66: Notice the Ashes
Have you ever played the game, “I Spy?” I’m assuming that for most of us, the answer to that question is yes. It’s a game we’ve probably played with the kids in our lives, and it’s a game we probably played as kids ourselves. You know how it goes: “I spy with my little eye, something that starts with the letter C!” Or “I spy with my little eye, something blue!” The criteria we use might include a letter of the alphabet, a color, a shape, a size, a texture, the list goes on. But the overall point of the game is to help kids learn how to notice, pay attention, and see something they might otherwise pass right on by.
It’s a skill we seem to hold onto as kids, but that many of us have slowly and subtly lost over the years. I think that loss is, in a sense, part of growing up, because the more we begin to understand the reality of all there is to pay attention to, the more we’d rather look away. Paying attention can be challenging because, sometimes, paying attention can hurt. For all the good and beauty and wonder there is to find in the world, it seems there is even more pain and heartache and brokenness to sort through. And so, in an attempt avoid one, we often miss out on the other.
Which is why I love that the season of Lent is included in the church calendar. If you are listening in real time, today is Ash Wednesday, the official start to Lent. This season is meant to be an intentional time of bearing witness to the grief and pain of the world, before we ultimately bear witness to the hope of the resurrection and all the good that is to be found. It’s an invitation to be brutally honest about ourselves and the world we live in. And it’s an opportunity to draw near to the heart of God, even in the midst of what’s hard. Rather than only giving our attention to the highlights, we are honest about and present for the whole.
In many Christian circles, Ash Wednesday is traditionally preceded by Transfiguration Sunday, when we recall the story of Jesus’ transfiguration. This is no accident. It’s recorded in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and today, I’d like to share Matthew’s version. In Matthew 17:1-8 we read:
Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. 2 And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. 3 Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. 4 Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I[a] will make three dwellings[b] here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” 5 While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved;[c] with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” 6 When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. 7 But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” 8 And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.
Now, there is a lot to unpack in this story, and quite frankly, I won’t get to all of it, and quite frankly, there is also a lot that I’m not sure we’re meant to fully figure out. It’s a story that confronts us with the mystery and wonder of Jesus, and it’s good for us to sit with that. But there are a couple things that are important to notice, especially as we enter the season of Lent.
For Peter, James, and John, this is a mountain-top experience if there ever was one. They experience the goodness and wonder of Jesus in a way they never have before. So it makes sense that they would want to preserve it. It makes sense that they would want to stay right where they are. Peter suggests that he build dwelling places so they can do just that, or at least so that Moses, Elijah, and Jesus can stick around. And there is a reason for that.
You may have noticed that the passage begins with the words, “Six days later.” Well, six days earlier, before this mountaintop experience, Jesus told his disciples about what was to come. About his suffering and death. About the difficulty he would face and the difficulty they would inevitably face as his followers. And so maybe it wasn’t just that Peter wanted to continue to bask in the glory of this mountaintop moment. Maybe he wanted to avoid what was waiting below.
I don’t know about you, but I’m right there with Peter most of the time. I’d rather skip ahead to the celebration rather than understand and experience why we celebrate. I’d rather enjoy the garden rather than dig in and tend to the dirt. I’d rather bask in the beauty rather than acknowledge the reality of the ashes. I need seasons like Lent, to help remind me to see the whole picture, ashes and all.
Just last week, I read an article by a palliative care physician named Sunita Puri. In describing her role in the midst of grief and difficulty, Dr. Puri writes,
“Earlier in my career, looking closely at this particular kind of pain was as blinding as looking at the sun. I distracted myself afterward with SNL marathons and slabs of chocolate cake. Eventually, I realized that it wasn’t my job to protect people from their grief or to solve it. I have learned to look when I want to look away. I have chosen to stay when I’d prefer to run out of the room and cry. The prelude to compassion is the willingness to see.”
In a way, Dr. Puri’s approach to her practice reminds me of Jesus. Jesus didn’t stay on that mountaintop, though he certainly could have. Instead, he led Peter, James, and John down to the ground. He went first and was willing to notice, see, and bear witness to the pain of the world. He knew that, as Emily P. Freeman reminds us, “In order for beauty to come from ashes, something has to burn.”
Part of being a follower of Jesus is bearing witness to what’s difficult. Not so we can solve it or remove it or wallow in it, but so we can practice the presence of Jesus and remind each other that we are not alone. We choose to notice and see so that we might learn to embody the compassion of Jesus in the middle of it all.
As we begin this Lenten season, I wonder what that might look like for you. The truth is, there is no right or correct way to journey through the 40 days of Lent. Traditionally, people fast or give something up in order to create space to realign their lives, drawing closer to the heart of God. Maybe you fast from what numbs you - Netflix, social media, or even ice cream or the chocolate cake. Those might seem trite to some, but sometimes the removal of our pithy comforts allows us to truly see.
Others might choose to add something that will help them focus on and prioritize the implications of the season. Maybe you read through one of the gospels, join a Lenten study group, set aside some extra time for silence and prayer each day, or intentionally spend time with someone who is suffering, being present to their pain. Sometimes what we choose to prioritize helps us truly see.
And still others might choose not to remove or add anything at all, because maybe life right now already feels like it’s up in flames, and the idea of switching things up even more seems too overwhelming. I’ve certainly been there, and I get it. There is room for you too in this season. Perhaps you will consider laying down a burden you are carrying, whether it’s a worry or a fear or a grudge or source of shame. Maybe for you, Lent is meant to lighten your load. Sometimes relieving the pressure helps us truly see.
No matter how you choose to observe Lent this year, remember that the hope is to notice the presence of God in the midst of the ashes. Before we approach the empty tomb, may we remember the way Jesus emptied himself and may we choose to embrace a similar emptiness ourselves, trusting that our current circumstances are not the end of the story; that soon, we will be filled; that soon, we will be made whole.