Sermon: Ash Wednesday

Ashes: The Salve for Separation
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Ash Wednesday, Year A (RCL)

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Hearing these words, I’m reminded of the legendary words of Bill Cosby when he recounts his father saying to him, “Boy, I brought you into this world, I can take you out, and it don’t matter to me, cause I can make another one look just like you.” Every Ash Wednesday when I remember that I am dust and will one day return to dust, I can’t help but hear these words as a curse; I can’t help but hear these words as a threat, much like the threat from Bill Cosby’s father. When I kneel down and have a cross of ashes smeared across my forehead, I can’t help but hear these words and be reminded of the nineteenth verse in the third chapter of the book of Genesis; of God’s words to Adam as he is expelled from the Garden of Eden, that by the sweat of his face he shall eat bread until he return to the ground, for out of the ground he was taken; for he was dust, and to dust he shall return.

Through the lenses of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden, it’s easy for me to find the forbidden fruit in my own hand; it’s easy for me to begin to feel the sweat of hard labor gathering on my brow, hardening my face, my hands, my spirit. As they are thrown from paradise saddened and ashamed, I feel my own eyes wandering towards the ground, my own shoulders slumping, my own spirit being broken. As the cross of ashes is smeared across my forehead and I remember that I am dust and will return to dust, I feel the shame and the blame of Adam; the shame and the blame of a young boy who has disgraced his father. Every Ash Wednesday I feel just plain awful because of what I’ve done and because of what I’ve left undone; because of how I’ve separated myself from both God and my neighbor.

I feel this way until I turn to the Hebrew book of wisdom called Ecclesiastes. If you’ve ever heard the popular song “To everything there’s a season” then you’ve heard at least part of the book of Ecclesiastes. Another part of that book happens to be those same words which we find in the book of Genesis; those words that all are from dust and all will one day turn to dust again. Yet in the book of Ecclesiastes, these words from Genesis, these words with which we are marked with ashes today, these very same words take on a very different meaning. Instead of focusing on the sinful shame of a single man, they focus on the equal standing of all of creation. In the book of Ecclesiastes, our remembering that we are dust and will be dust once again isn’t a curse or a threat. Instead, it’s a reminder of our common mortality; a reminder of our common life, a reminder that the distinctions between us are artificial and that we are all we have.

During the period of time in which the book of Ecclesiastes was written there was tremendous economic growth. Money quickly became a commodity, desired for its own sake. Because of a standardized currency, it became possible for even the poorest of people in society to become wealthy. Not only did individuals during this period of time grow in wealth, they also grew substantially in wisdom and political power. The role of the individual increased while the honor traditionally given to the greater community fell by the wayside. As a result of this centralized wealth, wisdom and power, artificial distinctions within the community and between human beings and creation began to develop. When the author of the book of Ecclesiastes writes that we are from dust and will one day turn to dust again, he is telling his contemporaries that no matter how rich they are, wise they are, or powerful they are, they too will one day die and return to the dust from which they came. The author writes, “For the fate of humans and the fate of animals is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and humans have no advantage over the animals; for all is vanity. All go to one place; all are from the dust, and all turn to dust again.”

Unlike the book of Genesis which portrays our remembrance of ourselves as dust as a form of punishment for our sinful behavior, the book of Ecclesiastes has us remember that we are dust as the impetus for our reconciliation. The former tells us to remember that we are dust because we have fallen and are sinful. The latter tells us to remember that we are dust just as those poorer than us, dumber than us, weaker than us are dust. Both the book of Genesis and the book of Ecclesiastes contain those same words which I will say to you this afternoon / evening as you come forward to have ashes imposed on your foreheads, yet each leads us to a very different understanding of what we are to remember about ourselves today; whether we are to remember our shortcomings and be shamed by our sinfulness, or remember that our mortality is precisely the basis for the ethic of our sharing all of creation with each other.

This Ash Wednesday, you and I, we have a choice. We can crawl inside of our own guilt and remember and dwell upon our own sinfulness, or we can reach out beyond ourselves and our sense of sinfulness and remember our common humanity, that all of us are loved and valued children of God and at the same time, imperfect, growing and changing beings. We can remember that sweet forbidden fruit which separated us from God’s garden, or we can remember that cross of ashes that is marked upon our heads and that cross of reconciliation that is burned into our hearts. We can begin this journey of Lent vainly seeking our own salvation, if not through individual power and wealth, than through individual penance. Or we can walk through Lent looking outside of ourselves, seeking to salvage our relationships with those we often distinguish ourselves from.

This Ash Wednesday, I invite you to wear the cross of ashes on your forehead proudly. Not so much as a sign to others that you’ve been to church today and are sorry for your sins, but as a sign to others that you and they are more alike than different; that no matter how rich you are and poor they may be, or how common you are and famous they may be, that in the end all of us will one day return to the dust from which we came. When people stop you and ask what’s on your head, you can tell them that it’s a sign that you’re sorry for your sins, but you can also tell them that it’s a sign that you and they have more in common than either of you realize, that you and they are brothers, are sisters, are siblings in this great journey of life that we all take together. You can tell them and teach them that Ash Wednesday is the day that our distinctions cease, the day when we remember our commonality as creatures, the day when we put on our foreheads the salve which will heal our separation. Amen.