Go On with Your Dusty Self

I have always appreciated the depth of an Ash Wednesday. Growing up, having those ashes smeared on my forehead and those ominous words spoken over me--the morbid part of me loved it. As a pastor, the gravity of saying those same words to newborns and seniors alike is both humbling and sobering, smearing ash on each and every head that presents itself.

And then, the dilemma. Shall I intentionally avoid "practicing my piety before others" and wash off the smudge before travelling home? Or should I stop being so vain and concerned with what others think, and simply keep the outward sign of the mortality that's always with me as a visible mark for a short while? This year I chose the latter, although as soon as I stepped out of the church building, I instantly regretted it.

First, I was aware that I was looking down, away, anywhere but at people's faces so that the mark wouldn't be readily noticed. Then I noticed my relief when we were all facing the same way, as when we rode the down escalator to the tube platform, as it meant I didn't have to make eye contact. Then I wished I'd just worn a blasted hat which I could've pulled down far enough to make it a non issue. What was I thinking? I'd have been better off just washing the mark away before leaving, rather than doing this ridiculous internal dance and external avoidance.

As I sat waiting for the train at the FAR end of the platform, she walked past me. A woman--I didn't look at her. But I felt her looking at me. Oh great, I thought, she's noticed the smudge and is now staring at me like the freak that I am. I will not look back. I will not give her the satisfaction. I will continue looking ahead, as if I haven't noticed her staring.

Train arrives. We both board, and I am dismayed to notice that she stands opposite me, alongside the doors where I could avoid nearly every face on board. I can still feel her stare, and it aggravates me so much I decide to just look up. I meet her eyes, which are smiling warmly at me. She gives me a look of knowing, of compassion or kinship or both. I instantly return the smile. And I feel ashamed.

How often do I jump to conclusions about people and their intentions toward me? How often do I judge myself first, before anyone else has a chance to, or to at least be able to say "I already knew that" should I meet with criticism? I hated that smudge the instant I set foot outside my church; it sat smugly ashen and dirty upon my forehead as though it represented every secret undesirable fault I contained. The things I walk around with and pretend I'm hiding from the world. And all those things which everyone else carries around, irrationally thinking they're the only ones who could possess such faults, such imperfections, such dark secrets and desires.

To dust we shall return--all of us. And we believe we bear the imperfection of our nature all alone, until some brave soul dares to look us in the eye, to share a common moment, to say without words "I know who you are."

Remember: you are dust. There's no judgment in it. It's just a truth about who you are, and actually, it's perfect. And when you choose to just love your dusty old self, instead of walking around, cast down in self-loathing, you may look up long enough to see the world--that crazy imperfect world--loving you back.



---
ashes to ashes
imperfection knows its own
and can't help smiling