“And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the
hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are
fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil
on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by
others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret
will reward you.” (Matthew 6: 16-18)
So Jesus tells us not to disfigure our
faces when we begin a fast? Gosh. It always amuses me slightly as we begin the
holy season of Lent that this verse is read every year—just as we are doing exactly the opposite of what it
indicates. In the Ash Wednesday mass we purposely
disfigure our faces! All day long on this solemn holy day people are walking
around with black smudges on their foreheads, proudly displaying to God and
everyone that they are nothing but dust and are journeying on their way to the
grave. We conspicuously broadcast this ancient symbol of both contrition and
sorrow.
I guess we could be like the prophet
Ezekiel (see Ezekiel 24: 15-27) who obeys God’s command to refrain from signs
of mourning. God tells the old boy to look sharp and not advertise the grief he
feels over the death of his wife. He has to suck it up and not ask for comfort
as an example to all the people of Israel. They are expected to do the same,
even though their holy city is destroyed and they are carried off as exiles to
a foreign land. They don’t get to weep or show signs of bereavement. This is
their punishment for unfaithfulness and apostasy.
But I guess it doesn’t matter whether they
rip their garments or put ashes on their heads. The pain is still going to be
there. The regret, the guilt, the isolation—none of that goes away. The ashes
are always present even if they are invisible. Yet, all the same, on this
sacred day we wear the ashes, the symbol of that most terrifying truth—we are
helpless.
I recently read Elaine Pagles’ touching
memoir, Why Religion?[i] In this poignant book the
Princeton University professor of religious history tells of how her son, Mark,
was diagnosed with a rare and invariably fatal pulmonary disorder. She walks
the reader through the excruciating knowledge that her little boy will never
live to see adulthood, and later through the stages of grief when Mark died at
the age of six. As if the loss of a child were not enough sorrow, Pagels’
husband was killed in a hiking accident 15 months after their son’s death. Like
Job, Pagels found herself sitting in her own spiritual ash pit asking why? Her double tragedy convinced her
that she would rather feel guilt than helplessness; nevertheless, she came to
the conclusion that it is pointless to look for meaning in the face of such
pain. We must ultimately create
meaning out of it.
On this day we wear our grief and shame
and solitude on the outside. Ash Wednesday is the day for truth-telling, for
acknowledging that we are all confused, all wounded, all filled with regret.
But we also put our pain in the shape of a cross, the reminder that our Father who
sees in secret has sent his Son to live that pain with us. We take meaning from
the thought that Jesus on the cross knew and felt and understood and
acknowledged everything we are going through. And we can look to the crosses on
the foreheads of our neighbors and realize that we are not really alone at all,
and that in the spirit of humility and compassion, Jesus has come to sit beside
us.
[i] For
more information on this wonderful book, go to https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/after-her-son-and-husband-died-elaine-pagels-wondered-why-religion-survives/2018/11/06/83e2fb24-e1da-11e8-8f5f-a55347f48762_story.html
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