Ash Wednesday

On a Wednesday night gripped by icy wet winds, we turned our collars and walked to the church door.  All of the stained glass windows were dark and a lone bulb above the high-arched, oaken doors cast a stark yellowish stain on crumbling concrete steps.

“I wonder if the service has been cancelled because of wind chills below zero?”  We had shown up just a couple of weeks earlier for a meeting at the church only to learn that cold, snowy weather led to the cancellation.  We felt like we might have been the only people who failed to get the message.  “You mean like last time?” I asked.

With full resolve I grabbed the door handle.  A door that heavy glides more than it swings but it opened.  “There are people here but the sanctuary looks dark,” she whispered – it was as if any sound above a whisper would rend the scrim of solemn serenity and pour cold into this warren of warmth.   Wondering if we were early, or late, I whispered to Nick, “Is this the right time for the Ash Wednesday service?”  Greeting us warmly with his broad impish smile under his usual mop of disheveled hair, he handed us the service bulletin and said, “You’re good.”  For Nick, “good” is as much a mantra as it is a description.  He hugged my wife and gave me a man hug, an arm squeeze and two firm pats on the back.

We chose a pew about ten rows from the chancel.  In a sanctuary built for five hundred souls, only about fifty had gathered.  Without the bustling of hundreds, without the full voiced greetings among friends, the aura seemed quieter than simple silence.  Winnie leaned in and whispered, “Is there a light on the brass cross at the back of the chancel?”  I stared at it, tilted my head, squinted my eyes – I couldn’t answer.  I just couldn’t tell if the shiny brass was reflecting the minimal light from the sanctuary or if the cross was somehow emitting light from some unseen source.

Not much about the service was typical.  No organ.  No microphones.  No sermon.  There was prayer but the words were not petitions.  They were admissions – of sin, of confusion, of ignorance, of frustration, of failure, of fear, of hate, of ignoring or judging.  Children are taught that Lent is the time to give something up – usually ice cream, sodas or maybe, picking on your little sister.  On this cold, inhospitable night, this beginning of a season of sacrifice, Ash Wednesday would be the first day of a difficult test.

For the prior few weeks, ISIS had begun to achieve one of its goals with me.  I hated them.  With videos of beheadings and immolations, I had come to believe that we should destroy them.  I felt this so strongly that I would have ignored the cost to innocents whose fate placed them in the path of the clash.  Earlier that day twenty Egyptian men had been beheaded in Libya by members of ISIS.  Egypt’s military would soon retaliate with airstrikes.  Had I known, I’d have applauded. 

The pastor said, “On your pew there are slips of paper and pencils.  Take one and write a word or draw a picture.  Make it be of something that you need to confess or something that has held you back and you need to be rid of.  When you’re done, fold the paper and put it in the cauldron.”  I wrote about hate, my hate, in firm rapid strokes of pencil lead.

The slips of paper were set afire.  Its gold-orange light briefly doubled the illumination of the sanctuary.   Its smoke circled into every corner and rose to the peak of the gable while its pungent odor lingered.  Then there were ashes.  Each one of us walked to the front and received the mark of the cross in ashes on our forehead.  “From ashes you came.  God cares for you.  To ashes you will return.”

Returning to the darkness of a bitter, winter evening was the beginning.  Could I wander my world for forty days and give up hate? 

Since that Wednesday, Jihadi John’s identity has been revealed.  He is an alienated soul who has committed despicable, evil atrocities.  He is easy to hate.  But he didn’t become alienated alone.  Tom Schweich has died.  His death appears to be the direct result of a whisper campaign designed to politically behead him.   Jack Danforth observed, “… our politics has gone so hideously wrong.”  The final report about Ferguson, Missouri was published.  It is the clearest possible description of how to mold a police officer, fearful enough, misguided enough, infused with enough hate to kill Michael Brown – no beheading, just bullets.

Forty days of testing.  Hate continues to plead its case – its roads lead to Ferguson, to ISIS, to hideousness. 

I think I need to find what made that cross glow on Ash Wednesday.

--td