Isaiah 58:1-12; 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6,16-21 ASH WEDNESDAY Science tells us we are dust. Some billions of years ago, stars we will never name exploded, scattering heavy atom throughout the galaxy. Those heavy atoms are the basic building blocks of our lives. Every one of our cells is founded on the burnt out grandeur of suns which no eye ever saw. Had they not gone extinct, wed never have been here. History tells us we are dust. The mountains and plains of the planet are littered with the silent ruins of what were, in their day, the Londons and New Yorks of civilization. Gobekli Tepe. Tiwanako. Borobodur. Even their names barely register for us. Yet there, the grandeur of human effort, the art and politics and economics, the loves and dramas and hatreds and grudges, once changed the world. And now, their streets are filled with dust blowing in the wind. Religion tells us we are dust. God took up a handful of soil, and breathed into the breath of life--and the Adam became a living soul, whatever that is. Something fills us and animates us, gives us vision and longings greater than our biology can explain. But the greatest and most brilliant of us, saints and scientists, poets and philosophers, we all are nothing more than a handful of dust a few decades after our eyes close the final time. We are dust, and to dust we shall return. Thats not gloom and doom. Its reality. Its what we are. The point of the Christian life isnt to deny reality, but to proclaim that God transforms. We are dust, and to dust we shall return--but through Gods mercy, we arent just dust. We are dust with a purpose. Dust with a destiny. Dust which, like those stars, has a future. When my eyes close, it shall not be the final time. And my efforts, though ephemeral, can be more lasting than Tiwanakos stones. If I let Christ live in me, through me, then my dust can be the building blocks for a universe which shall, someday, be recreated as it ought to be. Or I can live for myself. And die by myself. Dust which had no purpose except to blow in the wind when it was no longer bound to the other bits and bobs of matter that comprised Steve Wilson. The choice is mine. To live as if my life has meaning, purpose, a point. Or not. Either way, my shelf life is stamped on the package, my timeline counting down. I am dust, and to dust I shall return. Whether I choose to be dust with a purpose, or dust blowing on the winds of history, thats my only real choice in life.
Posted on: Wed, 05 Mar 2014 12:05:45 +0000
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