Ash Wednesday

It is an uncanny thing to be told that you shall die. This is an understatement for those given only a short time to live. But if one is young and hopeful, to be informed of mortality feels more like an uncalled-for affront, something strange and difficult to reconcile with one’s sense of self. 

Today, for the first time, I attended an Ash Wednesday service. As the minister marked the ashes on my forehead, he spoke these words: “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” These words were for me; they were not for anyone else, for no-one else would be able to hear the minister’s quiet voice. It is I who shall die. In case it was not clear, I now had a black cross smeared on my forehead, marking me – myself – out.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, in One Hundred Years of Solitude, describes the fate of seventeen brothers whose Ash Wednesday crosses cannot be removed. Instead they become targets and each brother, no matter how far he flees, is shot dead through the forehead. The picture is one of indelible judgment.

It is an accurate picture; to be marked with ashes is to be visibly identified as a sinner, deserving death. It is to confess that I have reduced myself to my basest elements and that to be returned to dust is therefore a right judgment from God. I have spurned His gift of life, and so I must die.

Christians may readily assent to these facts of sin and death, but how quickly do I forget that they are facts about me – myself. The ashes are a reminder that I am marked with death even when I do not see it. After all, it is obvious to all those around me, just as everyone sees the cross on my forehead except I. Those I have hurt know my sin very well. As for my mortality, there are plenty of people in my life who know by experience that the young grow old and die. Perhaps they sometimes reflect on this when they see me. Above all, God sees. This ugly smear on my soul does not change with feeling or with knowledge. It is indelibly there.

The brothers in Marquez’s story do their best to avoid death. Some scatter and are hunted down. Others seek refuge in their expansive family, but it is a family which is separated from the fullness of life and it closes in on itself, taking the brothers with it to death. Outside and inside, there is no safety.

But for us, Christ has come. In the wilderness, He showed that He was pure from sin and yet had taken mortal flesh. So might He take our sin and die with it, bearing its shame. Those baptised into His death now, at last, have their ashes washed away and rise with Him to new life, marked with the seal of the Holy Spirit. 

And so, this Lent, I remember that I am dust, and to dust shall I return; but in Christ I have life, and to life shall I rise.

If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory. 

Colossians, chapter 3, verses 1-4

The Second Discourseman