Miserere Mei, Deus {Have Mercy on Me, O God}

 

I remember exactly where I first heard the piercing note at the 2:00 minute mark in the above song. Surrounded by chilly stone and tile, and later by rich warm wood and angels overhead. That first moment I was just outside the chapel, overhearing the New College Choir practise for Ash Wednesday evensong.

The piece was even more stunning when I was sitting in the pew a few hours later and those notes rang out from every stone and surface, as if the angels high above were giving voice to the Creator. . .

. . .Let me explain that when I say there were angels overhead, I mean there were really angels above me.

Ever since that day, I love to listen to the haunting Miserere Mei, Deus on Ash Wednesday (and throughout Lent). Though I had been attending an Anglican church for a while before spending four months in Oxford, I don't think I knew then that Psalm 51 was specifically associated with Ash Wednesday. 

Have mercy on me, O God,

    according to Your steadfast love;

according to Your abundant mercy

    blot out my transgressions.

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,

    and cleanse me from my sin!

For I know my transgressions,

    and my sin is ever before me.

Against You, You only, have I sinned

    and done what is evil in Your sight

. . . 

Behold, You delight in truth in the inward being,

    and You teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;

    wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

. . .

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

    and renew a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from Your presence,

    and take not Your Holy Spirit from me.

(Psalm 51.1-4a, 6-7, 10-11 ESV UK)

This Ash Wednesday has been grey with great white flakes of snow sifting o'er the valley like powdered sugar. They came more and more rapidly, until a fluffy almost-four-inches of snow crunched underfoot and buried the roads. My sweet boyfriend offered to come pick me up for evensong in his four-wheel-drive truck, but it was not to be. After quite a harrowing afternoon that ended with his work truck being towed, we both decided that staying home was best. 

In the gathering dusk I put the kettle on, lit three candles, and streamed our Ash Wednesday service. I even crushed my blackened match so I could join in the receiving the sign of death on my forehead whilst saying, "Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return." And though I couldn't receive the physical Eucharist with the congregation, I prayed the Prayer of Spiritual Communion, receiving the sign of death that leads to Eternal Life. 

It was not the way I would prefer to step into Lent—separated from my physical church family—but there was still a sacred space, a sacred time that I was able to step into, perhaps in a deeper way than if I had been physically present with other believers. Still, I look forward to gathering in person as we continue this Lenten journey.

I also look forward to removing some noise in my life (the car radio, shows, certain foods) in order to listen to the call of the Father. I can only say I sense that He is moving, that He wants to speak something to me that I have not had the quiet or space to hear before this season. So I ask for an open, hearing, obedient heart. I ask for eyes to see. And I give thanks for all the ways I have experienced His kindness today—from beautiful, much-needed snow and Nick's safety, to the quiet darkness, lit by a trio of beeswax candles and warmed by a mug of tea. 

O Lord our God, grant us grace 

to desire You with our whole heart,
that desiring You we may seek You;

and that seeking You we may find You,
and that finding You we may love You;
and loving You we may hate those sins
from which You have redeemed us;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

—St Anselm