Ash wednesdays are cursed.

Last year we had the (theoretically) brilliant idea to hold our service in the graveyard.  What better a place to come face to face with our mortality!  We devised that we would send people off among the gravestones to read and ponder what they might want written on their own.  It was going to be theatrical and engaging and epic…  we had no idea.  When we got to the graveyard the temperature was bordering on freezing, the wind had picked up and it was hailing.  We attempted to find a dry place to burn the palms from the year before to create ash, but it was impossible with the onslaught of weather.  Our hands were blue and chilled to the bone, but the only thing we could think of to impose ash was to scoop up mud from the graveyard and rub it in the shape of the cross on each others foreheads.  I couldn’t help think, “This mud is made of people”, and we couldn’t wait for the ceremony to be over.  It was the most extreme worship service I’ve been in.

So this year we thought, “Let’s engage our mortality from the comfort of our warm little sanctuary.”  I worked hard on some projection slides that beautifully captured the stark minimalism and deserty tones of Lent.  And for a center piece I created a life-size crucifix using plaster paper on a patient friend of mine.  It turned out better than I hoped.  I spent the better part of a day getting the sanctuary prepared for that night.  This service was going to be epic… I had no idea.  Composer Gavin Bryars piece “The Sinking of the Titanic” was playing as people entered the sanctuary and stared up at the hovering segmented cruciform.  We had a couple visitors and I congradulated them on their courage for coming for the first time to such bizarre service… I said, “If you come back after this… you must be home.”

Then the real horror struck.  Three minutes in the projector blitzed out.  No beautiful slides.  No text for people to sing or read or respond with.  We were going to have to wing it.

Then, ten minutes later, Jesus’ head broke loose from the hanging mobile and crashed into the sand below, leaving a headless, swaying crucifix.  We all gasped… and then a giggle, and another… I said, “Everyone be careful.  These pews are next to go.”

Ash Wednesdays are cursed.  And rightfully so.  We come from dust and to dust we shall return… and so do our best plans, which magnifies the trust that “underneath are the everlasting arms”.  Lent, here we come.