Today was the first time in four years that I wore my ashes out in the world. The first time ever, really. Being at college, I wore my ashes in a largely Catholic community. But today, I am in the world. I work in a secular business. I don't live in a little college town where half of the population is Catholic college students.
Today three people were reminded it was Ash Wednesday when they saw my ashes. It's a good feeling, knowing that you're being a witness to your faith by even the simple act of wearing ashes on your forehead as you work and shop. It gets you over that initial awkwardness of having a black smudge on your face. (How many priests have you known who actually make a real cross?) I was glad to wear that black smudge all day. Some people just looked at me, but some people asked questions, and some people remembered it was Ash Wednesday, and the beginning of Lent.
We can't change everyone's hearts, can we? But if we can just get one person to think, and remember...
In the spirit of Lent, I would like to share this poem I wrote at the beginning of my Senior year in college, just about a year ago. It was the fourth year of the excellent Theology course at WCC, and my head was full of so many beautiful truths, and what can I do when my head is full of beautiful truths? Every year I fall in love all over again with the Passion of Christ, because no greater love have I seen. This is my attempt at trying to explain it.
Night falls, and gently on the sleeping world,
Down falls a deadly hush and softly clothes
The world in sightless, darkened, empty dream
And drowns the spark of light that dwelt within.
The heavens groan and cry aloud in pain,
Their agony now falling on deaf ears
As they lean down to touch the place wherein
Incarnate glory came to dying earth.
Where is he now? When did he go from here?
He stood here once; his glory cloaked us round,
Enfolding us within his gentle arms
And called us from our dead and silent sleep.
But yet midday we saw him in this place,
His head bowed down in crown of angry hate,
His body torn and mangled, clothed in blood,
His eyes forever closed in sleepless death.
We saw no beauty in his dying face,
No spark of life to light his death-cold eyes.
Ignoble death had robbed him in its wake
And settled on his mangled, bloody corpse.
Yet as I gazed, his beauty smote my heart,
And burned to take my life and make it his.
Ah, here no greater beauty have I seen
When love hangs dying on the blood-red tree.
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