Ash Wednesday: Freedom Song

Art: Flying Edna

 

 

 

Remember that you are dust and to dust, you shall return.

Later on today, I will impose ashes on the foreheads of those who are ancient of days and live in what used to be known as "Nursing Homes" but are now called "Extended Care Facilities" (ECF) or "Long Term Care Facilities" (LTCF).

They have long ago moved from - and some have long forgotten - the homes they once lived in, and loved in, and made love in, and birthed and raised children in, and paced the floors one interminable long night, and cooked fabulous meals in, and celebrated holidays and holy days in, and wept in and laughed in and cursed in and sang in.

And now, they share a room no bigger than their former living room with a stranger who is also ancient of days, who cries out in the middle of the night for her children, or his comrades on the battlefield, or just simply, "Help me. Help me. Help me." until their voices are hoarse, yet they continue in a whisper until the light of a new day filters in their room.

Maybe that's not so much the cry of the demented. Maybe they have seen something and know something we don't yet know and haven't yet seen.

Maybe asking for help is the most courageous thing they've ever said in the whole of their lives.

Maybe they are finally free to say it. Out loud.

All of their earthly possessions have been reduced and are now contained in one small closet, one four-drawer dresser, a bedside table, and a hospital bed.

And, implausible as it seems to ones who are younger than them, it is enough.

When I impose ashes on their foreheads and say the ancient words of this day, some will look away, others will look bored, but a few will look me right in the eye, silently accusing me of redundancy.

But there's always one - one ancient soul - whose memory has been replaced with wisdom (which may be the wisest thing), whose watery eyes will dance with some happiness, deeply hidden in the wrinkles and crevices of her face.

I will say, "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return," and he will pat my hand and say, "Yes, yes, child," as if I am singing a freedom song.

And, perhaps I am. Perhaps that is the greatest wisdom scattered and hidden in the ashes I carry.

This pilgrimage has a destination that is contained within itself. When we come to know that the journey is our home while we are here, there is a wonderful liberation.

Or, so it would seem.

All caution, disturbing memories, and soul-wracking anxieties are thrown to the wind, where they will be carried and scattered and, somewhere, mingled with the light feathers of hope.

And, they want nothing more than to go back home from whence they first came: Help me. Help me. Help me.

Remember that you are dust and to dust, you shall return.

Scattered amidst the song of the limits of our mortality is the song of our liberation as children of God.

If you quiet yourself and still your wildly beating heart, you will hear it, and then you will know the freedom to love wildly, generously, lavishly, and wastefully, the way God loves us.

And you will find forgiveness for yourself and others.

And your heart will be brave enough to ask for help.

And your soul will be free.

May that be your prayer as you begin this Lenten Journey.

Remember that you are dust and to dust, you shall return.

Fat Tuesday

 

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I live in Sussex County, Delaware. It has a nickname. “LSD”. That stands for “Lower, Slower, Delaware.” The locals think the “slower” part refers to the pace of life of the rural farmers in the west and the resort life in the east, near the ocean. Some of the folks “up North,” and “above the canal,” hear it a little differently.

”Lower” is not just a reference to a geographical location. It has to do with the perception of a social demographic. ”Slower” has to do with a perception of the mental acuity required of farmers. Chicken farmers. Cash crop farmers. People who have lived on the land and from the land for generations. Indeed, many are considered “land poor”. People who may not own a suit, except maybe the one they wore for their wedding or their parent’s funeral. Maybe.

People who talk with a distinctive accent which is an amalgamation of particular inflections spoken in Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, for which the Delmarva (Del -Mar-VA) Peninsula also gets its name. The ‘r’s’ are hard but the vowels get swallowed.

The famous “M R Ducks. M R Not. O S A R.” (Translation: “Them are Ducks. Them Are Not. Oh, yes they are.”) is credited generally to “The Eastern Shore” but there are similar variations of it here, “below the canal”.

”Lower”. And, ”slower.” See? At least, that’s how many of the folks “above the canal” and some of the people who have moved here, primarily from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York to escape the high real estate taxes, see their new neighbors.

I’ve been stunned and a bit shocked to see it in the attitude of some of the Kent and New Castle County clergy and how that is reflected in the conversations and discussion concerning some of the resolutions that come up at the annual Diocesan Convention - especially those that would empower small congregations. (There, now I’ve said the quiet part out loud.)

As the “land poor” farmers have been pushed out of their land by The Developers, the difference between people who are “from away” who live in McMansions and those who have lived here in Sussex all their lives in Manufactured Homes is more sharply drawn around lines of class, educational and economic status.

Lower Slower Delaware - LSD - is the polite way to say PWT (“Poor White Trash,”) or TPT (“Trailer Park Trash”). Except, everybody knows that it’s not polite. At. All.

It’s not exactly the stuff of JD Vance’s “Hillybilly Elegy” but then not too many around here have had the opportunity to go to Harvard and then sell their soul for the company store. But, the resentment is real. It smolders just underneath the surface. It’s gotten worse - much worse - in the past decade.

We bought this house in 1998. I moved here in 2008. Ms. Conroy and I commuted for 18 months from a friend’s house in New Jersey until she could transfer to a position here. I have worked as a Hospice Chaplain all over Sussex County since 2008. I (finally) retired in June of 2024.

