Ash Wednesday

 

In his Gospel—good news story—concerning Jesus, John records an incident in the temple at Jerusalem, a building that stands for a convergence of national, religious, cultural identity and power. On this occasion, Jesus is visiting the temple and is speaking in front of a gathered crowd who are taking an interest. But the scene is hijacked by a group of men who are important in their own eyes. They thrust a woman in front of Jesus. She has, they say, been caught in the very act of committing adultery. She is, one may surmise, not dressed in a manner they consider appropriate for the hallowed space in which she now finds herself. She has forgotten herself. She has not shown the expected deference. She has no cards in her hand, and without the help of those who are exposing her to public humiliation, it will all be over for her very quickly. She is silenced.

She is somewhat collateral damage, for their true intention is to push Jesus to do as they want. Will he refuse to show mercy, and so place himself in their debt, a debt they may choose to call in at any moment of their own choosing? Or will he refute them, in which case he will invalidate his credentials against their interpretation of founding documents? And who, exactly, are these men trying to impress?

Jesus ignores the men. He stoops down and draws in the dust on the ground with his finger, moving it around, so that it settles in a new configuration, so that it lies differently now.

Most Saturday mornings, I take part in the local parkrun, and afterward we go to the café in the sports centre. Near the door to the centre is a banner, a larger-than-life size photo of a smiling middle-aged woman with the text ‘Be the best version of you.’ I am sure she is a lovely person, but I cannot help but think that the best version of me looks somewhat different. But being the best version of you is quite the thing to be these days, involving self-discovery and self-improvement. We might even be tempted to coopt the Season of Lent into this programme.

But self-discovery and self-improvement are treacherous goals. Our identity is not a fixed given we discover, nor a project we construct for ourselves. When we embark on such activities we become to ourselves like Pharaoh conscripting the Israelites to hard labour or condemn our future selves to excavating and robbing the graves of our past selves.

In his letters to early congregations of Jesus-followers, Paul proclaims that our identity is in Christ. It is he, who died and rose again for us, who is the eternal convergence of our past, present and future, the givenness of our identity. And as John records, Jesus is the one who writes on the ground, who re-orders the dust of which we are made—dust animated by the breath of God—including in ways that reveal his unassuming mastery over events that befall us. Paul goes so far as to say that we are hidden in him—that is to say, our identity, which is kept safe by him for all eternity, is at least partially hidden from others and also from ourselves. For one thing, who among us could know, at four years old, what we would be at fifty, or at eighty? There is both continuity and discontinuity—the same dust, reconfigured many times.

On Ash Wednesday, I press my finger into a mash of ash and fragrant olive oil and trace the pattern of the cross on the forehead of those who find themselves standing in front of me. They may feel humiliated by the circumstances of their life, by their shortcomings, by their inability to take and keep hold of the best version of themselves. They may very well have been wounded by the actions of others, whether old wounds that have left scars or fresh wounds that have left bruises. The cross I trace says you have died with Christ. Not only are you mortal, but you have already died: you share in his death, and in his rising, in his glory, for your identity is in him, and only in him. You are hidden in him. His past, present and future are your past, present and future; and your past, present and future are his and in him. Nothing can separate you from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. Nothing that has changed or is changing or will change your very partial understanding of yourself; nothing you have experienced, are experiencing, or shall experience. And in him, one day you shall fully know yourself, and be fully known.

And with the sign of the cross in ash, words of invitation: ‘remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return; turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ to the end of your days.’ Such action—turning away from sin and returning to Christ, which, if it is true that we are in him is also to return to ourselves—achieves nothing for us. It is not a process of self-improvement, of becoming the best version of you. It is simply the expression of a thankful heart, for what has already been done. The best version of you—the version that has been set free from the hold of sin over us; the version that is the righteousness of God—has already been called into being through Christ and with Christ and in Christ, along with the rest of humanity. We do not need to strive for perfection, or wrestle with existential angst. We may, indeed, lament aspects of the past, present or future, but even as we are treated—by others, by ourselves—as dying, we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything. This Lent, may we rest secure in this amazing grace, and know ourselves afresh to be reconciled to God.