Lent(il) Stew
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
My musings on Ash Wednesday were primordial, celestial even. The common refrain is “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” to remind us that we are but matter imbued with animus, and that matter shall once again be reclaimed by the universe. But while the somber approach to the occasion is important in the journey it takes us on toward Christ, and toward his innate mortality, it also can be exultant. Think: every atom in your body once raced through the limitless expanse of radiance we call “space.” Every breath you breathe into those rented lungs contains particles, elements, and molecules that have traversed the cosmos for eons.
I feel old when I think about the fact that I’m likely more than halfway through my life. But the stuff that makes me -- the dust, the ash -- are the literal, immortal dust motes of heaven. We flail about in these decaying sacks of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, iron, for but a moment. But the creation we see, hear, smell, touch, and breathe, the skin cells on our hands, the scabs on our knees, the herniated discs between my arthritic vertebrae, have always existed in the creative and fertile mind of our creator, and they always will. The universe is dust, and everything in it. Yes, we are made of dust. But not just any dust. Star dust.
—
Disturb us, O Lord
when we are too well-pleased with ourselves
when our dreams have come true because we dreamed too little
because we sailed too close to the shore.
Disturb us, O Lord
when with the abundance of things we possess
we have lost our thirst for the water of life
when having fallen in love with time
we have ceased to dream of eternity
and in our efforts to build a new earth
we have allowed our visions of Heaven to grow dim.
Stir us, O Lord
to dare more boldly, to venture into wider seas
where storms show Thy mastery,
where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.
In the name of Him who pushed back the horizons of our hopes
and invited the brave to follow.
Amen.