In those sixteen years, I’ve worked on both sides of Sussex County. I’ve been privileged to have been invited into homes where three and four generations live together in a small, single-wide Manufactured Home, plopped down on a quarter or half-acre piece of land that was left to them when Daddy or Auntie sold off the rest of the farm and the bank (and then) The Developers took the rest.

Treatment for one heart attack or stroke, COPD, or lung cancer (thank you, Monsanto), without health insurance, can wipe out an entire profit margin from the sale of your property.

The thing that has impressed me, over and over, as I’ve had the privilege to be invited into the homes and lives of the families to whom I’ve ministered, is the love and the joy I’ve experienced in those families.

Oh, sure, many of these families put a Capital D in dysfunctional. They are also no strangers to another D word. Drama. Lots of drama and not just for yo Mama.

D also stands for Disease - mostly lung and heart (Thank you, Monsanto.) And, unfortunately, D stands for Drugs. And, Death.

Despite all of these challenges, there is love and joy. Sometimes, you have to listen closely and set aside your assumptions and expectations before you can see them, but love and joy are at the center of their lives.

O S A R. 

 
I’ll never forget one Hospice patient. He was 74 but he looked closer to 90. End-stage COPD and lung cancer. Cash crop farming will do that to a body (See also: Monsanto.). He lived in a pop-up tent camper in the driveway of his daughter’s rented single-wide Manufactured Home where she lived with her husband and their daughter, granddaughter, and her newborn, a great-grandson.

He had his own Manufactured Home but was no longer able to tend to himself, so his son-in-law borrowed a popup tent camper from a friend at the chicken factory. They ran an electric cord from the house to the camper and plugged in a small electric heater which warmed things up nicely.

He also had a small refrigerator which kept some of his medications and some food and drink easily accessible. He had everything he needed, including his oxygen tank and a spare for backup, a bedside commode, and a pill planner that his Hospice nurse would come twice a week and fill for him.

The Hospice Social Worker had arranged for Meals On Wheels to deliver food daily but I quickly learned that he “shared” most of it with two of his grandchildren when they came home from school.

One day, I arrived just as the Meals On Wheels driver was delivering the day’s fare: a cheese sandwich, a bag of potato chips, a small plastic container of mixed fruit, a large, chocolate chip cookie in a plastic baggie, and a small, wax covered cardboard carton of whole milk. There was also a plastic bag with plastic utensils and a small portion of salt and pepper in a paper container.

The kids came in right after me, hugging and kissing Grandpa who lit up like a light bulb as they showered their affection on him with the lavish abandon of childhood. They took the white Styrofoam container which held their grandfather’s only meal for the day and set about to cut the cheese sandwich in half.

Suddenly, the older girl looked at me and then looked at her grandfather. They exchanged a glance and a nod and then she took her half and cut it in half and offered it to me.

“Oh no,” I said, “thank you, honey, but I’m fine. I had a great big lunch not long ago (I lied). You have it.”

The child continued to slowly push the quarter of a cheese sandwich my way as she cast a questioning glance at her grandfather.

He looked at me and said, “No, you take it,” and then, with a warm smile that revealed the image in the back of his mind that had come to him from a time, long, long ago, when he was a child, said, “Mama always said you’re never too poor to share what you have.”

I pushed back gently, one last time, “Oh, thank you, sir, but honestly, I’m really not hungry (that was truth).”

He smiled gently, tenderly, and said, softly, “Oh, I think you have no idea just how hungry you really are.”

I could feel my eyes well with tears as the realization of the truth of his words found a place deep in a place in my heart. I nodded, swallowed hard, and took the quarter piece of cheese sandwich with a gratitude I had never felt - or tasted - before.

”Son of a gun,” I said, “and here I am supposed to be ministering to you.”

”Aw, now child,” he said, “Jesus said we’re supposed to minister to each other. You just do it with fancier words than I do. Now, I want you to tell my grandkids here a Bible Story. Which one do you want to hear, children? Maybe Noah? Maybe David in the lion’s den? I’ll bet this chaplain can tell us a great story from the Bible.”

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Many of us will go to church and get a smudge of ashes on our forehead and be reminded that we are “dust and to dust we shall return.” And, while that’s true, I think we miss the point if we forget that in between the dust from which we are formed and the dust to which we return, there’s a lot of love and joy.

I think, this year - especially this year - my Lenten discipline will be to concentrate on finding the love and the joy in the midst of the dust and ashes. I suspect I’ll find there the riches of my life amidst what I might see as poverty. I’m betting solid money I’ll find that I’m hungrier than thought I was, but it won't be due to any fasting on my part. I’m hoping that I’ll choose to stop eating the Bread of Anxiety and begin to feast, instead, on the Bread of Love and Joy.

I think Lent is a great time to go back and reread some of the stories from the Bible that captured my heart and imagination when I was a child. I’m hoping it will spark something in me that I felt then.

There’s a real shortage of religious imagination these days. There’s more to life and politics than the cost of a dozen eggs.

I suspect we’ve been so focused on scarcity and not having enough that we’ve forgotten the abundance of our God.

There’s a lot of work to do. Good thing we’ve got forty days and forty nights.

Have a Holy, Blessed Lent.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.