“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19).

Those are the words many of us heard this past week on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the church season called Lent. 

Whether you went to an Ash Wednesday service, or were just startled by the sight of all the dirtier than usual foreheads in the city, this season is rich with food for thought, much of it misunderstood. I think some of the words associated with this season are meant to be both savored and wrestled with.

In what is still a new year, and still the season of Epiphany, when we are asked to look for what is manifesting, what is showing up in our lives that is new, I found myself drawn yet again to the Biblical concepts of time, and how rich they are.

The Bible has two words for time: chronos—that straight line, chronological time that is so useful, and presumably gets me places on time, keeps the calendars turning, etc. We live by this version of time, as if there were no other.

This is the church season of Epiphany, commemorated by the light in the sky and the wise men being led to find the baby Jesus, the new being in their midst. One of my fascinations with church seasons is that we are not meant to hold them safely at arm’s length, and discuss them in some academic way. No, the invitation is to take the season inside, to ask, how is this sacred time a story in my own life? Much scarier this way.

One meaning of “epiphany” is “manifestation”—what is suddenly showing up that has not been there before. This is maybe the second part of those often hapless New Year’s resolutions: We come into the year brimming with intentions… but unless they are manifested somehow, they remain just a wish list.  To manifest is to put muscle into it, to take something to a level of action.

I write this on Christmas Eve, and for one small moment, briefly, I can feel myself standing still. The moon is full, the night is late, a midnight church service approaches. The day has been clearly this particular day, with its last-minute gifts, and awareness of expectation, and hope.

It was not always thus. Indeed, in the weeks just before the Christmas week, I was steeped in one of those time warps that I suspect are the stuff of many jobs, many lives. At the height of Advent, we were busy at Marble making new, in-depth plans for Lent, working on some special education to take place during this sacred time. Yes, Lent comes early this year, but still… without a potent practice of attention, and of staying in the present moment, this necessary leaping ahead to accommodate people’s calendars and newsletter deadlines can result in a blur, and the nagging feeling you are going through the motions, without really experiencing the day, the week, the season, the life you are in.

Tomorrow is the first Sunday of Advent, the beginning of a new church calendar year, and the continuation of busyness, deadlines, an often frantic month.

As the deadlines and speed pick up around and in me, I want to pause to remember to breathe, deeply and remind myself what Advent is all about, anyway?

"Advent" is from the word "to come," and while it is a reminder of the coming of Jesus into the world, then and now, this season also asks to look into our hearts and to ask: What is coming into my life? Where is the longing?

As I write this the day before Thanksgiving, what floats up for me, amidst many thoughts of people and things I am grateful for, is a radical prayer that was also my beloved grandmother’s favorite quote. It’s by Dag Hammarskjold, from his book, “Markings.”

“For everything that has been… Thank you.
For everything that will be… Yes!”