Stardust
Ash Wednesday, 3/6/19
Isaiah 58.1-12; Psalm 103.8-14; 2 Corinthians 5.20b-6.10; Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21
Remember that you are dust, and to dust, you shall return.
Tonight we embark on our annual Lenten journey with the dusty reminder of Ash Wednesday.
Remember that you are dust, and to dust, you shall return.
It feels to me like a heavier cross to wear this year. A reminder not just of my humanity and mortality, but also of my privilege. As some of you already know, I’m a pastoral intern at Common Cathedral, a street church that worships outside on Boston Common.
This community of people experiencing chronic homelessness gathers together for worship on Sundays or fellowship through the week. I’m going to share a couple of their stories with you, but please know that I’ve changed names and some of the details to protect my community.
This community is daily confronted with the reality of their own mortality. I hear it regularly in the winter during the prayers of the people as voices chime in with their petitions: ‘we pray for our digits- that we will all have all of our fingers and toes by spring.’ But, the reality is that some of our digits will be lost to frostbite before the first daffodils poke up through the thawing dirt.
But, it’s more than just a very real fear of losing fingers and toes. One Sunday in January, Maria heartbreakingly shared the story of her night. She awoke in the middle of the bitterly cold night in her usual doorway. Snuggled under all of her blankets and cardboard. Her toe warmers had already given up fighting off the cold, and she couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. As the cold crept through her body, so did the fear that she might not wake up in the morning- that she might fall back into sleep only to freeze to death. It’s not just the raw honesty and bravery in sharing that strikes me about Maria’s story, but the realization that I have never gone to sleep afraid that I would freeze to death.
Weather is not the only factor that keeps mortality at the forefront of this community. One warmer, sunnier Sunday, Paul struggled to keep his mental health in check throughout worship. He continually shouted out prayers seemingly unaware of what was happening in the service, really getting on the nerves of some of the others who were gathered- and mine too! Paul continued to struggle and ended up surrounded by white park police who were trying to help. And as Paul was on the verge of lashing out physically, another community member came to the rescue. Jordan ran over to where they were and catapulted his black body into the circle of police with their hands ready at their pepper spray and guns. Jordan bear-hugged Paul to protect him, knowing that his skin color put him at higher risk and choosing to risk his own safety to help out a member of his church.
Remember that you are dust, and to dust, you shall return.
I am humbled that my housing and race, among other things, allow me the privilege of remembering my mortality with these ashes one day a year. Tonight these ashes will also be a symbol of mourning. Mourning the toes and individuals we lost in this past year. Mourning my own reluctance to acknowledge and speak out against systems that benefit me because I’m white and housed and able-bodied and employed. Mourning the ways that I cling to the status and power that result from my privilege.
It is exactly this stance of hoarding privilege that Jesus admonishes against in tonight’s gospel.
“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them…”
“whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do…, so that they may be praised by others.”
“whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the religious gatherings and at the street corners so that they may be seen by others.”
“whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, … to show others that they are fasting.”
At first glance, I admit these statements were a bit worrisome. After all, I spend my Sundays doing exactly these things. Common cathedral worships every Sunday- rain, sun, wind, blizzard- right near the park street T in Boston Common. In the midst of passersby. Every Sunday, we practice our piety- singing, dancing, proclaiming the Gospel and sharing Holy Communion- for all to witness (and join in!). Every Sunday, we pray standing in our religious gathering at the street corner.
But, these statements are more about the intent than the actions themselves. A theme that often comes up in Bible study with the Common Cathedral community is the importance of intent. Community members remind me regularly that our motive for doing something is important, even if the end result isn’t quite what we hope. Trying to be pillars of peace in a difficult situation is important- even if we don’t end up doing a good job of it. Trying to be sober is important, even though we sometimes succumb to temptation. Trying to wake up to our own privilege and power is important, even though it’s hard and we often fail to notice it. Practicing and giving and praying and fasting are not about showing off in order to acquire more status and power. Rather a way to practice being our best selves, to practice humility, to practice being in right relationship with God and with each other.
Remember that you are dust, and to dust, you shall return.
These words are not only a reminder of mortality and mourning but also of our creation by a loving God who cares for us. Beloved children of God, wonderfully formed from the dust of the universe. As physicist Neil deGrasse Tyson puts it, “The atoms of our bodies are traceable to stars that manufactured them in their cores and exploded these enriched ingredients across our galaxy… For this reason, we are biologically connected to every other living thing in the world. We are chemically connected to all molecules on Earth. And we are atomically connected to all atoms in the universe. We are not figuratively, but literally stardust.”
These ashes are a reminder of our humanity. This dusty cross makes visible something that we often lose sight of in the realities of day-to-day life: the chrism cross of our baptism. It is a visible symbol of the paradox of humanity, both fallen and redeemed, simultaneously sinners and saints, broken and beautiful.
It’s hard, and it takes courage to stop clinging to our brokenness. It’s hard, and it takes courage to loosen our grip on status and power. It’s hard, and it takes courage to remember the promises of our Baptismal Covenant: to love our neighbors, to strive for justice and peace, and to respect the dignity of all people. It’s hard, and it takes courage to see the holy mark of our baptism and redemption.
Remember that you are stardust, and to stardust, you shall return.
As we enter together into this holy season of Lent, a time of fasting and reflection and repentance, let us not forget that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Created out of stardust by a God who knows the depths of our hearts, who loves us now, just as we are, who draws us ever deeper into the right relationship.
Remember that you are stardust, and to stardust, you shall return.