When I was a little kid, I thought Ash Wednesday was synonymous with bushfires. There was a kind of hushed tone reserved for the name; a natural disaster that seemed to me to have scared the pants off fire-fighters, homeowners and volunteers alike in the town I grew up in. I was too young, but I knew that there were horrible stories behind the experiences of those like my dad, who went to help, and there was always an edge to the way mum described the early end to my sister’s school camp.
So I remember it was a big surprise when I learned that Ash Wednesday was first of all a date in the Christian calendar and not, in fact, a day that began in 1983. A surprise, followed by a slightly sickening revelation about the irony of the name. About a thousand years before these bushfires Christians were already starting the season of Lent with ashes.
Then, as now, to begin this forty day season of preparation for Easter, ashes are made by burning the palm fronds left over from the Palm Sunday celebrations of the year before. On the last Sunday of Lent, on which Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem before his crucifixion is remembered, foreheads are marked with a cross. Wearing ash became a symbol of repentance and of public sorrow.
The idea of Ash Wednesday meaning bushfires gave me a picture of ashes that were heavy and ubiquitous; the fallout of heartbreak. But while the liturgical stocks of ash may seem more contained, I now see we should be wary of keeping such things neat. Ash Wednesday, as the first day of Lent, ensures that the road to Easter starts with the hard, gritty edge of faith, and of life. It is the church’s reminder that Easter renewal is sought from within the mess of everyday life. Whether we mark our foreheads, or just give our fears, disappointments and sufferings a good long stare, we start by acknowledging not just our own failings, but the brokenness of the world – the symbols of celebration are reduced to ashes.
And I’m tipping we’ll all remember the feeling of ashes this bushfire season. It is not hard to picture the sky as though airbrushed grey, clogged by a haze the sun fought against, while our eyes stung and our car ducos turned gritty. And that’s just in metropolitan Melbourne.