Ash Wednesday Quotes

Give your heart to everybody you meet. The rest is pretense.

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still

Success isn't measured by what you achieve, it's measured by the obstacles you overcome.

Because I know that time is time and place is always and only place and what is actual is actual only for one time and only for one place, I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed faces and renounce the voice because I cannot hope to turn again.

No place of grace for those who avoid the face No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That's our official slogan.

Wednesday is Smell Like a Pirate Day. Everyone in town is encouraged to get in on the wacky fun by not bathing for weeks and rubbing yourself with ash and blood.

Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?

[She] and I were giving each other the only thing we truly have to offer: our time. We were going to give each other the living minutes of our life.

Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair;

Pray for those who chose and oppose

Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence...

Now I have a theory that if a woman wants to keep a man she only needs to say two things: She believes in him and he's got a big a cock. That's all it takes. It doesn't even have to be true.

Every time he opens his mouth I have absolutely no idea what he’s gonna say. He’s the most honest person I’ve ever met. He’s a quick study and rarely needs to make the same mistake twice. He really tries to learn, and does, and he makes me laugh, and the world’s generally a lighter place when he’s in my sight.

Here’s my image of Ash Wednesday: If our lives were a long piece of  fabric with our baptism on one end and our funeral on another, and we don’t know the distance between the two, then Ash Wednesday is a time when that fabric is pinched in the middle and the ends are held up so that our baptism in the past and our funeral in the future meet. The water and words from our baptism plus the earth and words from our funerals have come from the past and future to meet us in the present. And in that meeting we are reminded of the promises of  God: That we are God’s, that there is no sin, no darkness, and yes, no grave that God will not come to find us in and love us back to life.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Genesis 3:19

With this sunrise somehow I felt I was exactly where I was supposed to be... Have faith, the light seemed to announce.

When I woke up I was naked. I have this one oddball idiosyncrasy: Sometimes in my sleep I take off all my clothes.

Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air

Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice

Now it's different, and to me it was shockingly humble, but there with my girl in my arms and our child in her belly I knew I had reached the moment my life had been waiting for. I was going to be a father and a husband. I spanked her bottom and cranked up the tunes.

And you and I know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and, yes, that’s an expression, something people say, that has no meaning, but what I mean is there isn’t anybody in the whole world who has loved me the way you have, not my mother, not my old man, not my friends. There’s nothing preventing me and you from loving each other and being some kinda world-class shining beacon of love except how bad do we want it and what are we willing to do for it? Now, I know I did you wrong, and I was freaking out and being stupid and I was mean to you. You know sometimes I get all fucking confused and I can’t see outside of my own asshole. I’m unhappy. Why am I unhappy? It’s gotta be somebody’s fault, right? It couldn’t just be that I’m a self-centered fuck spinning around inside my own dank cloud of concerns. There isn’t anything I can think of that I really want or that the best part of me wants, that loving you won’t start doing. I love you.

Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn

Because I do not hope to know again The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power

Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee, Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose

Receive this cross of ash upon your brow Brought from the burning of Palm Sunday's cross; The forests of the world are burning now And you make late repentance for the loss. But all the trees of God would clap their hands, The very stones themselves would shout and sing, If you could covenant to love these lands And recognize in Christ their lord and king. He sees the slow destruction of those trees, He weeps to see the ancient places burn, And still you make what purchases you please And still to dust and ashes you return. But Hope could rise from ashes even now Beginning with this sign upon your brow.

If someone asks me if I believe in God, I shake my head like I couldn’t give a shit, but the truth is, I do. I just don’t know what to do about it.

Teach us to sit still. — T.S. Eliot, from “Ash Wednesday,” Selected Poems (Faber & Faber; 80th ed. Edition, May 7, 2009) Originally January 1, 1936.

Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.’ The poem is called Ash Wednesday, by T. S. Eliot.

You know it’s Ash Wednesday? Really? I just thought people suddenly decided to start putting cigarettes out on their foreheads.

Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice

And the blind eye creates The. empty forms between the ivory gates And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks

Do you ever read any of the books you burn?’ He laughed. ‘That’s against the law!’ ‘Oh. Of course.’ ‘It’s fine work. Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn ’em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That’s our official slogan.’ They

Lent begins with a challenge to clear out the mental and spiritual clutter and so discover how to live life to the full.

When shame overwhelms us, grace still surrounds us.

Jeremy Bentham startled the world many years ago by stating in effect that if the amount of pleasure obtained from each be equal there is nothing to choose between poetry and push-pin. Since few people now know what push-pin is, I may explain that it is a child's game in which one player tries to push his pin across that of another player, and if he succeeds and then is able by pressing down on the two pins with the ball of his thumb to lift them off the table he wins possession of his opponent's pin. [...] The indignant retort to Bentham's statement was that spiritual pleasures are obviously higher than physical pleasures. But who say so? Those who prefer spiritual pleasures. They are in a miserable minority, as they acknowledge when they declare that the gift of aesthetic appreciation is a very rare one. The vast majority of men are, as we know, both by necessity and choice preoccupied with material considerations. Their pleasures are material. They look askance at those who spent their lives in the pursuit of art. That is why they have attached a depreciatory sense to the word aesthete, which means merely one who has a special appreciation of beauty. How are we going to show that they are wrong? How are we going to show that there is something to choose between poetry and push-pin? I surmise that Bentham chose push-pin for its pleasant alliteration with poetry. Let us speak of lawn tennis. It is a popular game which many of us can play with pleasure. It needs skill and judgement, a good eye and a cool head. If I get the same amount of pleasure out of playing it as you get by looking at Titian's 'Entombment of Christ' in the Louvre, by listening to Beethoven's 'Eroica' or by reading Eliot's 'Ash Wednesday', how are you going to prove that your pleasure is better and more refined than mine? Only, I should say, by manifesting that this gift you have of aesthetic appreciation has a moral effect on your character.

The truth is that I'd gain nothing by being a saint after being dead, an artist is what I am, and the only thing I want is to be alive so I can keep going along at donkey level in this six-cylinder touring car I bought from the marines' consul, with this Trinidadian chauffeur who was a baritone in the New Orleans pirates' opera, with my genuine silk shirts, my Oriental lotions, my topaz teeth, my flat straw hat, and my bicolored buttons, sleeping without an alarm clock, dancing with beauty queens, and leaving them hallucinated with my dictionary rhetoric, and with no flutter in my spleen if some Ash Wednesday my faculties wither away, because in order to go on with this life of a minister, all I need is my idiot face, and I have more than enough with the string of shops I own from here to beyond the sunset, where the same tourists who used to go around collecting from us through the admiral, now go stumbling after my autographed pictures, almanacs with my love poetry, medals with my profile, bits of my clothing, and all of that without the glorious plague of spending all day and all night sculpted in equestrian marble and shat on by swallows like the fathers of our country.

I brought you this book. I figured you’d remember it.” He lifted up an old worn green book I’d carried with me from ages eleven to fifteen almost without fail. “Emily Dickinson. You were a fanatic for Emily Dickinson. You remember that?” “Of course,” I said, holding the weight of the book. Inside he’d written Just to let you know some things are always here. Love, Daddy. He always tried so hard to love me, I know he did, but even with that…

You’re forgiven,” she said, and tried to smile. She clenched her jaw and wiped away her tears, frustrated with herself for crying. “But forgiveness is…overrated. Actions have repercussions-like a science experiment, a chemical reaction.” She moved back to the sink, turned both faucets on, and let the water swirl together. She looked worn out. I perceived in her eyes and in her gestures that, yes, she cared about me, she would cry about me, but in the end she could and would get over me. Somehow, I hadn’t realized that. “The truth,” she said, talking almost to herself, “doesn’t need us to protect it. All we have to do is live inside it and it will protect us, right?” I nodded; I don’t know why; I didn’t understand what she was going on about.

