Ash Wednesday
February 26, 2020
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer. Amen.
Jane Kenyon, an American poet, approached mortality in an unemotional way. In fact, some have said that she “redeem[ed] morbidity with a peculiar kind of gusto.” Perhaps she knew what she was doing, given the fact that, sadly, she died from leukemia at the young age of 47.
Her poem “Otherwise” was published a year after her death. It reads,
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise.
I ate cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
To the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
Kenyon’s poem expresses gratitude for all which is beautiful in our lives – for love, food, shelter, meaningful work, the natural world, beauty in all forms – but she notes, too, that it is all temporary.
Over the past 3 years, I have known too, intimately, how fragile life can be, living with a neurological disease that has attacked virtually every system of my body. My heart. Which randomly stopped beating and required a pacemaker. My digestion. I spent almost a year and a half on a feeding tube. My body’s heating and cooling system. I can walk out into 100 degree heat and be chilled to the bone, covered with goosebumps. All of these things, plus the surgeries and hospitalizations and the extreme lethargy that has accompanied it all, has taught me how fragile life can be – but much more importantly, how facing death itself ironically, affirms life itself.
Little did I know that my experience was connecting me with one of the Benedictine Rules. Back in the 6th century, St. Benedict told members of his monastic community to “keep death before your eyes daily,” to encourage monks to live each day more fully, and to not hold onto the things of this world too tightly.
And while our Ash Wednesday worship – marking ourselves with ashes - dates back only as far as the 8th century, that is precisely what this day is about. These one-day tattoos on our foreheads are symbols of our frailty and our need for repentance – repentance for holding onto the things of this world too tightly.
Last May, Rachel Held Evans, an Episcopalian convert from the Evangelical tradition and best-selling author and blogger, died suddenly after complications from the flu. Ironically, her final blog post was on Ash Wednesday 2019. I want to read her final words, which strike a poignant note on the topic Ash Wednesday’s encounter with death and grief:
It strikes me today that the liturgy of Ash Wednesday teaches something that nearly everyone can agree on. Whether you are part of a church or not, whether you believe today or you doubt, whether you are a Christian or an atheist or an agnostic or a so-called “none,” you know this truth deep in your bones: “Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.” Death is a part of life. [She continues:] My prayer for you this season is that you make time to celebrate that reality, and to grieve that reality, and that you will know you are not alone.
That, I do know for sure – that while life is fragile, God’s presence is not. God’s presence will NEVER BE OTHERWISE. Amen.