We all remember where we were on September 11, 2001. One of my most haunting memories, though, is the morning after.

It was impossible to get out of Manhattan—or get in. Subways and trains had stopped. There were no cabs. I had to work late for CBS, and ended up walking several blocks through a deserted midtown to spend the night in a hotel on 52nd Street. I remember crossing Broadway and looking down toward Times Square and it was empty and dark. Completely deserted — except for the cops on every corner. It was nearly two in the morning before my head hit the pillow. I awoke five hours later to the sound of sirens.

I looked out the window. You probably remember: it was another stunning September day, just like the one before. I could see the street below. Fire engines and ambulances were heading downtown. I showered, threw on my clothes, and headed downstairs.

As I passed through the lobby to check out, I saw a strange figure checking in: a fireman. He was still wearing his coat and boots. But they were barely visible.

Because he was covered, head to foot, in ash.

He looked like a ghost. As he signed in, some of the ash flaked to the floor.

I’ve never been able to think of ashes, or Ash Wednesday, the same way. It was the most powerful and poignant reminder of what ashes really mean to us – and why this day means so much to us.

Ash Wednesday is, ultimately, all about loss. Losing part of ourselves for God. The part that’s hard, or selfish, or petty. We want to burn it off, and bear the remnant, to show the world our desire to change.

The Catholic Encyclopedia tells us that Christians have been marking Ash Wednesday—and marking our foreheads—for over a thousand years now. The “day of ashes” (dies cinerum) harkens back to the eighth century.

So many things have changed in the Church over the last twelve hundred years, but this ritual has remained virtually the same. Perhaps it is one reason so many of us are here today. It’s not an obligation, the church doesn’t demand it. But we can’t help ourselves. It’s in our theological DNA.

But perhaps there is more to it than we realize – especially now.

More than ever before, it seems, we live in an age of ashes. This soot is a reminder of the fires that have lit our world – and the embers left behind from so many wars, and so many ruins. Think of the fires of Hiroshima, of London, of Auschwitz, of Vietnam, of Baghdad, of New York.

We are citizens of a world on fire, and this is our residue, our stain.

Yet, even though we bear this mark, and have left it on others, we go on. We hope. We repent. We reconcile ourselves with God. We pray. We rebuild, turning over shovels of ash, to begin again. We believe in something better to come: redemption, and resurrection.

And every now and then, we witness that miracle of renewal. The cities that burned have been rebuilt. A glass tower will one day rise at Ground Zero.

Soon enough, we know that after winter, there will be spring.

But first there is work to do.

And so, we are beginning Lent.

It starts in the middle of an ordinary week, with a thumbprint. As the day goes on, maybe we’ll forget about it, and later catch a glimpse in a mirror and realize, with a shock, that we have been marked.

The question I want to ask you today is: what will we do about it?

A lot of people we’ll meet will notice the ashes and ask: “What are you giving up?” Good question. But I like to remind myself that the first word of “giving up” is giving. It is not truly a sacrifice unless it is also, somehow, a gift. An offering of self, with no expectation of getting anything in return.
As the prophet Joel tells us today: “Rend your hearts.” Open them up for the world. That is how we should spend the next 40 days. That is where penance begins.

Penance means more than just prayer and fasting, devotions and dieting. It is also a hardship (it shares the same root as the word “penalty.”)

What are some of the modern hardships we find difficult to bear?

Well, try this: spend a few moments respectfully listening to someone you can’t stand – or somebody that no one else likes, either. I once heard of a monk who got into some sort of trouble at a monastery. At meals, no one would sit with him– except for one other monk, who went out of his way to spend just a few minutes quietly eating with him, and letting him know that he still mattered.

That lone monk was being Christ to another. Each of us, I think, can learn from that example.

Or if that seems like too much, try this: Fold a 20-dollar bill and slip it into the poor box. Pray for a stranger – or an enemy. Skip desert and send the money to a bread line. Take time to write a letter to a soldier overseas. Visit the sick, the aging, the shut-in. Light a candle for all those who are lost, frightened, uncertain or alone. Buy a bagel for the homeless woman you see at the train station every morning. Say a rosary for peace.

In short, begin this season of giving up…by giving.

Plant these small seeds of sacrifice. Tend them. Nurture them. And then let the roots take hold.

And, in time, grace will grow.

You may well be astounded at the minor miracles that have blossomed by Easter morning.

It is all grace, amazing grace.

And it grows out of sacrifice, and prayer — and ashes.

Originally published by Liturgical Publications in the resource guide Connect! .