Almost Not Ash Wednesday

The sleet and freezing rain didn't start until 5:30 in the evening. We had scheduled the choir to meet at 6:30 to rehearse for the Ash Wednesday service. The pastor had an afternoon funeral service in Buffalo and got stuck on the Thruway in the horrible weather. She would not make it in time for the service at the pace she was having to drive. Should we cancel?

By the time I got her voice mail, it was too late. We decided to see who was brave enough to come. Her husband would preside if necessary. A handful, mostly choir members, faced the fierce elements and showed up. I think the pastor's husband seriously thought we should cancel the service and send everyone home. Let the choir practice Sunday's selection then leave as soon as possible.

But.

But the bulletins were all printed and waiting.
But the pianist had driven clear across town on Chinese New Year to be with us.
But the people who were here had come for the Ash Wednesday service and they wanted one.

At first, it was suggested that we just do a few parts listed in the program. It would have been easy enough to have said a quick prayer, sung a hymn, and been done. But once we got into it, following the bulletin, it seemed sacriligeous to leave something out.

It was quiet, intimate, punctuated by the freezing rain against the stained glass windows. We softly spoke the Lord's prayer together, feeling somehow part of something bigger than ourselves. As we neared the place where the pastor's meditation was listed, I wondered if we would have anything to say, or if we would just note its absence and move on. As the final chord of the hymn before the meditation died away, the pastor appeared, breathless, cold, still distressed by the icy roads, the perilous journey.

She breezed down the aisle, flinging her coat over a pew, and gathering her scattered thoughts. After a brief pause, she began to share with us her desire to find God in the everyday events of our lives. We often miss Him because we are so busy, living life at a hectic pace. Could we slow down? Could we learn to be quiet? Could we live our lives at a sacred pace, even if just for the next forty days? For her, Lent was not about giving something up, but about letting things go to make room for God. Let go of the minutiae of the inconsequential to grasp the eternal.

She gave us all purple bracelets with the words "Live Life at a Sacred Pace" and "Look and Listen for God" written on them. There were no showy ashes to mark our foreheads, as if to say "Look at me - I'm religious!" There was no beating of the chest in ground scraping repentence. There was, for the handful of us gathered, a quiet encouragement to let go of the unnecessary and pay attention to the Almighty.

It almost didn't happen, that service. I almost didn't hear the importance of living not my schedule, but God's. Immediately following the short choir practice, I was whisked away to board a train, the powerful impact of that service still ringing in my ears. Life is too short to hurry through it. Pay attention. See God moving among us. Be impressed.