Let’s see what’s in your show bag.

It’s the time of year when I burn last year’s palm crosses to make some ash for Ash Wednesday. Something is alluring about gazing off into the middle distance as the flames consume the faded palm crosses. The oddest things come to mind.

Like… well… I’ve made it clear that when my time comes, as come it will, must, I would like my body to be cremated, please. I’ve found in nearly 40 years of pastoral ministry that ashes are very flexible. You can divvy them up or you can think about it and postpone ‘that’ grizzly decision. You can scatter and or bury and / or disperse at any point in time. They don’t go off like.

The other thing I thought of was a memory from a distant parish a very long time ago. I was young, immature and naive and of course the inevitable disagreement arose. I would be first to say that it was my own foolish fault. Nowadays I hope that I would handle the situation much differently. A lot more wisely, sensitively, pastorally, adroitly and spend a lot more time listening.

Odd… isn't it the memories that bubble up, unbidden and unasked for. I can still remember how cranky I was. The issue seems trivial and trite now. Why am I still remembering all this?

Surely the therapy of watching the ashes burn is that we let the past go. That it is no longer. It is irretrievable and cannot be reimagined or recreated just as surely as the palm crosses are unrecognisable and can’t be put back together again.

This is what the fire of The Master’s love does. It is so powerful and unstoppable that even our most heinous muck can be transformed into an opportunity to start again.