I was recently re-watching one of my favorite series in which historians live for a year replicating a certain era as best as possible. The particular season I was watching was Victorian Farm. In the first episode they are setting up house, including opening up the large fireplace in the kitchen and installing a coal-powered range. After the new range was in place, the first thing they did was rub black graphite all over it.
I admit, I had never given much thought to why old stoves
were black. The 100-year-old iron stove itself was newly restored. As the blacking process started, it didn't seem to make sense; to me, it was just rubbing grime on a clean, new stove. But the graphite serves an important
role. It prevents the iron from rusting. It preserves one of the most important
items in the home, insuring it will last a long time. Also, it gives the range
a shiny polish to it.
I was thinking of blacking stoves this morning as people received their ashes. It look likes we’re rubbing dirt on our faces. Some find the public display a form of performative piety. But the ashes are meant to call us to humility—you are mortal; repent and believe.
And that call to humility is a preservative action, meant to
pull us out of harmful or derelict mindsets and actions. We tend to fall into
patterns that, over time, draw our attention to the world instead of God. In
short, we start to rust. Lent is an interruption of whatever habits we’ve
fallen into and an opportunity to draw closer to God. The ashes are like the
graphite, a bit of blacking to prevent spiritual rust from settling in. If we
are polished up, good with God and humble in our conduct, we can withstand the spills
and smoke that befall us.
I hope this Lent does produce good fruits, that I am able to
make changes that draw me closer to God and grow in virtue. I hope to fight the
Lenten malaise I often experience halfway through, to stay the course through
40 days and beyond. I hope the blacking I receive of ashes and mercy preserves
me for a lifetime of service.
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