Tag Archives: Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday: Two meditations on being, dust to dust.

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Multiple small clay heads on a sidewalk

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, the cycle begins again, the ancient whisper of our own frailty, slipping the fine clothes from our shoulders, taking the crown from our heads, bringing us back to that humble place where it all began and where it will surely end. We are the children of the Earth. Earth born, common as the ground we share, raised up by grace to breathe the mystery, laid back down to sleep the mystery deeper still. Dust to dust, life to life, the great cycle spirals our souls, sends us sailors of time, until we come to rest in our own humility, source of our true dignity.

—Steven Charleston

Blessing the Dust
For Ash Wednesday

All those days
you felt like dust,
like dirt,
as if all you had to do
was turn your face
toward the wind
and be scattered
to the four corners

or swept away
by the smallest breath
as insubstantial—

did you not know
what the Holy One
can do with dust?

This is the day
we freely say
we are scorched.

This is the hour
we are marked
by what has made it
through the burning.

This is the moment
we ask for the blessing
that lives within
the ancient ashes,
that makes its home
inside the soil of
this sacred earth.

So let us be marked
not for sorrow.
And let us be marked
not for shame.
Let us be marked
not for false humility
or for thinking
we are less
than we are

but for claiming
what God can do
within the dust,
within the dirt,
within the stuff
of which the world
is made
and the stars that blaze
in our bones
and the galaxies that spiral
inside the smudge
we bear.

—Jan Richardson

[Photo by Ovidiu Creanga on Unsplash]

A letter from God to her daughters who observe Lent.

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Woman with a cross of ashes on her forehead
Dear Daughter,

On Ash Wednesday, if you are in church, the minister will invite you to the observance of a “holy Lent” and mark your forehead with the ashes of repentance.

Let me be very clear about this: I love you so much. I delight in you. I cherish you. For ever.

Here are a few more things I want you to comprehend. Despite what you’ve been taught, “holy” does not mean pure and unearthly. “Sin” does not mean breaking my rules and making me mad. “Penitence” does not mean listing and wallowing in all the ways you’re wrong and bad. “Repentance” does not mean promising to do better to stay out of trouble.

Please think about these words a new way, on Ash Wednesday and every other day going forward.

What if you only sin when you refuse healing and cling to brokenness? When you use those sharp broken edges to hurt yourself and others?

What if holiness is when you choose to be whole, even though you’re terrified? When you embrace and enfold those pieces of yourself you’ve lopped off to fit into others’ molds?

What if penitence is when you see yourself clearly, and know, speak, and live from your heart?

What if repentance is returning to your true self in all her messy glory?

What if, this Lent, instead of focusing on the ways you’re not good enough and the ways you fall short, you commit to your own healing?

I was there at the Big Bang, enlivening every particle, atom and molecule. You are made of me, and through me you are connected to everything and everyone.

I am everywhere, my love. You live in me and I live in you. This means, my dear, when you let yourself be healed, your healing heals the world. And when you cling to your brokenness, the world stays a little more broken than it needs to be. Your healing is important and necessary.

You think your healing is selfish. That’s incorrect. On the contrary, your healing is crucial. I’m using that word deliberately, sweetheart. Your healing is the crux – where you and I come together.

This Lent, the only fasts I want from you are these: Fast from distractions that allow you to stay wounded and broken. Fast from believing you’re not good enough. Fast from making yourself small, and nice, and silent. Fast from all judgment, especially of yourself.

This Lent, make space for me to flow into you and through you. Befriend your fear, your anger, and your sadness. They are a deep source of nourishment and strength. Let your love go free. Let your joy be unconfined.

Sweetheart, healing isn’t complicated, and it’s always here for you. All you have to do is tap into it, like a springtime maple tree or an aquifer of living water. You know this. But it’s so easy to forget, isn’t it? All you have to do is let me clear out the dams and the trash, the resentments and identities and old, too-small skins that keep you stuck and stagnant.

Open your heart armor just a little. Let go, child. Breathe and soften. That’s all you have to do. I’ll do the rest.

This Ash Wednesday, let those ashes symbolize our unending connection, a connection so easy to forget and so simple to strengthen.

When the priest wipes those gritty ashes on your forehead and says, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” celebrate your elemental oneness with this dear, dirty earth, and with me. I am in those ashes, in the dust, in the stars, and in you.

I need you, my daughter. You’re the only you I created. Please, let yourself be the creation I made you to be.

You don’t need someone outside yourself telling you how to live.

Trust yourself.

Trust your heart.

