As I was looking at resources for Ash Wednesday I came upon a website and saw in bold letters: WARNING – ashes and water do not mix – will cause burning!! And so it does. It makes a mixture that will burn skin. But the image captured my imagination and I thought it is even truer than the physical effects of mixing ash and water.
You could spend all day researching the question, but probably, the simplest answer is the more correct one. (Thanks, William of Ockham!)
A parishioner recently observed to me that the liturgical year does not provide enough room for joy. I don’t know whether this is right or wrong, but it certainly feels that way sometimes. This year, the season after the Epiphany is particularly short, exacerbating the problem. Ready or not, Lent is right around the corner.
The Ash Wednesday order ends with a long Litany expressing penitence and then asks the presider to read a statement which is not an absolution. It says the clergy are empowered to pronounce absolution – but doesn’t do it. Instead it offers a prayer for true repentance and renewal of life which is certainly appropriate, but wouldn’t Ash Wednesday be a good time for a real absolution?
Lent is one of the seasons I look forward to each year. It’s a time of preparation and introspection that sets time aside for us to take stock of who and what we are. When we look closely, honestly, we find that—among other things—we are mortal, fallible, and frail. Our liturgies are part of this process of discovery and assessment, leading us to contemplate these truths more deeply.
I think it is the tiniest, the most intimate miracles that we find most moving and important. What event is more powerful for us, more filled with awe and hope and fear than the birth of a child? Or, how many events carry more promise for a family than a wedding; or for a community than a baptism? And how many of us have found our lives shaped profoundly by an important conversation with a teacher?
Mysteries aren’t just something we haven’t figured out yet. Mysteries evade our comprehension in principle, because they involve the living God. Even the Scriptures are a mystery. Without faith and the Holy Spirit, they are just dead words on a page.
Epiphany has got to be one of my favorite feasts of the Church Year. In fact, it may well be my favorite. I love the way that it pulls together texts and concepts from across the Scriptures and unites them in a single celebration of the joining of heaven and earth, the human and divine, the creation and Creator. It’s a love I learned entirely from the liturgy.
But, you know, life takes its toll and those childhood joys of Christmas grow mixed. The gifted memories of joy grow mixed with other memories — other packages — other bundles — some of grief, some of sorrow, some of ‘who am I and what do I mean?’ Sometimes, when Christmas comes, there are some things in and around and under the family tree that are even too painful to open up again every year. And yet reopened they are
I looked out at the congregation, most in wheelchairs, some not able to speak out loud, but God was there – in their eyes, in their smiles, in the Spirit of Love that connected all of us. We blessed the bread and the wine and as communion was distributed, we sang more Christmas carols. We thanked God for the meal and for sending Love down to dwell among us and closed with a rousing verse and chorus of Angels we Have Heard on High.