When Lent began this year, it struck me as odd that the Ash Wednesday rite is called The Imposition of Ashes. This word—associated with “control from an external force”—doesn’t sit lightly on my soul. In most contexts it feels abusive for anyone or anything to intrude on my life without my permission. I don’t like to be manipulated by the insistent actions of others. I’m not naturally disposed to admit my sinfulness or my need for repentance. And I’m not sure I always like to be marked by ashes—they are a stark reminder of my mortality. (“Ashes to ashes, etc.”)
As Lent comes to a close, ashes remain a remembered semi-annoyance. They force their way into my psyche, trespassing on my shaky self-idolatry—disturbing whatever self-congratulations I’ve used to fill the gaping holes in my self-image. The ashes that marred my head still signal my need for continuing confession, my total impoverishment and my total lack of deservedness or self-worth. These are somewhat ugly attributes I’m don’t easily admit.
There’s something else going on, though. Ashes are also a necessary and continuing imposition on any mindless, business-as-usual approach to life that might distract me from my calling(s). The inconvenience of a smudged forehead—visible to all who approach me—takes me away from any smug assumptions that I’m better than everyone else. The ashes ask to be washed away—a Baptismal act—and so prepare me for forgiveness and living forgiven.
Ashes thus serve as a portal to something hopeful and life-giving: I accept the proposition that I am a sinner in need of grace. Finding God’s mercy all around me, I join other ashen faces in praising God for the opportunity to bring God’s will to bear on the world!
Not an imposition at all…!
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