Throughout the year, there are constant reminders of human mortality in the larger culture: Wars and rumors of wars overseas. COVID death counts and hospitalization rates. But the constant news cycle can blur words and images into a meaningless hum. Social media can dull our senses as we scroll through posts, each one forgotten even as it is read. It’s not that we think we will live forever as much as we do not pause to think.
Lent gives us time to reflect on our mortality.
The 40-day observance of Lent is a solemn time for Christians to ponder Jesus’ crucifixion before celebrating his resurrection on Easter morning. Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent when worshippers receive the sign of the cross in ashes on their foreheads while being told, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”
These words are taken from the Book of Genesis when God formed the first human from the ground. They also reflect the scientific fact that our bodies will decay into carbon, nitrogen and a few other elements. Dust to dust.
With the poignant reminder of the reality of death pressed into the skin of our foreheads comes the stripping away of pretensions. Like our bodies, our possessions and accomplishments shall be reduced to dust and ashes. Yet, ironically, our reflection upon this truth of eventual loss can cause us to gain something else — perspective. “Humility” is from the same lexical root as humus, that is, dirt. All of us came into this world carrying nothing, and we will leave taking nothing with us. Dust to dust.
Ash Wednesday is a cue to slow down: How are we to live out our days? How are we to live this day? This moment?
Before he died, my friend Brian Doyle wrote a poem about Ash Wednesday and a mother who stepped before her priest to receive the ashy sign on her forehead. Except the baby in her arms squirmed into the exact flight path of the priest’s thumb and caught the ashes right in her little eye! There was a moment of shock, then it looked as if the child’s face might crumple into tears. But instead, the little one began to laugh! This caused the priest to chuckle and the mother to giggle. Pretty soon, laughter rang like bells pealing throughout the sanctuary! The poem concludes, “Let us use that which makes dark things quail.”
Lent is traditionally a time when Christians fast or give something up like wine or chocolate or Facebook. Such fasts can be helpful. But this year, I’ve resolved to “use that which makes dark things quail.” I want to look more intentionally and more faithfully for the laugh. Not at someone else’s expense. But to pay attention to the hilarity that often dances around the edges of experience.
Lent gives us time to reflect on our mortality to inspire our living.
Just the other day, I returned home from work to find my puppy and my daughter with paws and hands digging in the backyard. Upon seeing me, both of them leaped into my arms, causing us all to tumble softly into the grass in a pile of legs and fur and shrieks and smiles. It was the kind of moment that made me grateful to be alive.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church. His newly-published book is a collection of his columns for the Chatham News + Record titled “Hope Matters: Churchless Sermons.”
