A reflection on Ash Wednesday

Four years ago I was sitting among a few male friends on campus in the lounge of our University Ministries offices. We had decided, a few weeks back, to form this group so we could spend some time in closer mentorship with our University Minister. At the time, I was struggling through reconciling my journey of self-discovery and my faith. Some of that reconciliation was earth-shattering. And while I never brought that up with this particular group, I was comforted by their companionship as we talked weekly about other struggles. This particular Wednesday night also happened to be Ash Wednesday.

Earlier in the evening, I had joined with my church family in Nashville to observe the ritual of receiving ashes. At Glendale, my small, liberal Baptist church, we received ashes in the shape of a circle, denoting the cyclical pattern of life and of our faith journeys. This night was my first encounter with Ash Wednesday at a church of my genuine choosing. It was also the first time I had entered into a liturgical season feeling as though I was truly living into the fullness of my faith, and I felt the weight of the moment. I hadn’t spoken about my personal revelations of the previous few days to anyone there, and I enjoyed spending my time of confession in prayer thanking God for releasing me of my fear.

As I sat reflecting on that moment, completely disengaged from the conversation my friends and minister were having around me, it was the buzzing phone in my pocket that brought me back into the present. It was my friend Rolfe who had been walking alongside me on my journey. I quickly opened the message, excited to tell him about how my day had been. However, the message had nothing to do with me. It read simply:

“Have you heard about Emmie?”

“No. I just saw her. What about her?”

“Call me.”

On their way home from our Ash Wednesday service, our pastor Amy’s husband hit a dear. In the ensuing accident, their youngest daughter had died.

I was speechless. I didn’t walk back into the University Ministries lounge. I didn’t think about getting in my car and driving home. I just walked out in the semi-darkness of my deserted college campus. I couldn’t feel anything. I had nothing to say, not even to God. I was emptied of emotions in one moment.

Have you heard about Emmie?

Traditionally, Lent is a time of preparation. During this forty day period, Christians are urged to spend time in prayer and penance. It is a time of reflecting on our faith journeys in preparation to celebrate Holy Week, or the week leading up to Easter. In the Christian tradition, people often choice to abstain from something as a form of penitence or to remind them to direct their thoughts to Christ when they find themselves missing what they are fasting from.

The year that Emmie died, we decided as community that we had given too much up. We decided that while Ash Wednesday was a time to remember our mortality, we had been reminded much too harshly. Emmie was 8 years old.

To this day, I carry a heavy burden of emotions when I participate in an Ash Wednesday service. As we sit in quiet meditation and contemplate our own mortality during the service, I cannot help but remember this precious little girl who loved zebras and the color green. A child who was full of life and a love for all things living. And even though I enter every Ash Wednesday service knowing that I will not be able to hold back tears of sorrow, I also remember that Ash Wednesday leads us into a time of preparation that ends with Easter.

I’m not generally one to spend time discussing theories of atonement that center on the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, but I will say this: even in my darkest moments of mourning for those I have lost, I am held up by the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection. It matters less and less to me the manner in which Jesus died or the importance Christians at large place on the Easter story. I don’t really care if Thomas could put his fingers through the holes in Jesus’ hands or not. It doesn’t matter to me if angels were guarding the tomb. What matters to me is that God cared so much about creation that God decided to become part of it, physically manifested in human form, and to experience the pain of death. It reminds me that when people I love die, they find themselves wrapped in the arms of someone who knows exactly what that is like.

I will always cry on Ash Wednesday. For me, it will always hold the memory of newfound freedom and utter despair. But when I leave that service every year, I set my eyes on Easter and remember the exquisite divinity bound up in God’s decision to live and die as one of us.

As we enter into the season of Lent, I encourage all of you to reflect on the beauty of God’s incarnation, of God’s decision to live in the form of a human among God’s own creation. Spend time thinking about the importance of Christ’s physical life and ministry while leaving space to struggle with your own understanding of Christ’s connection to you. Perhaps try spending some time every day in quiet reflection, considering the importance of this season and taking time to just stop and breathe.

The days after Emmie’s death were filled with many tears. Our community grieved just as we always celebrated: together. On the morning of Emmie’s memorial service I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I had to tell someone in this community I loved about the struggles I was overcoming. So I walked up to our minister of music and told him I had to tell him something. I first apologized because I knew this was not the time or place but that I just had to get something off my chest. I told him I didn’t want to make a big deal out of what I was about to tell him, and he nodded solemnly. I then quietly, almost as a whisper, told him of the personal revelation I had in the days before Emmie’s day. He gave a full-bodied yell of delight and called the rest of the choir over and made me tell them too. I was immediately surrounded by love, affection, and affirmation. And as he pulled me into another warm embrace, tears streaming down all our faces, he reminded me that this is the way of life. We grieve and we celebrate and grieve and celebrate. And we cry through all of it. But at no point do we forget that in all things God is working. And God will never let us shed tears alone.

Whatever you may be struggling with during this season of Lent, know that your tears, be they of celebration or grief, need not be shed alone. Even in your darkest time, whether you can feel it or not, the Holy is present. Called, or not called, God will be present.

Amen.