I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, but I love you,” I repeated. I wanted her to accept my apology and then we could kiss and get married. “You love me now?” she asked, straight-faced, turning so she was flat toward me, her hands tucked into the armpits of her sweatshirt. “I love you now.” I tried to be clear, unafraid, unconflicted. “Tomorrow?” “I want to marry you,” I said. There was a giant pause. We looked at each other.

he is as thick as Ash Wednesday’s turd,

Ember Days in the Early 1900s The days of obligatory fasting as listed in the 1917 Code of Canon Law were the forty days of Lent (including Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday until noon); the Ember Days; and the Vigils of Pentecost, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, All Saints, and Christmas. Partial abstinence, the eating of meat only at the principal meal, was obligatory on all weekdays of Lent (Monday through Thursday). And of course, complete abstinence was required on all Fridays, including Fridays of Lent, except when a holy day of obligation fell on a Friday outside of Lent. Saturdays in Lent were likewise days of complete abstinence. Fasting and abstinence were not observed should a vigil fall on a Sunday as stated in the code: “If a vigil that is a fast day falls on a Sunday the fast is not to be anticipated on Saturday but is dropped altogether that year.

Frida Kahlo, San Miguel, Ash Wednesday You faded so long ago but here in the souvenir arcade you’re everywhere: the printed cotton bags, the pierced tin boxes, the scarlet T-shirts, the beaded crosses; your coiled braids, your level stare, your body of a deer or martyr. It’s a meme you can turn into if your ending’s strange enough and ardent, and involves much pain. The rope of a hanged man brings good luck; saints dangle upside down or offer their breasts on a plate and we wear them, we invoke them, insert them between our flesh and danger. Fireworks, two streets over. Something’s burning somewhere, or did burn, once. A torn silk veil, a yellowing letter: I’m dying here. Love on a skewer, a heart in flames. We breathe you in, thin smoke, grief in the form of ashes. Yesterday the children smashed their hollowed eggs on the heads of others, baptizing them with glitter. Shell fragments litter the park like the wings of crushed butterflies, like sand, like confetti: azure, sunset, blood, your colours.

Wednesday's glory had become Thursday's ashes.

Success isn’t measured by what you achieve, it’s measured by the obstacles you overcome,” Jimmy

We passed gas stations and chain food restaurants, with their billboards advertising happiness. I know the images in magazines and on TV aren't true representations of the world; I mean, that's obvious. But I still get this sinking feeling of disappointment, as if it is the world I should see.

Once he preached a sermon on "Music at Zion Church" and sent me word that I must be sure to be there, for I would hear him make mention of my father. That is just about typical of Protestant pulpit oratory in the more "liberal" quarters. I went, dutifully, that morning, but before he got around to the part in which I was supposed to be personally interested, I got an attack of my head-spinning and went out into the air. When the sermon was being preached, I was sitting on the church steps in the sun, talking to a black-gowned verger, or whatever he was called. By the time I felt better, the sermon was over. I cannot say I went to this church very often: but the measure of my zeal may be judged by the fact that I once went even in the middle of the week. I forget what was the occasion: Ash Wednesday or Holy Thursday. There were one or two women in the place, and myself lurking in one of the back benches. We said some prayers. It was soon over. By the time it was, I had worked up courage to take the train into New York and go to Columbia for the day.

The folks who invented Lent—no, it wasn’t Jesus’s idea—decided that just like Christ’s time in the desert, it should last forty days. Actually, from Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday it’s forty-six days, so it looks like the first thing someone ever gave up for Lent was math.

They had learned to be monsters because one man had told them that he would love them more if they were. And they had believed him.

The worst part about getting blood on her hands was how easily it washed off.

The fight was hers. It was over when she said it was.

All she knew was that they watched her. It took her a minute to realize what it was--their fascination with who she was, who she wasn't, and what she would or wouldn't do. They were obsessed with her. And she owned them.

He loves you. Do you have any idea how much he loves you?" "This is bigger than us." "No. It's not.

The night of his birth marked the passage from Shrove Tuesday to Ash Wednesday and Boltzmann used to say that his birth date explained why his temper could suddenly change from great happiness to deep depression.

Some things suck; they hurt bad. The question is, Do you have the courage to let them?

