"The imposition of ashes on Ash Wednesday is nothing if not bold ... It is a bold liturgy the Book of Common Prayer suggests we recite: to acknowledge that we are of dust and to dust we shall return, and to proclaim our chosen-ness as the children of God anyway." - Lauren Winner, from Girl Meets God
This past Wednesday, at 7:30 AM, I attended an Ash Wednesday service with two of my friends at Emmanuel Episcopal church on Prince Avenue. There were some awkward moments (for me, at least-- do I kneel? do I sit? do I stand?) but I was glad for the experience, and my companions and I decided in the car afterwards that the church had a reverent and holy atmosphere to it (plus, the stained glass was fantastic; check out Emmanuel's seriously beautiful version of the transfiguration on the left). And the imposition of ashes is bold: I felt the sooty substance glide onto my forehead and knew we were the same. The ashes and I, that is. What a shock to remember you are only carbon. What a jarring reminder of our humanity, temporality, and frailty. What a reason to embrace the presence, or at least the possibility, of supernature-- or to feel like rejecting it. It's all a matter of perspective, I suppose.
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgment not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
1 comment:
How often do we participate in activities or subscribe to ideas that we probably have not yet achieved a level of understanding that is sufficient to warrant our endorsement of them? I am so guilty of this - being anointed with oil a few weeks ago, fasting, worship, prayer, communion, listening to God's voice... These are things that I seem to learn more about every day (or at least on my "good" days); frequently, the more I learn, the closer I come to the realization that these things are far more mysterious than I thought they were yesterday... and the day before, and the day before that day.
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