Stones, Dust, and Silence: Remembering the Ashes

I often think back to the time I spent living in Germany. One thing that I found especially noteworthy were the churches. Germany has so many huge, ancient places of worship. There is a specific kind of cold that lives inside those ancient stone churches, a damp chill that seems to have settled into the walls over centuries. When you walk into a massive, vaulted minster or a quiet, rural monastery, the first thing you notice is the weight of the silence. It’s heavy. It’s thick. It smells like old wood, beeswax, and damp earth.

In those spaces, it’s easy to feel a profound closeness to God. You look up at the arches and realize that generations of people before you poured their best craft and their entire lives into honoring the Creator. You feel like you’re part of a Great Cloud of Witnesses that transcends your own little moment in time.

But then, there is the other side of that feeling.

Standing beneath a ceiling that high, surrounded by stone that has outlasted empires, you also feel a deep sense of separation. You realize how small you are. How finite. How "dust-like." The sheer scale of the architecture reminds you that God is Holy, Other, and beyond our ability to fully grasp. It’s a beautiful, terrifying distance.

The Gift of the Gap 

In our Reformed tradition, we don’t shy away from that distance. We talk about the "infinite qualitative distinction" between us and God. Ash Wednesday is the day we lean into that gap.

The ashes on our foreheads are like the dust on the floor of those German cathedrals. They remind us that we aren't the center of the universe. We are creatures. We are mortal. We are, as the Reformers often reminded us, entirely dependent on a Grace that reaches across that vast distance to find us.

A History Written in Stone 

The Reformers in Germany and Switzerland didn't want to destroy these spaces; they wanted to re-center them. They wanted the focus to move from the "performance" of the ritual to the "promise" of the Word. When I think of those old monasteries now, I think of how they serve as a physical liturgy. They stand there as a reminder that the world is old, our lives are short, and God is sovereign.

Ash Wednesday is our way of bringing a little bit of that "ancient stone" perspective into our modern, fast-paced lives. It’s a day to stop running, sit in the cold silence of our own limitations, and wait for the Word to speak.

The Lenten Architecture of the Heart 

As we move into this Lenten journey, I find myself wanting to recreate a bit of that "monastery silence" in my own life. Ash Wednesday is the doorway. It’s the day we admit that we are dust and that we cannot bridge the gap to God on our own.

But Lent isn't just about staying in the dust. It’s about asking: What can I do to clear the clutter so I can experience the presence of God more clearly?

How can I work to build a cathedral in my own life where I can better hear and listen to God speak?

Reflecting on the Journey 

Living and experiencing holy environments changed how I see my own faith. It made it sturdier, but also more humble.

• Have you ever been in a space, whether a forest, a cathedral, or a quiet room, that made you feel both close to God and acutely aware of your own smallness?
• How does that "holy distance" help you appreciate the grace we find in Christ?

I’d love to hear about your own "thin places" where the dust of the earth and the glory of God seem to meet. Share your stories in the comments.