Ashes, Overreach, and Apparently… Chocolate Bark

Lent has begun, and yesterday's Ash Wednesday worship service was beautiful in the small chapel at Silverton.

There is something profoundly moving about watching people gently trace the sign of the cross on one another’s foreheads. Spouses marking spouses. Friends marking friends. Parents marking children. Relationships becoming something more tender than before. The words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” landing not as doom, but as belonging.

It’s holy. It’s vulnerable. It’s deeply human.

We talked about “the classic overreach” — that temptation to fix everything ourselves. That sneaky belief that if we just try harder, plan better, pray more impressively, or finally get our act together, then everything will be okay. We reflected on Jesus in the wilderness resisting the urge to shortcut discomfort. We even did a meaningful, quiet action together — writing down our “if onlys” and placing them at the foot of the cross.

It was thoughtful. It was grounding. It was very Lenten.

And yet.

The moment that got the strongest, most animated, borderline electric reaction?

• Not the theology.

• Not the wilderness.

• Not even the ritual with the ashes.

It was when I described the chocolate bark I had recently picked up at Trader Joe’s. Specifically: the dark chocolate with freeze dried raspberries and quinoa puffs. Friends, I have never seen heads lift so quickly in a service.

Apparently, nothing says “remember you are dust” quite like freeze-dried fruit and ancient grains suspended in ethically sourced cocoa.

To be clear, I mentioned it as an example of the kinds of things people give up for Lent. You know — chocolate, coffee, social media. A gentle illustration.

Instead, I accidentally delivered a product endorsement.

There were audible murmurs. Someone told me after worship they now needed to “pray about a Trader Joe’s run.”

Honestly? Fair.

There is something hilariously human about the fact that on a day when we stare our mortality in the face, the most enthusiastic response was to snack food. Dust we are… but apparently dust with refined taste.

And maybe that’s part of the grace.

Ash Wednesday holds the tension. We are finite. We are fragile. We are not God. And we are also people who delight in chocolate bark with raspberries and quinoa puffs.

We are complex like that.

So here’s to a holy Lent — one where we gently resist the urge to overreach, where we remember we are beloved dust, and where we maybe, just maybe, think carefully before describing Trader Joe’s seasonal items from the pulpit.

Grace and peace (and possibly chocolate).