…Who through faith…whose weakness was turned to strength…. —Hebrews 11:33–34 (NIV) I probably shouldn’t have checked my computer one last time after a very tiring day. One click and I was staring in disbelief at an e-mail from our church prayer planning committee leader with more than one hundred prayer requests attached! The petitions had been gathered at our Ash Wednesday service, and no one thought about who was going to pray for them once they were placed on the altar. Although we weren’t an intercessory prayer group (we plan prayer events), our committee was elected! I was even more overwhelmed when I glanced at the list: chemotherapy, job losses, marriages falling apart, the death of young adults, anger issues, serious child behavior problems… I felt absolutely unable—and unwilling—to tackle the job. So instead of praying, I escaped to the laundry room to take the clothes out of the dryer. As I vigorously shook out a shirt, this thought came to mind: Here you are thinking it’s impossible to pray for one hundred requests. God not only hears billions of requests an hour, He also follows through and acts on them. I printed out the requests and put them by the chair where I do my morning prayers, and each morning I prayed for ten of them until I finally finished all of them. Dear Creator of the universe, help me to say yes to the spiritual tasks You assign me even when I feel unequal to the task. Amen. —Karen Barber Digging Deeper: Mk 10:45; 1 Pt 4:10–11

{p. 166} Ash Wednesday The Proper Liturgy for this day is on page 264. Almighty and everlasting God, who hatest nothing that thou hast made and dost forgive the sins of all those who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of thee, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

This Proper is always used on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday O God, who before the passion of thy only-begotten Son didst reveal his glory upon the holy mount: Grant unto us that we, beholding by faith the light of his countenance, may be strengthened to bear our cross, and be changed into his likeness from glory to glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Francis walked in a solemn Ash Wednesday procession between churches on Rome's ancient Aventine Hill, calling on people to humbly remember their human limits.

Before I was ordained, when I was working for the council, I thought of the first three months of the year as January, February, March. Now I think of them as Epiphany, Candlemas and Ash Wednesday.

Ho pensato che fosse il mio destino, ed era vero, ma il fatto che una cosa è il tuo destino non significa necessariamente che andrà bene.

When somebody says: ‘I appear to be incorrigibly lazy. I am not tenacious; I don’t seem to be able to finish the things I start’, today he ought to think: ‘I am not close enough to Christ’. That is why whenever we recognise something as a defect in our lives, as a weakness ..., we should immediately refer it to this type of intimate and direct examination: ‘I do not seem to have the ability to persevere: I am not close to Christ. I am not cheerful: I am not close to Christ. And Christ is saying: Come on! Turn around! Return to me with all your heart!’ It is time for each one of us to recognise that he is being urged on by Jesus Christ. Those of us who sometimes feel inclined to put off this decision should know that, now, the moment has come. Those of us who are pessimistic and who think there is no remedy for our defects should know that the moment has arrived. Lent is starting. Let us look on it as a time of change and hope.[15] LENT – THURSDAY AFTER ASH WEDNESDAY 2.

The short, simple, and simply beautiful liturgy of Ash Wednesday, which begins our annual commemoration of Jesus's march toward death, teaches something that nearly everyone can agree on. Whether you are a part of a church or not, whether you believe or you don't, whether you are a Christian or an atheist or an agnostic or someone whose faith experiences far transcend the laughable limits of labels, you know this truth deep in your bones: "Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.

As well as those mortifications known as ‘passive’ – mortifications which present themselves to us without our looking for them – the mortifications that we propose to ourselves (and seek out) are called active mortifications. Amongst these, the mortifications which refer to the control of our internal senses are especially important for our interior progress and for enabling us to achieve purity of heart. These are: mortification of the imagination – avoiding that interior monologue in which fantasy runs wild, by trying to turn it into a dialogue with God, present in our soul in grace. We try to put a restraining check on that tendency of ours to go over and over some little happening in the course of which we have come off badly. No doubt we have felt slighted, and have made much of an injury to our self-esteem, caused to us quite unintentionally. If we don’t apply the brake in time, our conceit and pride will cause us to overbalance until we lose our peace and presence of God. Mortification of the memory – avoiding useless recollections which make us waste time[42] and which could lead us into more serious temptations. Mortification of the intelligence – so as to put it squarely to the business of concentrating on our duty at this moment[43] and, also, on many occasions of surrendering our own judgement so as to live humility and charity with others in a better way. To sum up, we try to get rid of those internal habits that we know we would not like to see in a man or a woman of God.[44] Let us make up our minds to keep close to Our Lord during these days by contemplating his most Sacred Humanity in the vivid and memorable scenes of The Way of the Cross. Let us see how, for our sakes, He walks along the Path of Sorrow. LENT – SATURDAY AFTER ASH WEDNESDAY 4.

