the acquired taste of ashes

I am 35 now.  Grey hairs abound and all the more with each mornings’ appearance.  I did not drink coffee for the first 31 years of my life.  I know this with a clarity I seldom have because Hazel is 4.  I did not drink coffee until Hazel.  Hazel didn’t sleep for her first 8 months.  I did not sleep in those months either.  We were so happy to have a baby- in the wake of missing Eliot- that we neglected to see her lack of losing consciousness as a problem in any way.

I inquired of Ginny  as to how she managed to be a bit more wide-eyed than her husband who was fighting to stay awake in meetings he was being paid to attend.  No words, just a finger point to the mug that she held closely with both hands- a fragility & longing typically reserved for holding the baby.

So began my coffee intake- a thirst that has yet to be slaked.  It was a bit of a defeat for my pride as I had vocally hypothesized a theory for years to anyone who would listen- which was right around no one.  The brilliant rant- applied to beer and coffee depending on venue and crowd- went something like this:

• Why is everyone drinking that?
• You do not like it.  It is not good.  You do not drink that and think….man, that is good.
• You honestly would prefer that to chocolate milk?  Chocolate milk is good.  Coke is good.  That is not good.
• The emperor has no clothes….you like it cause you want to like it.
• Enjoy fitting in- while you drink poo in a cup.
• I’ll drink a Dr. Pepper and remain a loser.  A loser that drinks things that tastes good.

Of course my thesis was always met with the same proposition.  You can guess it.  You’ve already thought it if you are a partaker in the brews of which I speak.  All together now:

Well Matt, you see …it’s an acquired taste

This retort would understandably ratchet up my ire by ten degrees of CraCra.  Now it seems even more elitist and even more of a snowjob to cover up some serious hot-mess of insecurity.  You’re telling me you did not like it and then drank it over and over repeatedly until you did?  Well, thank you for bolstering my original theory.  I will now use your story as a test case for proving said assumptions.

As you can see.  This was quite a developed theory and once you’ve staked a claim as the founder and promoter of this theory, you cannot be seen drinking a Guinness or imbibing a cup of Joe.  There’s no going back.

Though I fought doing so, I sacrificed my theory one day on the altar of bloodshot eyes- having held a blond-headed beauty from 2-4:30 am for who knows how many nights in a row.  It was a humbling moment when I asked if Ginny would double up on the beans and brewing so I could partake.  I now have been completely defeated as I often proffer the flipside argument:  I do like it.  I didn’t at first.  I pushed through.  And worst of all….it is an acquired taste.

Today is Ash Wednesday.  This is a day when we who believe in Jesus remember his death.  We align ourselves, in feeble ways, with his steps to Golgotha.

And I am not so holy as to not preemptively hear the questions that those outside our faith must have… why devote time to focus on death, on ashes, on pain?  This is a good question and I think we followers would be well-served to reflect on it; to actually be able to string coherent sentences together in order to answer it.  More often than not, we are known by our bumper sticker phraseology than by answers that flow out of reflection and measured meditation.  In fact, I would be embarrassed by the % I would pick- if you made me do so- of believers who could explain why it is that we would devote the entire season of Lent to a solemn reflection on difficult realities of our faith and world.

I have known death.  I have tasted the ashes.  And I hate them.  I guess, though, that they are an acquired taste.  Because I return to drink of that which I, admittedly, do not like.

I believe that these ashes of burnt hopes and dreams and all the ugly things that make up the world we inhabit- these very cinders are our harbingers of hope.  We are those who hope in what the eye cannot see.  We are those who believe that though death’s sting seers our hearts; these same wounded hearts will sing out praise on a day to come.

We reflect on the cross.  On our sin.  Not to stay there, but in hopes of one day moving beyond.  One cannot reach the destination of eternity without first facing death- his and ours.  Those who have acquired a taste for ashes hold greater anticipation for a day when death’s sting is removed.  Only by the cross can we can make it past the effects of the cross.