Trust me. I’ve got you.

All my Love,
God  

(A Lenten gift for you: two free PDF printables from this letter.)

Photo: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash


   

 

“Are those HUMAN ashes?!”

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Monkey asking "Are those human ashes?!"

“Are those human ashes?!”

Three twelve-year-old boys asked me that question when I was teaching at a Roman Catholic school some years ago. These boys, Protestant like me, were attending the compulsory Ash Wednesday mass for the first time, and were horrified at what they thought was going on.

I reassured my young students that no, those were not human ashes.

Today though, to you, I say “Yes! I hope so!” I hope the ashes of Ash Wednesday are your ashes. I hope during this holy season of Lent that you let what’s in the way of love burn up in Easter’s holy fire and wash away in the waters of new birth.

Lent is a time to get back to the true you. To return to and relearn the real sweetness of your heart, underneath the accumulations, armoring, and disguises of the years.

Soften. Gently notice obstacles to love and let them be removed. Be open and willing to be burned up. Trust your essential goodness. Listen deeply to your heart, which is the same thing as listening to God.

Your heart is also God’s heart. Your soul is that place within you where you and the Holy are most connected and interpenetrated.  

That’s the point of Lent. Disciplines are how we do this relearning, reconnecting, and listening, as incarnated souls living in precious bodies on this lovely planet in this singular moment. So choose your Lenten discipline carefully and make sure it does what you want it to do.

Perhaps you imagine Lent as spring cleaning. Or getting the garden ready for another growing season. Or razing that fancy McMansion and building a tiny sustainable house in its place. Or, as they do in northern New Mexico, cleaning the acequias so water flows freely to thirsty places. Or something else entirely.

The point, when the priest smears the gritty ashes on your forward and says “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” is not to dwell in your badness. The point is to reconnect with your goodness, your heart and soul, where you are at home in Holiness.

The hope of Lent is to give everything that is not true – every obstacle to loving yourself, others, and our world – to the flames of Lent.

Give everything that binds you to the flames, and rise in freedom with the sun of Easter.

Photo by Jamie Haughton on Unsplash

Postscript – God’s letter to her daughters who observe Lent

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Dear friends,

God’s letter to her daughters who observe lent has received over 30,000 views in the three days since it was published. I’m astonished by the response. Many readers commented, most expressing gratitude. Some commenters criticized my post, calling my words unbiblical, ungodly, and “evil.”

Although I don’t enjoy criticism, I am learning to handle it. But the criticisms, by extension, are leveled at readers for whom the post resonated deeply. These readers’ comments shared their pain, brokenness, and vulnerability, and they did not sign up for critique. So I’ve turned off comments today, although you can still read the ones previously posted.

Some of you have asked permission to share and quote in sermons and articles. Thank you, and yes.

Now, on to a few common themes expressed in the comments and on Facebook.

Where’s God’s letter to his/her sons?

That’s not the letter that’s mine to write. I am a woman, speaking to women in a patriarchal culture and patriarchal church. As several of you pointed out, the letter’s message applies to men and other genders as well, probably. I can’t speak to that with integrity. If God has given you words for her/his sons, please share them in the comments. I’ll collect your responses for a future post.

My husband, an Episcopal priest, is considering using “a letter from God to her daughters … ” as a starting point for his sermon this Sunday. He may preach about cultural burdens placed on men in the context of Jesus’ temptations in the desert. If he does, I’ll link to the recording here. You can also read a summary of his sermon on his blog.

Thank you to those of you who have asked permission to substitute non-gendered language and repost. I am grateful.

The hubris of “putting words in God’s mouth”:

First of all, this was a literary device. I tried writing this piece several different ways, and the words eventually told me they wanted to be a “letter from God.” This may only make sense to other writers. The device was evidently effective, given the response. Some readers referred to the piece as poetry, which is a good description, I think.

Secondly, I am not delusional. I do not think I am God’s ordained mouthpiece. I do not believe I speak Truth with a capital T. That said, I do believe that, through our soul’s connection to the One and to each other, we receive messages for others as well as ourselves. I don’t think this communication with God is weird or mystical or uncommon. Communion with the Source is what prayer is, and creativity. It’s actually very ordinary. We connect to the Heart of Life, and then we flow with what It gives us. I simply shared what was given to me in a way that worked for the words. Please share what is given to you, as well. I am not special in this regard.

My words are “evil” because they depart from God’s inerrant revelation as given us in the Bible. Therefore, I’m leading people astray.

