When Stardust Is A Lot Like Glitter
As soon as I arrived at the Washington National Cathedral a somberness fell over me. This came as no surprise as it had been almost two years since I had last joined with a physical congregation for my own spiritual edification. Making my way towards the front of the nave I made a mental note of those whose eye’s greeted mine. Though masked, each face expressed a sense of both joyous expectation and heart-shattering exhaustion. Upon taking my seat and settling into the space my senses seemed to awaken from a long slumber. The smell of frankincense and myrrh wafted about the air from the rites completed earlier in the evening, the sounds of choir members uniting in perfect harmony as the interlude commenced, and the sight of a small child swinging their legs back and forth as they waited for the imposition of ashes made me feel human once more. In honesty, I expected to cry. While no tears fell for me that evening, it was just another reminder how my heart so desperately needs to be jump-started after the wilderness journey of the last two years.
Lent is not new for me. Yet as the Rev. Canon Jan Naylor Cope spoke, I found myself motioned by few facts. First, and most importantly, in the early Church these forty days were set aside as a time for reconciliation. The restoration, the returning, the re-membering of the individual to community following an action which brought about separation. A cleansing period of sorts which proclaimed that while I/you/we have engaged in activity that falls below our holy aspirations to one another, through honest reflection I/you/we can restore ourselves to one another. And the second being that it was the period of preparation for the neophyte as they waited for the moment of their baptism on Easter morning. But I didn’t just find myself being stirred only by historical factoids of the Lenten season. In continuing on with her homily, Rev. Cope referenced noted theologian Walter Brueggemann in which he stated, “Churches should be the most honest place in town, not the happiest place in town.” Sentiments which all rang for me like thunder in the middle of a hot, clear day.
It goes without saying, Lent is a complicated event. In its historical attempt to create space for us to honor our complex histories, both beautiful and jarring, it has also become an event of pious brow beating at best. And at worst, it has oddly created a greater void to hide from the obvious reality of our humanness. After all, how many of us have made lenten promises, or fasts, all in the hopes that we would be magically changed by the end of the period? And how many of us have made those promises and have utterly failed at keeping them beyond the first week, let alone the first couple of days? (Confession: I am absolutely talking about myself this year, and in all the years past).
Complicated as this observance may be, I still so desperately need the honesty which Lent seeks to invoke. As part of Parity’s Glitter+Ash rites in which I partake, the words of the liturgy that speak to me of honesty say, “remember that you are stardust, and to stardust you shall return.” In those words, I am reminded that in our delicateness, both great and small, we are a blessed occurrence. And while the world would so much rather us attempt to fix ourselves through a whole number of death-dealing means as to reduce or to stretch, to pull or to contort, to plug or to rip open ourselves. Blessed Life says otherwise. The Sublime tell us, “Yes, you are flawed. Yes, you can attempt to forget your stardust. But your stardust is too much like glitter, it will always show up in a place that you least expect it. Love your humanness.”
It is all too easy to become ensnared by the powers and principalities of this world as they sow seeds of heartbreak and sorrow into the fields of life and abundance. It is all too easy to attempt to hide ourselves, entertain ourselves, and otherwise distract ourselves from our own blessed humanity. Yet in Lent I am reminded that restoration is possible — it has always been and it will always be. Through us sharing in the ways of accountability, in truth telling, in being vulnerable for the sake of our own wellbeing — reconciliation is possible. The emphasis isn’t to be placed on perfection, or even attempting to be perfect. The emphasis is on our humanity. And in reminding ourselves that while we might attempt to wash away our stardust, it is a lot like glitter, it will always reappear.
“What would it mean if we didn’t run from our own ugliness or each other’s? How do we take the sting out of ‘ugly?’ What would it mean to acknowledge our ugliness for all it has given us, how it has shaped our brilliance and taught us about how we never want to make anyone else feel? What would it take for us to be able to risk being ugly, in whatever that means for us.”
- Mia Mingus, Moving Toward the Ugly: A Politic Beyond Desirability
