We can’t remove our crosses or the reality of our deaths. Only Jesus can
The man stands at the front of the chancel, arrayed in black, a cup of sorrow in his hands. It is filled with the “death dust” as my son used to call it. Somberly, I know what he’ll say from Genesis 3:19: “From dust you are, and to dust you shall return.” They are solemn words.
This ritual is strangely expected in Midwestern culture. Fervent crowds arrive at Lutheran and Catholic churches to receive the imposition of ashes. Those who bear the ashen cross are called to a season of repentance. We are reminded that the result of our sins - past, present, and future - will bring us to the front of a chancel in another way, someday.
After the service is over, keeping the ashen cross intact is a nearly Sisyphean feat. First of all, it’s difficult to get the mixture exactly right. If the texture is too dry, some of it will crumble down your nose. If the texture is too wet, it might run down your cheeks. And once it’s applied, hair may get trapped, or an innocuous brush may smudge it into oblivion. It’s all going to get washed off in the evening, anyway. Nobody expects ashes to remain on Thursday.
But what if the man at the front of the chancel, arrayed in black, held a tattoo machine instead? What if, as you walked slowly forward, you knew that the temporary marking was everlasting? What if this day meant that you had to be permanently penitential? Would you receive it?
I suppose that would be the ultimate imposition.
I’ve daubed the ashes on thousands over the years. The words can drone on until your own little child stands in front of you smiling, her curled hair pulled back around her ears. At four years old, she just loves to be up in front of the church, glowing before her father. And then you say, daubing her forehead, “Child…from dust you are, and to dust y…” But you can’t get the words all the way out because they are too real. You want to take your palm, run it through your tears, and wipe the ashes all away.
Despite our fervor or dedication to the season of Lent, we can’t remove our crosses or the reality of our deaths. Only Jesus can.
Today, the cross symbolizes all the ways we fall short of the glory of God—both intentionally and unintentionally. The truth about repentance is that we need it not just for the sins we are “heartily sorry for” but also for those of which we remain unaware. On Ash Wednesday, the ashes mark us for both, and the cross symbolizes the moment at Calvary when Jesus would beg toward the heavens: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
Today is not about our perfect penitence. That is always a reluctant desire and easily forgotten. Instead, today we can remember when a pastor (maybe that same man in black in front of the chancel) gathered us in his arms, and with the same thumb that marks us with ashes said these words in baptism, “Here is the sign of the cross, both upon your forehead and upon your heart, to mark you as one redeemed from your sins by Christ the crucified.”
Jesus takes the sins of the entire world (which is so easy to say, but only horrifically achieved) and is himself tattooed to the cross. A centurion “artist” pounds marks into his head, hands, and feet. Considering Jesus' passion at the cross, we view this day with somber joy when we walk forward to the man whose finger is covered in ashes. It is a profound and solemn moment, yes, but also a reminder of God’s baptismal promise and his extraordinary love in Christ Jesus, who takes away the sin of the world.
And when Christ returns, he’ll leave the “death dust” in the dust itself.