Ouch. What can I say? I respectfully disagree. I’m not leading anybody. I’m just following Jesus.

I think we are, some of us, following Jesus in a different way. Some of us don’t identify as followers of Jesus at all. We have very different beliefs about the Bible and its interpretation. We have very different beliefs about and experiences of the nature of the soul, ultimate reality, and truth. We will never agree, and that’s okay. As long as we are kind.

I ask that, when we feel the need to point out the error of another’s ways and to tell them how to live correctly, we consider whether our words are compassionate.

To those of you who shared dissenting opinions carefully and thoughtfully, thank you. To those of you who responded to the criticisms carefully and thoughtfully, thank you for stepping in to protect your sisters and defend me.

Going forward, I will delete comments that I judge to be disrespectful and unkind, in order to create a safe and healing space.

Clearly the message in “God’s letter to her daughters who observe Lent” was a balm for many of you. I’m glad. May we accept the healing that’s always offered, knowing the Holy One is within us, holding us, and yearning for our wholeness.

I’m wishing you all a blessed Lent.

Peace,

Barb

  • Photo credit: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash

A letter from God to her daughters who observe Lent, 2019

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Ash Wednesday-ahna-ziegler-558904-unsplashDear Daughter,

On Ash Wednesday, if you’re in church, the minister will invite you to the observance of a “holy Lent” and mark your forehead with the ashes of repentance.

Let me be very clear about this at the outset: I love you so much. I delight in you. I cherish you. For ever.

Here are a few more things I want you to comprehend. Despite what you’ve been taught, “holy” does not mean pure and unearthly. “Sin” does not mean breaking my rules and making me mad. “Penitence” does not mean listing and wallowing in all the ways you’re wrong and bad. Repentance does not mean promising to do better to stay out of trouble.

Please think about these words a new way, on Ash Wednesday and every other day going forward.

What if you only sin when you refuse healing and cling to brokenness? When you use those sharp broken edges to hurt yourself and others?

What if holiness is when you choose to be whole, even though you’re terrified? When you embrace and enfold those pieces of yourself you’ve lopped off to fit into others’ molds?

What if penitence is when you see yourself clearly, and know, speak, and live from your heart?

What if “repentance” is re-membering your true self in all her messy glory?

What if, this Lent, instead of focusing on the ways you’re not good enough and the ways you fall short, you commit to your own healing?

I was there at the Big Bang, enlivening every particle, atom and molecule. You are made of me, and through me you are connected to everything and everyone. I am everywhere. You swim in me and I in you.

This means, my dear, when you let yourself be healed, your healing heals the world. And when you cling to your brokenness, the world stays a little more broken than it needs to be. Your healing is important and necessary. You think your healing is selfish. That’s incorrect. Your healing is crucial. I’m using that word deliberately, sweetheart. Your healing IS the crux – where you and I come together.

This Lent, the only fasts I want from you are these: Fast from distractions that allow you to stay wounded and broken. Fast from believing you’re not good enough. Fast from making yourself small, and nice, and silent. Fast from all judgment, especially of yourself.

This Lent, make space for me to flow into you and through you.

Befriend your fear, your anger, and your sadness. They are a deep source of nourishment and strength.

Let your love go free.

Let your joy be unconfined.

Sweetheart, healing isn’t complicated, and it’s always available. All you have to do is tap into it, like a maple tree in springtime or an aquifer of living water. You know this. But it’s so easy to forget, isn’t it? All you have to do is let me clear out the dams and the trash, the resentments and identities and old, too-small skins, that keep you stuck and stagnant. Relax your heart armor just a little. And then allow yourself to flow, child. That’s all you have to do. I’ll do the rest.

This Ash Wednesday, let those ashes symbolize our unending connection, a connection so easy to forget and so simple to strengthen. When the priest wipes those gritty ashes on your forehead and says, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” celebrate your elemental oneness with this dear, dirty earth and with me. I am in those ashes, in the dust, in the stars, and in you.

Girl, I need you! You’re the only you I created. So, please, let yourself be the creation I made you to be. You don’t need someone outside yourself telling you how to live. Trust yourself. Trust your heart. Trust me. I’ve got you.

All my Love,

God

Ash Wednesday, 2020 update: This post was first published on Ash Wednesday of 2019, and it’s received over 60,000 views. I closed comments in 2019 because, although most comments were positive, some comments labeled those who found solace in this post as foolish, unchristian, ungodly heretics. I’m reopening comments for 2020 and will delete any comments which denigrate others. Use the contact form to email me directly. ~Barb

Photo credit: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash