Into Ashes

Although most of us take it for granted, Western Christians do something very peculiar in the beginning of our Lenten observance. We all, even non-practicing Christians, go to Church to receive the imposition of ashes. We should note how we still use the verb “impose”, which literally means from the Latin “to put upon”, which still has the sense of being “imposed” in the modern sense. We rarely, if ever, use the verb “to impose” to imply something which is desirable in itself. Politicians impose taxes, Priests impose penances, Police impose curfew. None of these things are we necessarily in a hurry to do, but they do have a purpose, in that they limit us, or take something from us. This is deemed necessary for both the good of the individual and the common good.

Every year, especially in the Breviary, I have taken time to reflect on the Latin title for this day we call in English Ash Wednesday. However, I have yet to read a modern tongue which expresses exactly what the Latin does when naming this day. The liturgical name for the day is technically Feria IV in Cineres. The Feria IV part is not very interesting grammatically: it is simply the name for what we call ‘Wednesday’, or ‘Feria Quarta’ (literally, ‘the fourth day’ [of the week] ). It is the grammatical construction in Cineres that is more interesting. What this technically means is ‘Wednesday into ashes‘, since the preposition ‘in’ with an accusative ending indicates movement, rather than static location. This would be rendered in Cineribus in the ablative, it that were the case.

Let’s pause to see why this is interesting and should serve as a source of inspiration. Every Romance language, the descendants of Latin, mentions this particular day, but all lose in translation that element of movement which is so clear in the Latin title. The Portuguese simply call it Quarta-feira de Cinzas, which is literally, “Wednesday of Ashes”, or Ash Wednesday. Similarly, the French mercredi des cendres, or the Spanish miércoles de ceniza. The Germanic tongues are no different, with the fusion of the words ascher (ash) and mitterwoch (Wednesday) found everywhere, such as Dutch aswoens/dag, or Swedish askons/dag. Even the Polish, which is an inflected language, simply calls the day Środa (Wednesday) Popielcowa (literally, “Ashen”, as an adjective). No modern tongue seems to maintain the idea of going “into ashes.”

The sense of the going “into ashes” is more striking when we consider the grammatical logic of two other Holy Days, like the so-called Dominica ‘in albis’, which is the Second Sunday of Easter, called ‘in albis’ because it is when the newly baptized would stop wearing their white robes which they received on Easter Day. Yet even here, the grammar alone indicates no present movement (although, admittedly, depositis includes an element of past movement). The newly baptized are simply found ‘in white’, which is what ‘in albis’ means. Similarly, Palm Sunday, which is called Dominica in palmis, can be translated “The Sunday in the midst of Palms” or more simply, “in palms”.

The nuance of going ‘into ashes’ should not surprise us. It also should not surprise us that this activity is one of ‘imposition.’ Why? Because this is the necessary condition of mortal sinners. Hence the liturgy reminds us that we are “dust, and into dust you shall return”. The language here captures that sense of movement, that we are inevitably returning to the earth from which we came, and while that may be unavoidable as the so-called first death, receiving imposed ashes as an outward gesture of repentance is meant to conserve us from the second death, which is eternal damnation.

Ash is a humble and seemingly insignificant material, but we know from agriculture and many other fields, that the ‘waste material’ of one form of life is often the vital material of life to come. Especially in the context of the Roman world where Christianity was born, the Romans frequently utilized volcanic ash, lime and seawater in order to create concrete, which has lasted for thousands of years. (It is also more environmentally friendly than modern concrete, which ought to please us in the age of Laudato Si!) This type of ash, called pozzolanic ash, must be ground up in order to chemically react with the other parts of the recipe for Roman concrete.

Ashes, like all of our sacraments and sacramentals, have natural and human significations which help us to understand the spiritual grace which is meant to be bestowed by receiving them with faith. The fact that this day which begins Lent falls on Wednesday, and not on Sunday, like in the Eastern Churches, should also give us a subtle clue as to what the Roman Liturgy means to mystically convey to us. That is, we do not receive these ashes on the Lord’s Day, Sunday, which is always dedicated to the Resurrection of Christ. These mid-week ashes are, in a literal sense, sprinkled on us ‘in medias res’, that is to say, in the midst of our life, between the bookends of the week in the natural world. So too, we put on ashes in the midst of the life of grace on earth, between its beginning at our birth and baptism, and at its end with our death, judgment, and resurrection.

Many years ago when I was in Seminary, I once heard an ill-advised professor lament that no one understood what the word ‘contrition’ meant, and so we should stop using that word in our prayers and speech. This is extremely shortsighted. Contrition, which is the sorrow for sin which we have out of love for God, is taken from the Latin noun contritio, is itself taken from the verb conterere, which means, once again, “to be ground down”, much like the ash used in concrete mentioned earlier. Of course, King David, in the archetypal penitential Psalm, Psalm 51, reminds us that “a broken and contrite heart, o God, you will not spurn.” (Psalm 51:17)

Ash Wednesday, according to the language of the Roman Rite, is not just a passive receiving of particulate matter on our heads. It is an invitation to become the ash. To become ash, that which is ‘waste’ must be burned and ground down, so that new life may at long last emerge. It is only on such a foundation of repentance that the edifice of the spiritual life can be built, and this again and again, like levels of a building. St. Benedict, when writing his Rule on the Observance of Lent, states that “the life of a monk ought to be a continuous Lent.” Yet he himself observes that “few have the strength for this”, and so urges the community to keep the liturgical season with greater fervor, to “wash away…the negligences of other times.” (LXIX, 1-3) Since the monastic life and its dedication to the Evangelical Counsels is, by consensus of the Fathers, the ideal form of Christian discipleship, it follows that all people, not just monks, can gain inspiration from these words. Lent is hard, just as the processes by which ash is made are hard. St. Benedict, as a true spiritual father and master, knows that it is difficult to keep up that intensity for long. However, just as Scripture teaches us that there is a “season for everything” (Ecclesiastes 3:1), the season has now come for repentance. We can offer on the altar of the heart the destruction of the “old man”, as St. Paul calls the unredeemed parts of our mind and body. Out of the ashes of the old man, the new man can be born. Putting off the old man, we can in turn, put on Christ.