For me, Ash Wednesday is the most significant part of the Lenten/Easter season. The words from Genesis are simple bodily truth: “In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The ashes on my forehead are real, tangible evidence of an unvarnished truth. The mark of that dust invites us to do the necessary work of caring for ourselves and others.

Early in the day, I made soup for the Inclusive Christians’ group at University of Victoria. The group attends to their “unique voice as a student group that centers queer and IBPoC voices, following the same Jesus who disrupts the status quo, making space for marginalized people.” As I chopped, roasted, and simmered, I consciously remembered those young people who will be nourished by one another when they meet later for communion and the soup supper.  

After dropping off our soup, my friend and I attended an Ash Wednesday Taize service—very little talk, space filled with silence, candlelight, and Taize chants.  Over and over, we sang words, sometimes in a language I didn’t understand that filled me with a sense of Holy presence.  “Come and fill our hearts with your peace, Come and fill us with Your love.”

The opening prayer of releasing seemed especially fitting to me. Let me unclench my fists and release what I’ve done recently whether for good or ill, what I haven’t done and what I need to do soon.  I release fear, anxiety, impatience, pride and everything that pulls me away from you, God. 

After the contemplation and the imposition of ashes, a reading of “Blessing the Dust” by Jan Richardson completed the liturgy. At the end we were asked to put our hand on the shoulder of someone near us. My friend and I briefly acknowledged each other and then my friend put her hand on the person seated alone in front of her. Thankfully, I noticed the woman I’d seen here many times who was also sitting alone.  I took a step toward her to place my hand on her shoulder. She put her hand over mine holding on for her life and mine. Her eyes, filled with generosity, met my gaze. We left in silence with no need for words.

When I returned home, I happened to read an old blog that reassured me about the troubles I sought to release— not to ignore them but to glimpse beyond how I perceive my life in this small window of time.

Cynthia Bourgault writes that “as the heart comes alive as an organ of perception, we are able to perceive the invisible kingdom of love that surrounds us—and live it into being.”

How do I nurture my heart to perceive the kingdom of love that surrounds me—and live it into being?  I know quite well what I need to release.