Although Dennis never leaned liturgical prior to dating a seminarian and ultimately marrying this soon to be pastor at the time, he learned liturgical over the years. He’d question things about the service. I’d explain when and why we do them. I did my best to explain to him that even the non-denom churches he attended followed a pattern of worship. “But they aren’t saying the same prayers and don’t follow lectionaries.” Sigh. I tried. He never did embrace prayers spoken or scripture read in unison. What moved me deeply (knowing I was confessing sin or praying with the whole church) meant little to him, but he did it anyway. Who knew that liturgy was another one of my love languages?
I *think* he understood the concept and meaning behind Ash Wednesday. He definitely asked me every year. I explained it every time I was asked. He attended the worship service most years. I am fairly certain that I imposed ashes on his forehead and spoke the words, “To dust you shall return” maybe ten times over him. He’d wipe them off before we left the church building. See not liturgical.
Drat. I ashed him last year. I said the words. You seldom know when it’s going to be the last time for anything. Now he is dust.
The words take on new meaning for me this year. Grief does that: gives you pause to deeply ponder humanity, frailty, and mortality.
To quote Rumi, “Everything in the universe is within you.” Beloveds, we are dust: stardust, nebulas, galaxies, perfectly created for God’s purposes, led by the Spirit that dwells within.
Blessed Lent, friends.