Ash Wednesday is one of the days that I really miss being a pastor. I know that I am still a minister, even though I have retired. What I miss is being the worship leader of a congregation. I love the work that I do now. I love planning and leading the time with children. I love facilitating small groups for adults. I love connecting with people on their faith journeys and hearing about how their faith is growing. But I miss certain parts of worship leadership. I miss baptizing children. I miss officiating at the communion table. I miss preaching sometimes, but not as much as I thought I would. I don’t mind listening to another preacher as much as I did before I retired. But I really, really miss Ash Wednesday.

Ash Wednesday is one of those holidays that is very different from the perspective of a pastor. For a worshiper it is a sometimes simple reminder of our mortality. A smudge of ashes on our foreheads isn’t really a very big deal. Waiting in line for the imposition of ashes can be a meaningful experience, but mostly it is just something that we do - another rite of the church. From the perspective of a pastor, however, it is one of those rare occasions when I look each individual in the eye and touch their hand or forehead and remind myself of how fragile this relationship is. Someone comes forward who is aged or in ill health and I wonder whether or not this will be the last Ash Wednesday for me to touch that person. A widow comes through the line and I am deeply aware of the person who is missing from her life. I kneel to touch a child and see the questions in their eyes. One by one the people come and I realize that they are my people. I have been called to care for these people. They are not just anybody, but they are God’s children who have been placed temporarily in my care.

I’ve imposed ashes with tears in my eyes from the power of the experience. I imposed ashes in our congregation on the day my father in law died, knowing the grief that was surging in our family and the funeral that we would soon be planning. Each Ash Wednesday became a day of recalling previous Ash Wednesdays.

The last time I officiated at an Ash Wednesday service was, like every other Ash Wednesday, a unique experience. We had wondered whether or not we would even have a service. We woke that morning to a time of digging out of a big blizzard. The snow plows had not yet reached the neighborhood where I lived. I was determined to get to the church. It was to be the last Ash Wednesday before my retirement. We had a very meaningful group of young women who were preparing for the rite of confirmation. They had helped to burn the palms from the previous year to prepare the ashes. They would be participating in the service, leading a litany. I knew that the reminder of the mortality of the people I serve would be emotionally challenging for me. I was already beginning to plan for my retirement and saying good bye to the congregation. We had heard about the pandemic, but I did not yet understand how deeply it would affect congregational life. I couldn’t imagine that we would soon be scrambling to offer worship remotely as in-person gatherings completely shut down.

That Ash Wednesday, I was also heavy of heart because a young couple, who both were employees of the Sheriff’s Office where I was a chaplain had experienced the death of their young son. They had found him not breathing in his bed, responded with CPR, succeeded in getting him transported to the hospital and from there flown across the state to a serialized children’s hospital only to have to make the agonizing decision to withdraw support when is brain was unable to respond. Planning for the funeral of the tiny one and seeing the pain and grief of the young couple was devastating.

My own mortality was deep on my mind. The previous November I had come very close to losing my wife when a reaction to medication caused her heart to stop. Fortunately for us she was in the hospital when it occurred and CPR was administered successfully - twice in the same morning. She was recovering well, but was not yet returned to full vitality and we continued to feel the vulnerability of our life together.

Lent is a season of grief. There was plenty of grief on that Ash Wednesday.

And now it is three years later. My thumb has not been plunged into the ashes since. And I won’t be getting ashes on my thumb today, either. Life goes on. Roles change in the church. The time comes to step aside to make room for new leaders to emerge. Sometimes that process is smooth. Sometimes that process is rocky and rough for the congregation. Sometimes it takes a long time for the leaders to appear.

I still grieve. I still notice when a member of that congregation dies. I still am deeply aware of our mortality. I still need the season of Lent and the rituals of Holy Week to practice the art of grieving with faith. This time of the year is not abstract and theoretical for me. It is real and present. None of us will go on forever. As precious as were my years as pastor of congregations, they were never going to be forever. I was in that role for a little while. As strong as my health seems right now, I know that I am mortal. I will face the grief of losing those I love. I myself will one day die. The season we start today is a gift of remembering that mortality and practicing that grief and preparing for that time. Missing my role in the congregation is a natural part of that grief.

Resurrection will come. But we will have to wait for Easter.