By Lenora Rand
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. When many of us show up for ashes on the forehead and a few moments of reflection about our limited time on this earth.
One of the scriptures the Revised Common Lectionary suggested we reflect on yesterday was this one from Joel 2:12 -13:
“Yet even now, says our God, return to me with all your hearts, with fasting, with weeping, and with sorrow. Return to God, for God is merciful and compassionate, very patient, full of faithful love, and ready to forgive.”
Gotta admit, the ashes I’m best acquainted with come from cigarettes. I smoked for years, mostly secretly and in great shame, except for when I was with another smoker and had slightly less shame. When I started talking to my therapist about quitting, he kept asking me, “What’s the worst thing that will happen if you do?” After he kept pushing and pushing, I finally said, through huge heaving sobs, “I’ll turn into a big blubbering idiot. I won’t be able to stop crying.”
One of the things I’ve started to finally see more clearly is that just because we’re in the same physical space with others, it doesn’t necessarily guarantee we’ll be present in the way the prophet Joel talks about it. With all our hearts. With our deep hurts and longings and fears and failures. With our empty places revealed. With our anguish about the state of the world, where the death toll keeps mounting in Gaza, the Ukraine, and in so many other places that aren’t making big headlines right now. And with our agony about living in a country where we value guns more than people as we saw again yesterday when one person died and at least 21 others were injured in a mass shooting in Kansas City.
Just because we wake up in the morning doesn’t mean we’ll be awake. Doesn’t mean we’ll be present with our whole big blubbering idiot selves.
I feel like I’m actually starting to get it: that kind of withness, turning and returning to, happens only with intention, with willingness… Whether we’re talking about other humans…or God, or yeah, even with myself.
Lent, it seems to me, is an invitation to recommit ourselves to returning to ourselves and to each other and to this world — returning from our numbness and returning from our “just getting through”-ness, from our “distract me from anything real” -ness and showing up as we really are.
To saying out loud, “This is where it hurts. And this is how I’ve been hurting others.”
To confessing, “This is me, without the smokescreen.”
And the promise, or at least possibility and hope of Lent is that when we do that, when we do show up… when we’re really there/here/where we are/actually in our bodies and present… something happens. Through the mysterious grace of God, who knows — we might find mercy and forgiveness there too…enough for all of us. We might find connection instead of aloneness. We might find grounding versus swirling from one shiny object to the next. We might find compassion and passion. We might find love. And the reminder that we are beloved.
When I marked my head with that sooty sign this Ash Wednesday, that’s what I was praying I could do this Lent: as best I can, show up just as I am.
Not numbed out. Not shut down. Awake. Alive. Ready to cry. Ready to scream about all that’s wrong. Ready to take in all that’s good. Here. Here for all of it.
About the author:
Lenora Rand is the co-founder and creative director of SmallGood, a branding/advertising consultancy helping positive impact organizations grow their good. She’s also the co-founder of The Plural Guild, a collective creating music, ritual, spoken word and visual art for people of faith and doubt who are less concerned with belief than with being love on this tender, trembling planet. She also helps write songs and other stuff for the band The Many.
Looking for resources for Lent that are honest, inclusive, justice-focused and creative? From music to spoken word to full liturgies, you’ll find a wide range of options from The Many here.
