A Walking Lump of Dust

It's purple season! The crosses are veiled, we have joined together in the great litany, the A word has been banished. Welcome to Lent.

Lent is a pretty sobering season in the church year, which isn’t that surprising when you consider that it’s based on Jesus enduring 40 days of the devil tormenting him. That’s not exactly the model for a good time! And we don’t ease into Lent gently. Instead we begin straight away by confronting our own mortality. 

On Ash Wednesday we receive the sign of the cross on our foreheads, and are reminded that we are, at the end of the day, simply creatures of dust who will one day return to the ground. Just walking lumps of dust who like to pretend they’re immortal. Because let’s be honest, none of us likes thinking about death. But it's a reality, and the fact that it will happen to each one of us can offer a sense of perspective. The season of Lent comes up to us and asks ‘alright then, you know you're going to just be dust again one day - what are you going to do about it? How can you live better?’ Lent bluntly inquires, ‘What are we doing with our time being a walking lump of dust?’

You probably have your own answer to that. But whatever your response to those questions might be, I offer a suggestion. Perhaps among everything that would make for a satisfying and fulfilling use of our time on earth, the greatest thing we can ever hope to achieve is to have used our time to draw close to God.

I wonder what that means to you, to draw close to God.

There have been some amusing examples over the centuries of people who’ve tried to do this literally. St Simeon Stylites, in the 5th century, wanted to get away from people so he could focus on God, and his solution was to put a small platform on top of a pillar, and live up there. Over 37 years, he became famous, and ironically attracted crowds of people who wanted to see the man living on a pillar. Whether this lifestyle resulted in Simeon having a better relationship with God, who knows, but I’m not sure that pillar-dwelling is something I would recommend for any of us!

But drawing close to God can happen in so many different ways. It doesn’t have to be sought in drastic measures. Instead our re-turning to God can be simple, quiet, an ongoing practice. Unlike an ambitious new year’s resolution which so often falls away after a few weeks, the joy of drawing close to God is that you can never fail. If the resolution is broken, or if you find the thing you gave up for Lent is something you just can’t live without, it’s easy to feel like a failure. ‘Well, that’s that.’ we tell ourselves. ‘I tried, but now let’s just get back to normal’. But with God, it isn’t about ticking a box or succeeding at a challenge. We can’t fail, because it is an ongoing invitation. A relationship that we are always part of and desired in, even when we are the uncommunicative or distracted partner.

When Jesus was led into the wilderness by the Spirit, I wonder if he expected for this to be a time of focused prayer, but instead he found himself being relentlessly besieged by the devil. But despite this, his testing is not a failure. It is a time of exhausting hardship, but it’s also one of strengthening and formation. When Jesus finally stumbles out of the desert, dishevelled, starving, and probably quite smelly, he actually emerges stronger. Stronger, because he took this time as an invitation to clarify his reliance on God.

We all go through our own wildernesses as well. We experience fear, uncertainty, loss, grief, being overwhelmed - whatever it may be - we all know what it is to feel besieged, at danger of being swamped. But even in these moments, the invitation remains. God is there, waiting, always with us.

The temptation of course is to want to rely on ourselves. We forget that we are just lumps of dust. But every year we have the gift of this liturgical season rolling around again, reminding us that to dust we shall return, so what are we doing with this one wild and beautiful life? Are we putting the focus where it should be? Are we learning to rely on the one who is the source of life?

In the Ash Wednesday liturgy, we hear this beautiful line: “I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent.” I invite you. Not ‘I oblige you’, not ‘you must’, but “I invite you.” We are invited at all times to draw near to the One who has never stopped calling us closer. But during Lent in particular, we celebrate this holy re-turning, repenting, refocusing on this most wondrous of things - that the Creator perpetually draws us into a relationship where we find meaning and purpose in our reliance on God.

So perhaps this Lent, instead of focusing on what thing we’re giving up or taking up, we might focus on how we’re opening up to the guidance of the Spirit. Instead of just saying no to chocolate or caffeine, what if we said no to hurry, to resentment, to self-doubt? What if we declined the pressure to achieve, excel, and be impressive, but practiced creating space for gratitude, for kindness, for connection?

Because we are also more than just dust. We are dust that holds the breath of God, dust that is purposefully made and wildly loved. Dust that is invited into a relationship with the One who formed us. The season of Lent reminds us that we are small in the vastness of the universe and time, yet infinitely precious to the God who created both.

May we discover in these weeks - perhaps again, perhaps for the first time—how Lent is not about proving our worth, but about resting in the truth that we are already completely known, always profoundly loved, always invited deeper. So let’s accept the invitation. Let us open ourselves to God’s shaping, refining, and endless love.

Amen.

Romans 10:8b-13;  Luke 4:1-13