We Are Dust & Earth (Ash Wednesday 2024)

Photo by Chris Bair via Unsplash

I noticed her lifeless, feathered body on the back porch. One of the realities of transforming our backyard into wildlife habitat, and all the life it brings, is the presence of death as well. Scooping her up gently, we took a moment to mourn this bird’s life, then returned her body to the earth. She likely spent most of her life here, in this particular watershed we share, feeding off of food brought forth by this land and breathing in air shared with others rooted in this place. Now, through the holy work of decomposition, she will become indistinguishable with the earth. Feather, flesh, and bone will be broken down into dust, becoming, overtime, part of the soil that nurtures life.

As I ponder her resting in the earth, the liturgy of Ash Wednesday echoes in my mind: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. This is a truth the Christian tradition proclaims year after year, as winter begins to give way to spring—this soil on which we stand is where we have come from; and, when our breath ceases, our flesh and bones shall return to earth. Our bodies will also be transformed into organic matter that plants and animals will use in the ongoing circle of life.⁠

While Ash Wednesday may not be the most festive of holy days, there is a beauty to its honest proclamations. This year, my mind gravitates to one less often reflected upon in the traditional liturgy: we are connected, intertwined, with the earth. Beloved by God, graced by God, we are also created in interdependent relationship with the land.

In a Western culture that is disconnected from place, it is easy to hear these words of liturgy and think them generic. It is just dust, after all, found anywhere and everywhere. Yet, when these liturgies were composed, when those in scripture spread ashes on themselves in repentance, it was not with generic dust and earth. It was with the dust of their place, their land, made from earth they were in relationship with: earth that brought forth food they ate, earth that reflected God to them, earth that held their bodies in death.

Likewise, the ashes we mark ourselves with need not be generic. They can be invitations to remember our relationship with the particular watersheds of which we are a part, to reflect on how to live here, in this particular place and time, in ways that contribute to the flourishing of all life. Solveig Nilsen-Goodin, in the devotional A Grounded Faith: Reconnecting with Creator and Creation in the Season of Lent, describes it this way:  “Remind me, O God, that I am not just dust in general (though our transient, mobile, disconnected-from-place culture might have me believe that). No. To the extent that I drink the water from my watershed, eat the food from my watershed, breathe the air of my watershed, will be buried in my watershed, ‘I am my watershed, and to my watershed I shall return.’”

From dust I have come, to dust I shall return.

I am my watershed, and to my watershed I shall return.

I will be saying these words today as I mark myself with dust, gathered from the soil of my backyard. In all that Lent invites us into, may we also remember our connection to the land around us and our interconnectedness with the human and more-than-human-kin who also call this land home. May the ashes, dust, or dirt you touch today awaken your curiosity about the watershed of which you are deeply intertwined with, and all who live within it. May we turn toward that relationship this Lent, honoring this gift that sings in our bones and nurturing the land that sustains us and will hold us in death as well, as surely as we are loved, sustained, and held by God.