He remembers that we are dust

I'm writing from our oceanside porch where I am taking a "Porch Pilgrimage" on Ash Wednesday.  It was  cold 60 degrees in the morning, then sunny almost 70 degrees, finally a chilly and windy late afternoon.  I had to cover up.

I don’t remember exactly when Ash Wednesday became so important to me. I think it must have been in 1999 when Ash Wednesday was February 17^th. That was a time I was “commuting” between Palo Alto and Houston. Daniel was staying with Mom constantly as her hospice care.  Daniel and I started this pattern on January 17^th, the day after Jennifer and Scott’s wedding. I had turned off my cell phone on the 16^th; I knew that I might get a call anytime telling me that Mom was now critically ill and in the hospital. But January 16^th was Jennifer’s Day. I did not want any call that would distract me from my daughter’s happy wedding day. When I turned on the phone Sunday morning, there was the message. Indeed, Mom had gone to the hospital, but the doctor’s were suggesting hospice. It was as if she knew that we had tickets to fly from NC to Texas. I had arranged a connection in Houston on our CA-NC flight . We had hoped that Mom would be able to attend Jen's wedding, but a month before we all knew that couldn’t happen, but I felt that I needed to be ready in case of a miracle. And so we were flying back through Houston; it didn’t take us long to decide that we would skip that last leg of the trip. We would stay in Houston. After a week in Texas, we knew that Mom would live for a while, and so we worked out a commuting schedule so I could do the work on a project that seemed critical at the time while being with her half the week. I would fly to Houston after work on Friday and return early the following Tuesday morning so that I could do a week’s work and yet be with Mom.

A month later, on Ash Wednesday, February 17th, I was at work, but went to the noon service. Seeing my “ashed” forehead, several of my colleagues started conversations about the last time they went to an Ash Wednesday service.I remember thinking on that Feb 17^th that the ashes would be from burning palm leaves of the previous Easter, the week of my sister’s death. This bracketing of deaths was strangely calming to me. It would have been easy to get caught up in busyness of a 1500 mile commute. The ashes of February 17^th reminded me that I am dust, and to dust I will return. That is the first time I can remember having a feeling I have since come to call “elevation.” Elevation is imagining the whole world laid out below me so that I escape the petty concerns and distraction. I can see why mountains were holy in the ancient world. The view from a mountain (or a plane) is a God-like view, a sense of the whole. When I “elevate” I can get my priorities straight, remembering that I am dust and to dust I will return.

On Ash Wednesday 2001 I was in London with Jennifer, who was pregnant with Zachary. We were staying at the Ritz and having a fine time, though she was tired and needed to nap often. If you are going to be tired, you won’t find a better place for rest than a large room at the Ritz. It was again a time of death as well as ashes. In the morning, Jennifer had heard from Texas that her father’s mother had died. We knew this was a possibility, but everyone encouraged her to come to London anyway. She had now lost both of her grandmothers in the early Lent season only two years apart.

I’d hoped to go to Westminster for the Ash Wednesday service, but I was working (at McKinsey) and we decided to go someplace closer. This is the day I learned about St. James, Piccadilly. It is an amazing church; it showed me what a commitment to poor people, to diversity, and to the challenges and opportunities of being an urban and worldwide church can be. It was the first time I had experienced standing with the whole congregation in a circle around the altar. This is our regular practice at EDS, and in many churches I have now attended. But that Ash Wednesday in London, it was new to me, and completely overwhelming. Because there were so many people, we had to stand around all four exterior walls of the worship space. I cried large tears as I looked at all the people, so different, and so united in their love of God. This was the Body of Christ.

In 2002, I was working in NYC on Ash Wednesday, February 13th. I had been there the previous September 11^th when ashes covered the city. I was so grateful to be back in New York, the only place I could imagine being on that Ash Wednesday. I went to services with Dede and Chris Probe at the General Seminary, only a few blocks from ground zero. We had all been there the day of the ashes the previous September. That September day changed our understanding of ashes forever. That service was my first at a seminary. I liked it. The notion that I would ever be a seminary student was far, far fetched on that day. Still, I felt right at home; my life direction changed on Ash Wednesday 2002, five months before I was diagnosed with leukemia.

Today, Ash Wednesday 2006 at 4pm, the sun is heading toward its daily ocean dive. I’ve been sitting here on my “Porch Pilgrimage” since I came home from the 7am service in Southport. This could be my last Ash Wednesday. Next year, Ash Wednesday is February 21, the day before the 8^th anniversary of my mother’s death.  My ashes may go into this ocean on that day. I’ve been feeling the force of God in the ocean today. It feels like home, and I feel stronger having received it.

Here is the portion of Palm 103 appointed for Ash Wednesday in the Episcopal lectionary plus a few more verses that seem they should be included:

⁸The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and  abounding in steadfast love.

⁹He will not always accuse, nor will he keep his anger forever.

¹⁰He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities.

¹¹For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him;

¹²as far as the east is from the west, so far he removes our transgressions from us.

¹³As a father has compassion for his children, so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him.

¹⁴For he knows how we were made; he remembers that we are dust.

¹⁵As for mortals, their days are like grass; they flourish like a flower of the field;

¹⁶for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more.

¹⁷But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him, and his righteousness to children’s children,

¹⁸to those who keep his covenant and remember to do his commandments.