The Most Exquisite Dining Experience: Ever (a guest post)

It's Ash Wednesday - my favorite season of the liturgical year. And while I'm working on my own post about why this season means so much to me, I wanted to share a letter I came across the other day. Every Sunday, for the last 20 or so years, my dad writes a Sunday letter to his congregation. This one from 2014 is a favorite of mine and perfectly encompasses the depth and power this season holds for me. Enjoy. 

Once in a while I feel nostalgic; to the tipping point: inducing me to try replicating the past. For example, before the kids were born, their mother and I used to go out to Pizza Hut for Sunday night supper. I don't even like pizza that much. But once every four or five years, I'll get a hankering for a Pizza Hut on a Sunday night. Certain seasons and days seem to arouse nostalgia--such as the start of Lent. On the day before Lent starts (Fat Tuesday), I make a fuss of making fasnachts (potato donuts fried in lard.) This was the 35th year I've indulged in that memory-laden extravagance.  I think back to time spent in Pennsylvania Dutch country, when I was in my early 20s.  It's the one Lenten nostalgia I've paid homage to religiously. But this past week another memory suddenly surfaced from deep in my brain. The incident was something a little unusual, adjoining the very first Ash Wednesday worship I'd ever attended (in seminary.) A bunch of us were hungry when the worship was over. So with ashes still on our foreheads, we all piled into my car and headed to a Mexican restaurant. We started Lent unconventionally, not with a fast, but with tacos. Fast forward to this past Wednesday night. At the conclusion of Grace's Ash Wednesday worship, I inexplicably began to covet Mexican food. It was nostalgic 40 year old joy--seeping back into my consciousness. And so the past Wednesday, when everyone else had left the church, Jie and I headed across the street to La Fiesta restaurant. She stayed outside a few minutes to finish a phone call, so I went in before her and noticed I was the only customer. (Evidently no one else in town shares my Ash Wednesday nostalgia.) The young server who greeted me was maybe 13.  Seeing the ashes on my forehead, he suddenly felt nostalgic. In bashful English, he asked if I was coming there from church. Then he smiled sadly and said that he wasn't able to go to church that year for the ashes because he had to work. His wistful visage snapped me out of my own nostalgia. Impulsively I blurted out, "Well, I'm a pastor. And my church is just across the street! And if you'll let me, I'll go right back there and get the ashes and put some on you!" His response: "Are there enough to give to everyone back in the kitchen too?" So I hurried back to the church and got the ashes. And there in the back of a lonely Mexican restaurant on Ash Wednesday, folks I'd never met gathered in a circle. One by one, they knelt down before me to receive a cross of ashes on their upturned faces: the grizzled guy washing dishes who spoke nary a word of English, the thin little girl clinging to her mother, the owner and his wife, the young man who had eagerly gone back into the kitchen with the good news that they all were about to celebrate an unexpected Ash Wednesday liturgy. I said the same words I'd been saying in worship all day: "you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Repent and believe the gospel." As they stood, I blessed them all with the sign of the cross and the name of JESUS. the imposition of ashes The dishwasher asked (in Spanish) whether you had to be a pastor to give someone ashes.  He had two daughters at home and wanted them to be blessed.  When his request was translated into English for me, I didn't know.  But I told him that since I was a pastor, I was authorized to send HIM to impose ashes on anyone who desired them.  And I forthwith deputized him and gave him my crystal jar full of "blessed ashes" to take to his daughters that night. At that point the owner asked me if I would return soon and bless the whole restaurant. They have been struggling for the last year and a half under his ownership. And he thought maybe God might care about that--and the people who work for him. Perhaps a blessing from a kindly and harmless pastor would stir up a little divine assistance. I should have thought before I said yes. I should have remembered that I didn't have any experience in blessing restaurants.  I should have remembered that our Book of Worship does not have any blessings for a Mexican restaurant. I should have remembered that I don't know Spanish (and hardly any of them would understand what I would say). I should have thought that we might be sued if my blessing doesn't work and the restaurant becomes bankrupt. But I impulsively said yes. And so Friday morning, before they opened for business, the staff was all there, waiting for me and for the divine blessing I bore. I blessed the owner and the workers, the tables, the chairs, food, and doors. I blessed the atmosphere and the cash register. I prayed sincerely for this enterprise that wasn't doing so well, knowing all too well what it means for your organization to struggle, fearing that it will all go under. The owner and I have that in common. And we all have this in common:  We are dust. And to dust we shall return. But not before God blesses us with an eternal love and joy, gives us new friends, and fills us with kindness and hope. See the gospel?   --Mike Love his writing? Of course you do. Subscribe to his stuff here or email him and tell him you want to be added to his Sunday letter list here.