spoken over us as we let a person in a fancy robe rub ashes on foreheads. It is a yearly observance in many Christian traditions. You may have seen folks going about their daily lives, while their foreheads were adorned with sooty, cross-shaped thumb prints.

Sounds a little ridiculous or ritualistically heavy? Good, because it is. And it is why the imparting of ashes remains one of my favorite rituals in the Anglican tradition.

We are entering the season of Lent, and it begins with Ash Wednesday. The forty-day season is often commemorated by the giving up of something regularly enjoyed like chocolate, fast-food, or television. You can also find dozens upon dozens of articles online discussing the appropriateness or effectiveness of such seasonal deprivation.

But more importantly, Lent is a time to reflect on our mortality, our finitude, and meditate on the liminal space that is death. It is not the cheeriest of seasons.

It is fitting then that the season is kicked into motion with a vestment-clad person of the cloth telling you “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

You are mortal. And regardless of your theology, philosophy, or suspicion of what constitutes the afterlife, you will die. I will die. We all will die.

And it is in the reflection of our mortality that we both grasp the mercy, grace, and overwhelming vastness of God.

In some Christian circles, the meditation of Lent jumps too quickly to the Resurrection. It is almost as if we forget that Easter Sunday is 40 days away. New life is assured, but we rush to the empty tomb all too soon. We rush like children running to the light switch rather than letting our eyes adjust to the dark of our bedrooms and facing the shadowy manifestations head on.

This year, Lent also falls on Valentine’s Day. On February 14, 2016, I spent the evening sitting in a hospital room watching the season premier of the Amazing Race with my grandmother. It was the last time I saw her, and the last moments we spent together. That night, she faded in and out of sleep, but was conscious enough to ask me what she missed or to explain what the objective of a certain obstacle or game was.

In those moments, she was as I had always known her. Then she died on March 2, 2016.
I’ve written about her death on the blog before, here and here, so I won’t elaborate too much, although the two year anniversary of her death is right around the corner.

Losing a loved one makes us face our own finitude and mortality whether we have sought to do so or not. I think Lent offers the Christian tradition a season to face these things intentionally and with purpose, and to reflect and mourn for those who have left this life before us.

I know I will be remembering my grandmother this Lenten season, and I will be remembering other loved ones as well. Some young, some old. In some cases, death was expected and even welcomed. In others, it seemed unjust and all too soon.

In light of that, I will be exploring stories over the next seven weeks about death and mortality. Some may be obvious, others may surprise you.

And I will pray for us. Please pray with me.

Let us journey this Lent with heavy hearts, but also with outlandish hope

Peace go with you, fellow pilgrims.