Some years ago, I took the opportunity to walk through circumspectly the 1,5000 neatly laid head stones of a military cemetery; each row like another line in a massive book. My eyes strained to take in all of the information—name, birth and death dates, rank and branch, war in which served—and perhaps also death itself, the fragility of life, the harsh reality of war. In that field of graves, I felt as the psalmist: "laid low in the dust." Or like Job sitting among the dust and ashes of a great tragedy. Then one stone stopped my wandering and said what I could not. On an epitaph in the middle of the cemetery was written: "There shall be in that great earth, a richer dust concealed," coming from, I think, a poem of Rupert Brookes entitled "1914."
It is helpful, to me, to be reminded that I am dust. It has been crucial, at
times, to take this reminder with me as I move through life—through successes,
disappointments, surprises, distractions. It is also a truth to help me
approach the vast and terrible events of Holy Week. The season of Lent, the
forty days in which the church prepares to encounter the events of Easter,
thankfully begins with the ashes of Ash Wednesday. On this day, foreheads are
marked with a bold and ashen cross of dust, recalling both my history and future,
invoking repentance, inciting stares. Marked with the Cross, I am Christ's own:
a pilgrim on a journey that proclaims death and resurrection all at once. The
journey through Lent into the light and darkness of Holy Week is not for me
alone; made in dust and who will return to dust, and willing to trace the breath
that began all of life to the place where Christ breathed his last. It is a
journey that expends everything within me and other Christian Believers.
There is a Latin word that was once used to denote the provisions necessary for a person going on a long journey—the clothes, food, and money the traveler would need along the way. “Viaticum” was a word often used by Roman magistrates. It was the payment or goods given to those who were sent into the provinces to exercise an office or perform a service. The viaticum was vital provision for an uncertain journey. Fittingly, the early church used this image to speak of the Eucharist when it was administered to a dying person. The viaticum, the bread of Communion, was seen as sustenance for Christians on their way from this world into another. Sometime later, the word was used not only to describe a last Communion, but as the Sacrament of Communion for all people. It is as if to say: our communion with Christ is provision for the way home. In Genesis 28:20-22 the viaticum is God's answer to Jacob's vow, "If God will be with me and will watch over me on this journey I am taking and will give me food to eat and clothes to wear so that I return safely to my father's house, then the LORD will be my God." It is what Christ offered when he said, "Take and eat. This is my body." The journey from dust to dust and back to the Father's house would be far too great without it.
As it is, the world of humanity is flattened by the events of Holy Week. From the invitation to take meat and drink in the Last Supper to the desolation of body on the Cross, I am undone by events that began long, long before me and will continue long, long after I am dead. I recognize myself in the words of Isaiah or the sentiments of the psalmist, like grass that withers, flowers that blow away like dust. But so I am, in this great earth, a richer dust concealed. Walking in cemeteries realize this; following Christ I proclaim it. Walking through Lent as dust and ashes bids me to see my need for God's unchanging provision. God offers the Cross, the communion of Christ, the forgiveness of sins, and the life everlasting.
There is a Latin word that was once used to denote the provisions necessary for a person going on a long journey—the clothes, food, and money the traveler would need along the way. “Viaticum” was a word often used by Roman magistrates. It was the payment or goods given to those who were sent into the provinces to exercise an office or perform a service. The viaticum was vital provision for an uncertain journey. Fittingly, the early church used this image to speak of the Eucharist when it was administered to a dying person. The viaticum, the bread of Communion, was seen as sustenance for Christians on their way from this world into another. Sometime later, the word was used not only to describe a last Communion, but as the Sacrament of Communion for all people. It is as if to say: our communion with Christ is provision for the way home. In Genesis 28:20-22 the viaticum is God's answer to Jacob's vow, "If God will be with me and will watch over me on this journey I am taking and will give me food to eat and clothes to wear so that I return safely to my father's house, then the LORD will be my God." It is what Christ offered when he said, "Take and eat. This is my body." The journey from dust to dust and back to the Father's house would be far too great without it.
As it is, the world of humanity is flattened by the events of Holy Week. From the invitation to take meat and drink in the Last Supper to the desolation of body on the Cross, I am undone by events that began long, long before me and will continue long, long after I am dead. I recognize myself in the words of Isaiah or the sentiments of the psalmist, like grass that withers, flowers that blow away like dust. But so I am, in this great earth, a richer dust concealed. Walking in cemeteries realize this; following Christ I proclaim it. Walking through Lent as dust and ashes bids me to see my need for God's unchanging provision. God offers the Cross, the communion of Christ, the forgiveness of sins, and the life everlasting.
