Frans van Everbroeck, “Memento Mori” (1672)
Similarly, while I do not think the obsession with death
that we see in the medieval Christian mind is healthy, I likewise experience the
reaction formation of our modern death-denying culture to be suffocating. That
plays out in a youth fetish that drives industries peddling everything from erectile
disfunction drugs to plastic surgery to erase the image of aging. It also
results in a denial of the wisdom of elders and often a warehousing of human
beings that become little more than passengers seated in Death’s Waiting Room.
Death is a part of life. It is the inevitable end point of
our mortal journeys. And it is the deal we made coming into this finite life,
even as it is the part we often like least. Francis of Assisi was onto
something when he referred to that last part of the deal as the visit of Sister
Death. In truth She is always with us even as we do our best to deny her
presence. But Francis knew we would do well to honor her.
Becoming mindful of our death and reflecting on it in a
liturgical setting as a community is a healthy thing, I think. There is
something deeply moving about each of us going to the altar, standing shoulder
to shoulder, and having a cross mark made of ashes from last year’s Palm Sunday
placed on our foreheads that touches our souls.
We are there together, as our souls were before coming to
this plane and as they will be upon leaving it. In the meantime, we share this
life and this time together, in solidarity with one another on our earthly
journeys. And we are with the G-d who is always present with us though we are far
too often not terribly conscious of that presence.
Ash Wednesday provides us with the reason, the time and
place to remember these things. There is a reason we engage in this rite every
year.
A Magical Moment
My favorite memory of Ash Wednesday came from my time in
law school. It was my senior year there. I would graduate with a Juris Doctor
from the University of Florida within a couple of months. I would be leaving
Gainesville, this beautiful college town where I had lived off and on a good
portion of my life. Nothing was stable in my life at that moment including the upcoming
challenge of being admitted into the Florida Bar.
At that moment I was fighting myself at least as much as the challenges of the law school courses my History major had poorly equipped me to take (State and Local Tax, e.g.) but required to pass in order to procure my degree. Worse yet, I was pretty clear I was not temperamentally suited to be a lawyer even as I was intelligent enough, commanded superior verbal skills and had become sufficiently educated in the law to provide me passage into the legal profession a year later.
It would take me eight years thereafter to realize that no amount of pounding the square peg of my life would ever allow it to fit comfortably in the round hole of the legal profession. That's how long It would take me to work up the courage to walk away from practicing law. But I was nowhere close to that on this Ash Wednesday. I had no way of knowing the difficult road that lay ahead of me. I simply knew that I needed to be in church that day.
I had gotten high with a friend earlier that afternoon. He was
a Roman Catholic and I thought perhaps he’d go to services with me. He
declined. But, undeterred, I decided to drive across town to Holy Trinity Episcopal,
the venerable old Episcopal Church downtown, to attend the late afternoon
service by myself.
I’ve often wondered how much of what I experienced thereafter
was the THC in my system. In 1981 marijuana was still illegal in Florida as we
had just learned in our criminal law courses. But there is also a long,
venerable history of peoples around the world who regularly enter into
spiritual experiences by means of psychotropic drugs. And I think I understood
that after this experience.
A Rich Song of Humanity
Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, Gainesville, FL
I always loved being in that old gothic parish, its stained glass windows allowing little pools of colored light to pour into the sanctuary, its carved wooden interior darkened by years of candle and incense smoke, the odor of which was always faintly present when I came into this church. There was a sense of the holy in this place, made sacred by the presence of souls assembled for prayer there over the years. The presence of the Holy was palpable.As I sat listening to the penitential rite, I suddenly became
aware that the bottom hung casement windows below the stained glass panels were
open. The parish had a day school and nursery on-site and the playground for
the nursery was just outside the windows where I was sitting. Through those
windows came the sounds of happy children playing, singing, running, shouting.
Their glee mixed with the beautiful somber Elizabethan English spoken by the
clergy at the altar forming a rich song of humanity.
It was a sunny, warm day in early March. Outside the
azaleas, amaryllis and dogwoods were in full bloom. The smell of the flowers
wafted in on the breeze, mixing with the lingering smells of incense and candle
wax inside.
I felt my soul suddenly coming alive at that moment. The elements
of life and death, of penitence and celebration, the smells of solemnity and fertility,
were all blending together in that darkened, candle lit parish as the sworls of
colored light pouring through stained glass windows danced on the hardwood floor
and the back of the pews.
It was truly a magical moment. Indeed, for a few moments, I
felt I had been transported to another world.
Perhaps more importantly, I felt myself wrapped in the arms
of the Holy, comforted, secure. I so badly needed that service that day. I had
no idea where I was going. I had no idea what life would bring to me. And in
retrospect, I had good reason to be fearful.
But for that moment, in the midst of that crucible of the
holy and the profane, I was there, present with G-d, present with fellow worshippers,
present with all the souls of the departed that had once made that parish their
home, their presence periodically made known in the popping of the wooden roof
and creaking of the kneelers in the pew. And that was precisely where I needed
to be.
I was OK. And somehow I sensed that everything would be OK. The liturgy reminded me that death certainly awaited me at the end of my life journey. I had no trouble remembering that I had come from ashes and would return to ashes. But I also was certain that the Holy One would be present in the ensuing journey with me and with all of us that day, from the three year old boy bleating joyfully from the swing set outside to the failing elderly man stumbling on his way to the altar to receive his ashes.
I never fail to think of that day every Ash Wednesday. I
don’t think I have missed a single Ash Wednesday liturgy since then. My journey
has brought me much further along that road to my own encounter with Sister
Death since then. But the magic of this special liturgy continues to enchant
me. And this past Wednesday, as I sat with a community I have come to love and
have dared to allow myself to be loved by them, our heads all bearing an ashen
cross, all I could feel was gratitude.
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Harry Scott Coverston
Orlando, Florida
If the unexamined life
is not worth living, surely an unexamined belief system, be it religious or
political, is not worth holding. Most things worth considering do not come in
sound bites.
Those who believe
religion and politics aren't connected don't understand either. – Mahatma Gandhi
For what does G-d
require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with
your G-d? - Micah
6:8, Hebrew Scriptures
Do not be daunted by the
enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly
now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to
abandon it. - Rabbi
Rami Shapiro, Wisdom of the Jewish Sages (1993)
© Harry
Coverston, 2022
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