Next Wednesday is Ash Wednesday. I want to share a homily I preached at the Ateneo de Manila Loyola Schools five years ago. The references to the the invasion of Iraq, to the bombing of Bali, and to the situation in Mindanao are somewhat dated, but sadly, not completely out of date. The images I have attached are marvelous iconic depictions of the harrowing of hell. Jesus descends into hell: he enters the most Godforsaken, loveless, desolate of places, to draw the most hardened and hopeless human beings into the light, freedom and joy of God's presence. This, for me, is the meaning of Lent.
A very fine theologian, named Rowan Williams, who was recently made the Anglican archbishop of Canterbury, has written a difficult and disturbing book, a slim volume entitled Writing in the Dust, After September 11. On September 11, 2001, Williams was a few blocks away from the World Trade Center, preparing to record a few talks on spirituality. He was interrupted, as you know. He describes the scene after the explosions:
When we finally escaped from our building, it was quite hard to breathe normally in the street: dense fumes, thick, thick dust, a sort of sandstorm or snowstorm of dust and debris, large flakes of soft grey burned stuff falling steadily. In the empty streets, cars with windows blown in, a few dazed people, everything covered in grey snow. (Writing in the Dust, 9)
Later he explains why he entitles his book Writing in the Dust. It was, he writes, because of the “sheer physical recollection of that dense grey atmosphere in the streets, the soft fall of ash and paper, the gritty, eye-stinging wind. All that is written here begins in the dust of the streets that morning.” (Writing in the Dust, 77)
Dust. Ashes. What Williams tells us about dust makes what we will do in a few moments even stranger than usual. Consider: All throughout the year, we busy ourselves cleaning and for some, whitening, our faces. Astringents, facials, papaya soap, appointments with our “derma” are part of our vital “life support systems.” And yet today, we consciously dirty and disfigure these precious kutis porcelana faces of ours. We will allow ourselves to be smeared with ashes, with dust. And dust that is not just the sign of dirt, or of generic mortality. Rather, as Rowan Williams suggests, in this world of ours after September 11, after Bali, after the madness of the bombing in Davao yesterday, dust that is the symbol of violent death, of the destruction and desolation of this crazy violent world we live in. What is the meaning of our strange behavior? Three things, I believe. With these Lenten ashes, we confess. We promise. We hope.
First, we confess. We live in exceedingly dark times. The world teeters on the brink of a calamitous war. Here at home, town halls are burnt, markets and airports are bombed, and 200,000 left homeless in Mindanao; violence—the violence of murder, kidnapping, rape, abuse--is everywhere, in our streets and in our homes. Today, we confess. The ashes of on our forehead are our humble, sorrowful acknowledgment that the darkness of the world we live in is rooted in the darkness of our hearts. Today we acknowledge that, in the end, it’s not the fault of the MILF or of Saddam or Bush or the Abu Sayyaf or Al Qaeda. Today we say, in the end, it is our fault. This is not mass masochism, communal guilt tripping, just plain honesty. Today, we refuse to evade responsibility, to point fingers at someone else, to find convenient scapegoats, to practice our Filipino cultural expertise in palusot. Violence and intolerance, cruelty, pride and utter self-preoccupation: all these are in our hearts and have produced the bitter fruits of this dark world. Today, we confess, we face the truth of ourselves.
Second, today, we promise. “Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel,” the priest or deacon will exhort us, as he smears our foreheads with the ashes of truth. As we receive the ashes then, we will pledge ourselves to the inner journey Jesus invites us to in today’s Gospel, the threefold pilgrimage of fasting, almsgiving, prayer. Fasting: not just dieting, but struggling to give up things and patterns we are addicted to, so that we journey from enslavement to our disordered desires towards freedom. Almsgiving: not just giving an occasional coin to the beggar knocking on your car window, but sharing our very selves with the poor and the suffering of the world, so that we move away from suffocating self-absorption to compassion. Prayer: not just prayers, but the daily, bit-by-bit, more-and-more opening up of our inmost hearts to the boundless love of God, so that we journey from frightened isolation to the communion and solidarity that knows I am a beloved child of God and all others my brothers and sisters. Today, we promise. We know that the world is not changed by the brute force of arms, but by the power of those whose spirits are made new. We refuse to remain paralyzed by the self-pitying powerlessness that says hindi ko kaya, ganito na talaga ako, di ko na kayang magbago. Today, we pledge to move on, one small, faltering, but real step at a time.
Third, today, we hope. Rowan Williams, at the end of his book, tells us a second reason why he calls his book Writing in the Dust. Once, Jesus was present when violence threatened. A group of bloodthirsty religious leaders drag a woman caught in the very act of adultery, ready to stone her to death for her sin. When the accusation is made, and Jesus’ approval is sought for the shedding of blood, he does a strange thing. He writes in the dust. Why he does so has been debated by scholars for centuries. But one meaning of his writing is simple: Jesus stops, he pauses, he gives people time to think, to reflect, to hesitate before they carry out the killing. And when he lifts his head, there is release, there is freedom, there is peace. (Cf. Writing in the Dust, 78)
Today, it is Jesus who will write in dust once again, this time on our foreheads. And he will trace in ash the shape of a cross, his cross, the sign of his own violent death, which he met with and transformed by his mercy and forgiveness, the sign then of God’s inexhaustible mercy and forgiveness that alone can make us new. “Now is the favorable time! Now is the day of salvation!” St. Paul cries out as ambassador and spokesman of God in our second reading today. God’s now is not that of an angry teacher giving an arbitrary deadline. Rather, it is the impatient importuning of a lover saying Sige na, ngayon na, bumigay ka na, hwag mo na akong pahintayin, a passionate lover who can no longer wait to be with his beloved, to give his beloved all he can give, all the life and love and peace that he is. Thus we hope. We do not place our security in the transient treasures of this world that can buy many things but cannot transform the death and darkness inside us. Rather, we place our ultimate trust in the passionate mercy of God, which will overcome all obstacles, will make all things new, as it did when it raised Jesus from the dead.Last Sunday, while at dinner with my family, two nieces, one fourteen, named Sam, the other almost four, named Danielle came up to me. “Uncle Boonie (for that is what they call me),” Sam said, “Danielle has something to say to you.” “What is it darling?” I asked as I embraced her. “Uncle,” Danielle began shyly and then gained confidence, “NO TO WAR, YES TO PEACE!” She then started going around the table, telling all her uncles and aunts, “No to war, yes to peace!” My brother said to her in response: “You know what that means Danielle? That means you stop fighting with your sister!” We all laughed, but that was a moment for us. Of such humble beginnings is peace made.
Brothers and sisters, in a few moments, the ashes will be blessed and our foreheads marked. What we do may seem laughably insignificant in the light of all the darkness that threatens our world. And yet, perhaps, too, from such small beginnings, is peace fashioned. For today, we confess our sin; we promise to seek renewal; we place our hope in the boundless mercy of God in Christ. May our Lenten journey bring forth the peace of the Lord for us, for our world and for our time!
Daniel Patrick Huang, S.J.
March 5, 2003
College Quadrangle
Ateneo de Manila University
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