dirt
Like Joe Biden before us, we headed to Ash Wednesday mass today. Miranda and Henry were both nervous about having ashes on their heads. Would it burn? Grandma explained that ashes were more like dirt, an idea that the priest repeated in his homily. The ashes remind us that we are from dirt and will be dirt and are dirt. And it was the cycle of my favorite Ash Wednesday gospel*, which I am noting for future reference as Matthew 6 something. It is the one in which Jesus reminds us that we should pray inside our rooms, privately. That the only glory to be had from public expressions of prayer, almsgiving and acts of charity is on earth, by hypocrites. And then we all get ashes on our foreheads to mark us publicly for the rest of the day. The finer point of theology eludes me.
And an entirely too long intro to the Henry story. Rob came with us but didn’t get ashes. When we returned to the pew, Henry said quite loudly, “Papa! Don’t you want dirt on?”
*I am surprised as anyone that I have a favorite gospel passage. A particularly good homily on this passage in my teens has kept me from going to daytime Ash Wed. masses ever since. Too showy.
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