The Cross on my Forehead
The pancakes, pączki, and pierogis still linger on my tastebuds as I walk the aisle toward the altar for the imposition of ashes. The richness of those foods recalls times of plenty—times of excess—times when I chased the wants of life instead of resting in the sufficiency of the needs God provides.
As I draw closer, my mind races backward, replaying moments of sin—not just the small, everyday failings, but the painful words and deeds that wound others, sever relationships, and fall into the category of, “What I wouldn’t give to undo that.” The sheer weight of these memories presses hard on my heart, almost enough to make me turn away from the altar, feeling unworthy even to approach.
Yet I stand before the pastor and watch as he dips his finger into the dark mixture of ashes and oil. He lifts his hand, traces a cross on my forehead, and speaks the ancient words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
I return to my seat, the ashes reminding me that I am dust—each passing year drawing me closer to the day when I will return to the earth. I drift into my thoughts, unaware of the people around me.
Then, cutting through the darkness, comes the proclamation: “As a called and ordained servant of the Word, I announce the grace of God to all of you. In the stead and by the command of our Lord Jesus Christ, I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
My heart lifts. Those hidden, heavy sins—every one of them—are forgiven, paid for, atoned for through the suffering and death of Jesus.
I leave the church with the cross still etched on my forehead—not as a display of spirituality, not as a badge of honor, not as a show for others—but as a reminder that I am a sinner deserving nothing but eternal death and damnation. I am made of dust, and all my deeds are the deeds of dust—forgotten, fragile, easily trampled underfoot.
I wear the cross because there was One who was sinless, who took my dusty life into His own and suffered even unto death.
I wear the cross because the cross was not the end. Jesus walked out of the grave, giving me eternal life.
Yes, I will return to dust—but that dust will be refashioned into a sinless, glorious, perfect, eternal body that will live forever with Christ.
I wear the cross because my friends and family who died in Christ—though dust now—will also live eternally.
The cross on my forehead will fade, but the cross of Christ never will. When I look in the mirror, I will always see a faint reminder of that black, sticky cross pointing me toward the eternal glory to come.
I praise and thank God for His cross.
Rich Cohrs
