"The mark of the Faith is not tradition; it is conversion. It is the miracle by which men find truth in spite of tradition and often with the rending of all the roots of humanity."
-G.K. Chesterton
Hello, my friends!
This year I had the opportunity to meet with several pastors who are practicing Lent for the first time and were wanting to know more of the specifics of an Ash Wednesday service for their churches. I love this! It is like showing them a beautiful piece of artwork they’ve never seen or introducing them to an author that I know they’ll love. There is so much beauty in confession, in tradition, and sacred practices. I know this because ten years ago I was the pastor sheepishly asking a friend how all this traditional stuff worked. And since then, I’ve grown to deeply love it.
But I’ve been practicing Lent for a decade now, and familiarity has had its inevitable effect of blurring the brightness and significance these practices once had. This reminds me that it is never in the practices themselves that the power lies. It is always in the Spirit to which the practices point. And what I love is that this Spirit of God is always at work, disrupting our gaze. Always showing us more.
This happened to me this last Tuesday morning when someone showed up a day early to get ashes. She is new to our church and community and has been struggling to get back on her feet. When she first came in, she looked so tired. Her eyes brimmed with tears. But she is bravely taking the steps to recover, and it has been delightful to see.
But she wasn’t going to be able to get here in time for our Ash Wednesday service and didn’t want to miss out, so would I consider doing it for her ahead of time?
My immediate response was hesitancy. First off, I simply wasn’t ready. I wasn’t planning on preparing the ashes until later that afternoon. And also I felt the pressure of tradition. The Tuesday before Lent is called Shrove Tuesday and is much more of a carnival than a time of confession. It is Mardi Gras. It is Fat Tuesday. The time of confession isn’t until tomorrow.
But, of course, I wasn’t going to miss this sweet moment, so I scrambled to find some ashes…not from last year's palm leaves, as tradition dictates, but from my fireplace. I quickly grabbed a bottle of oil off my desk. And in five minutes I was ready to go. And as I touched her forehead with the ashes, I repeated the simple reminder, “Remember, from ashes you have come, and to ashes, you will return.” “Repent, and believe the gospel.”
And as she opened her eyes, they flashed so brightly. So brilliantly. These windows to her soul. And as I reflect, I am reminded of the way that confession and joy swirl together. It is freedom. And it is clean. The place of our dependence is the place we are met by love and grace that is too good to be true and yet is.
As I saw it wash over her, it washed over me. My gaze became clearer. And my heart was pulled deeper into my own humble state. In a world full of crisis and chaos, where too often I am drawn to what lies beyond my control, I was reminded of the simple presence that is always there and at work. The gentle whisper of God reminds us that we are loved, forgiven, made clean.
And there was the beauty all over again. Seeing it not quite for the first time, but in a new way, a new facet, a sacred disruption.
This year for Lent, that will be my focus. To welcome the disruptions. To see through the cracks they bring in my familiarity. To rediscover the beauty through the interruptions, and to savor the joy that it brings.