| … we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth: of failed hope and broken promises, of forgotten children and frightened women, we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust; we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.We are able to ponder our ashness with some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death. From “Marked by Ashes” by Walter Brueggemann (click here to read the full poem) |
| Dear Friends, Wednesday is here again. I hope you have been enjoying (or at least have been encouraged to ponder) these mid-week Lenten reflections. This is the fourth Wednesday in Lent. They are meant as offerings, as blessing. … we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth. I wonder what the source of the ashy taste might be for you today, this week, if it exists at all. Maybe it is from realizing that what you imagined for yourself this Lenten season is not how it is turning out. Maybe it is from realizing you hadn’t planned anything yet – nothing extra to do; nothing to give up. Maybe it comes from a little bit more. In this week’s portion of the poem, Marked by Ashes, Brueggemann refers to tasting our mortality. How interesting that he writes “we roll the ash around on our tongues” instead of outright spitting it out or chugging it down like some cod-liver oil we take for our own good. In Lent, he suggests, we might roll our mortality on our tongues just as we might with fine wine… taking it in; noticing the taste of all that is there. I received a card last week from a friend. It was a random, out-of-the blue card for no other reason than to say: I appreciate you; I love you; I remember this one time with you. It was simple. It was pedestrian really. And it filled the somber spots of my day with the gift of memory and grace. I asked her about it. This note, it turns out, was one of many to others. It is part of her Lenten discipline. She is randomly selecting people she knows – some well, some not – to send similar notes, one for each day in Lent: Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday. She is selecting friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. She thinks about people she would not likely ever get to know well (or even want to) but remembers something about her interaction with them that gladdens her heart. She is sending notes, not anticipating replies. When I talked with her, she said it is having a surprising effect; maybe for others, certainly for her. Some have replied. But that’s not all that has surprised her. She took on this discipline for others and noticed she is being filled alone by writing and sharing the memory snippets. This Lenten note-writing exercise, something so modest, is giving her and her recipients (well, I can only speak for this one) something remarkable: connection, promise, and a reminder of life, of God’s power and desire to give us life and what it looks like. Whatever ashy mortality rolling on my tongue today, it is not without noting the accompanying sweet hints of Easter victory on its way, made known by a simple and unexpected note and other kindnesses I might have otherwise overlooked. Whatever the source of the ashy taste in your mouth today (or ever), may you let it roll on your tongue. May you bring in the sweet hints of Easter victory on its way, informed by the small and surprising kindnesses offered and received this Lenten season. In Peace, Rev. Dina |