112: Remember We Are Dust

I don’t know if you’ve seen the Barbie movie written and directed by Greta Gerwig, but there is a scene toward the beginning that I found both awkward and brilliant. Basically, in this scene, there is a big dance party happening in Barbie Land. Everyone is dressed to the nines, big smiles plastered on their faces, perfectly executed choreography happening in real time, and out of nowhere, Margot Robbie’s Barbie character stops and asks, “Do you guys ever think about dying?”

Immediately, everyone stops. Crickets. Puzzled expressions. Reading the room and sensing this question might not be an appropriate one in Barbie Land, she quickly pivots and corrects herself. “I mean, I’m just DYING to dance!” Everyone lets out a big sigh of relief, the beat goes on and all is well.

It’s the beginning of what we watch play out throughout the movie, as Barbie grapples with what it means to be human. Frail and flawed and imperfect. Real.

It’s an interesting scene, and I wonder if it might mirror a tendency many of us hold as people of faith. Most days, it can be tempting to gloss over the reality of our humanity, turning instead to the illusion of a faith that is perfectly packaged, a life that is neatly tied together. Every day is the best day and if we have a bad day, it’s really a great day in disguise. And so it goes, as we lean into the facade that we have it all together, that we’ve figured it all out. We are self-sufficient, independent, and undeniably blessed.

It is into this somewhat warped sense of reality that Ash Wednesday enters—the day the season of Lent begins. And if you are listening in real time, today is that day. And even if you’re not, that’s okay. It’s the day and the season we are invited to think about dying and confront the straightforward reality of our humanity—our flaws and frailty and limits and imperfections. We remember and admit our need for God. We accept our mortality. It’s a reminder we need more often than we realize.

In a 2023 {CORRECTION: 2021} article by priest and author Tish Harrison Warren, published in Christianity Today, she writes about the importance of Ash Wednesday. And she spends some time reflecting on Benedict of Nursia’s rule of life and his “Tools for Good Works.” Tish writes,

In his monastic rule, Benedict of Nursia outlines what he calls “Tools for Good Works” and instructs his monks to “day by day remind yourself that you are going to die.” The point of remembering death here isn’t to revel in it, much less to be chipper about it. The point is that by accepting our mortality and not denying it, sentimentalizing it, or running from it, we cease the mad task of living merely to keep ourselves alive.

For all of us, recalling the inevitability of death reminds us that the day to seek God, the day to repair relationships, the day to help others and bless the world around us is today—because it may be our last. Facing mortality leads us to ask necessary questions: Who are we, and what is life for?

On Ash Wednesday, the church answers these questions through our story. We remind ourselves that humans are made to know and enjoy God and that because of Jesus, this is possible, even beyond death.

And yes, while what Tish shares about life beyond death is absolutely true, we also can’t deny or forget that death is still a vital part of the story. Your story. My story. Our story. Usually on Ash Wednesday, many of us participate in the imposition of ashes. We stand in line and when it is our turn, the ashes are used to draw a small cross, either on our forehead or maybe on the back of a hand, to remind us that we are dust. In fact, that’s usually what is said as the ashes are being imposed. “Remember, you are dust and to dust you will return.” Essentially saying, remember, you are going to die. As much as we might like to skip ahead to the hope our faith offers, we need to take time to sit with that reality.

It is not a warm and fuzzy, bright and shiny invitation by any means. But it is an invitation we all need from time to time. It’s sobering and humbling and right-sizing, and perhaps, it might inspire us to live our lives more meaningfully, intentionally, because long or short, we know our mortal days are numbered. The humility that is cultivated when we face our mortality is necessary as we seek to become the people God calls and invites us to be. Because ultimately, humility can lead to compassion. And we could certainly use a bit more compassion in this world.

When I am standing in line waiting for the ashes to be imposed on my forehead, I don’t usually consider the fact that I am not standing in line alone. I forget that the person in front of me and the person behind me and the people in front of and behind them are all also being told, Remember, you are dust. I don’t know about you, but I don’t alway recognize the reality of our shared mortality. We are all dust. We are all fragile and limited beings, in need of God’s grace, God’s care, Christ’s compassion. I am dust and you are dust and we are dust. And maybe Ash Wednesday also reminds us we need to treat each other accordingly.

As poet Ellen Bass puts it in her piece titled, If You Knew,

What if you knew you’d be the last
to touch someone?
If you were taking tickets, for example,
at the theater, tearing them,
giving back the ragged stubs,
you might take care to touch that palm,
brush your fingertips
along the life line’s crease.

When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase
too slowly through the airport, when
the car in front of me doesn’t signal,
when the clerk at the pharmacy
won’t say Thank you, I don’t remember
they’re going to die.

A friend told me she’d been with her aunt.
They’d just had lunch and the waiter,
a young gay man with plum black eyes,
joked as he served the coffee, kissed
her aunt’s powdered cheek when they left.
Then they walked half a block and her aunt
dropped dead on the sidewalk.

How close does the dragon’s spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?

Today, remember, we are dust. I am dust and you are dust and we are dust. May that reality cultivate in us a deeper humility, a widened kindness, a Christ-like compassion, as we seek to become the people God calls and invites us to be.