God came into this world in the flesh because from the beginning, God created us as creatures of flesh and proclaimed that we are good. As we celebrate at Christmas, God comes to meet us in the flesh, reminding us that our bodies are temples for the Holy Spirit. Saint Paul professes that our minds, spirits, souls, and bodies remain intact in salvation. Each is constituent of the fullness of our salvation. We are not split apart into good substance and bad but wholly renewed because everything that God creates is good. This truth may never be more evident than on Ash Wednesday when the mark of the cinder cross on our foreheads reminds us that we are dust and to dust we shall return.

Collinwood has two Catholic churches, St. Joseph’s, where most go, and St. Mary of the Assumption, strictly for Slovenian families. Even among Greiners, there is a pecking order, though it’s completely baffling to Fritz why Slovaks should be lower down than the rest of them when they all struggle for the same bread and coal.

True peace, dependent on nothing external, and hence wholly steadfast comes from an inner balance between desire and potential.

Those who are genuinely good always doubt their goodness.

The truth is that I'd gain nothing by being a saint after being dead, an artist is what I am, and the only thing I want is to be alive so I can keep going along at donkey level in this six-cylinder touring car I bought from the marine's consul, with this Trinidadian chauffeur who was a baritone in the New Orleans pirates' opera, with my genuine silk shirts, my Oriental lotions, my topaz teeth, my flat straw hat, and my bicolored buttons, sleeping without an alarm clock, dancing with beauty queens, and leaving them hallucinated with my dictionary rhetoric, and with no flutter in my spleen if some Ash Wednesday my faculties wither away, because in order to go on with this life of a minister, all I need is my idiot face, and I have more than enough with the string of shops I own from here to beyond the sunset, where the same tourists who used to go around collecting from us through the admiral, now go stumbling after my autographed pictures, almanacs with my love poetry, medals with my profile, bits of my clothing, and all of that without the glorious plague of spending all day and all night sculpted in equestrian marble and shat on by swallows like the fathers of our country.

The Church tradition knows fasting especially connected with the Eucharist and at times such as Lent and in preparation for feast days.  This tradition has been kept for many centuries although recently all traces of fasting have nearly disappeared in the Church. Only Ash Wednesday and Good Friday have remained but even these two days of fasting have lost their real practice and true meaning.

While the Second Vatican Council calls everyone to return to ‘the source’, we must admit that we have not discovered fasting but, instead, the opposite has happened. In the past decades, fasting has been reduced to the least possible measure – to two days a year: Ash Wednesday and Good Friday.

One of the clerical undertakings that Sidney least enjoyed was the abstinence of Lent. The rejection of alcohol between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday had always been a tradition amongst the clergy of Cambridge but Sidney noticed that it neither improved their spirituality nor their patience. In fact, it made some of them positively murderous.

Il perdono è... sopravvalutato. Ogni azione ha le sue ripercussioni: come un esperimento scientifico, una reazione chimica.

Per un breve periodo si può far finta di non sapere la verità. È come trattenere il respiro. Ma alla fine bisogna riprendere aria. Più in profondità si seppellisce una bugia, più forte è la pressione quando esplode.

Non c'è niente di male nell'essere arrabbiato: nessuno te lo proibisce. Ma ti ci vuole una quantità tremenda di energia per continuare a fare finta di non esserlo.

At the world's end, a hero did not rise. So the people set out to make one.

Later, when people started telling the story, they always said that Pilot found the letter...but made no attempt to stop it. If it was true, then it was Pilot’s third mistake. It would be his last.

For much of the early medieval period, Christmas was often regarded as the opposition to Lent – a time of wild revelry before the restraint and piety that started on Ash Wednesday and ran until Easter.