Showing posts with label Ash Wednesday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ash Wednesday. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 26, 2020

The Redemption Project - Dust


Stars, as far as we know, all form the same way. In the gassy expanse of a nebula—itself a remnant of a dead star—atoms of hydrogen fall into each other's gravity and begin to orbit one another. Their shared mass creates a small well, which curves space and draws more atoms into a dance. As more join, the dance speeds up and, as it does, it generates heat.

Eventually enough atoms join this dance that things not only grow hot but crowded. Atoms start to disturb one another, nearly run into others. Eventually, the heat and the press of the crowd push two atoms together, and...something explosive happens.

As I write this our sun's atoms are continuing this dance, which began eons ago. Hydrogen atoms are combined to become helium, causing an incredible amount of energy to be released. Energy that is transmitted as heat and light that crosses ninety-three million miles to our soil and skin. And, it'll keep doing this for several million more years.

Today is Ash Wednesday, a day we start a new season by reminding ourselves and each other that we're human. Our short lives barely register against the long lifespan of our sun. And where it will leave behind a cloud of gas that can glow in brilliant colors, we will become dust, gray and dull.

This can be a depressing thought. I'm small and finite and weak. I don't shine like the sun. What little light I reflect can't even illuminate a small room. Stellar remnants fill light-years and their glow can be seen across the galaxy for millions of years. All signs I was here will, in a couple of generations, be gone. Except, of course, the dust that is caught in the wind to glow as motes in the sunlight.

Our sun's rays have been filled with such small motes since it was young. After its fiery birth there were lighter elements in the remaining gas. In the heat of our proto-galaxy, some of these bits of hydrogen and helium were forged into heavier ones like calcium and carbon. They, however, amounted to little more than dust in the orbiting cloud.

Yet, in the heat and pressure as eons passed, some of that dust began to clump together, growing larger, attracting more particles as it began to spin. And, over time, as the dust clung to each other, the pressure subsided, the great heat began to cool.

And the dust had come together to form a new, beautiful world.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Ash Wednesday – A Party?


Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
After the Ash Wednesday service one year I needed to make a stop at the grocery store. Despite having just heard Jesus' warning about practicing my piety in front of everyone, I decided to leave the ashen cross on my head as I walked out into the night. I proceeded to the market to pick up a couple of things and stood in line at the checkout counter. When it was my turn, the cashier looked at me and laughed slightly at the black mark on my head. She asked if I'd been to a party. I simply said no and went on with my night, chuckling slightly at the idea that the services this day would ever be considered a party.
I suppose I could have been ironic and replied that, "No, the party ended last night." This, I could have said pointing to my head, is the hangover—a day of kneeling, praying, fasting (though I've never been good at that), and remembering that we are only dust, and it is to dust that we'll return one day. Not exactly a party theme, is it? Reminding everyone that they are mortal and will one day cease to be is likely to bring the music to a stop and cause everyone to say goodnight from even the most lively of parties.
As the years have passed and I've wrestled with just what Lent and this day means to me, I find myself thinking more and more about the subject of mortality. Jesus talks in our Gospel reading today about the contrast between the mortal world—where moth and rust consume—and heaven—the immortal world where the breakdown of things does not occur. The idea that comes across is that of material goods. But it's not just toasters, TVs, and cell phones that wear out over time. People do the same. Sickness comes to many. Age comes to all. Those of us who have sat by bed-sides or tried to make a hospital room cheerful for the holidays know that the greatest gift God can grant to us sometimes is the fulfillment of that promise of mortality—death. While it brings sadness; it also brings joy. Joy because we know that the one we love no longer faces the decay of moth and rust. Joy because we know that we will one day be where our treasure—the ones we love—is also.
So, in a way, the answer to that cashier's question is "Yes, I have been to a party." Today we have been to a party for mortality. Today we celebrate that this—a world of sickness, sorrow, and pain—is not all there is.
Immortal One, you know what it means to be mortal like I am. Help me this day to celebrate the fact that I am only dust. Thank you that you know I am mortal.