We do not know what we are doing.

Part 1 of a Lenten journey through the last seven sayings of Jesus.

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Adam Scott is an actor best known for playing Ben Wyatt in Parks and Recreation. But years before he found fame as the straightlaced financial auditor in NBC’s long-running comedy, he made an appearance on the popular ‘90s sitcom, Boy Meets World.

Recently, he was invited onto a podcast to reminisce with some of the cast regulars. But the ensuing discussion was not the nostalgic walk down memory lane the podcast producers expected. Instead, Scott took the opportunity to confront one of the show’s stars, Rider Strong, about a “horrifying” experience that had been “tugging at me for 29 years.”

According to Scott, Rider had left him feeling embarrassed after an abrupt encounter on set. Interestingly, however, although the incident had a lasting impact on Scott, Rider had absolutely no memory of it. To one it was the source of years of unresolved anxiety, to the other a complete non-event.

This is a trivial illustration, I know. (And it betrays the fact that even this attention seekers falls prey to the odd clickbait…) But this bit of celebrity tattle illustrates something more profound that occurred to me as I contemplated the first of Jesus’ sayings from the cross:

“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34 NIV).

Normally, I encounter these words through the lens of Good Friday, which as you might expect prompts theological rumination on the theology of the cross, the compassion of Christ, and his corresponding call for us to pray for our enemies. 

But this year, Christ’s prayer of forgiveness meets me on Ash Wednesday. And on this day, when we confess that we are dust, I find my thoughts have taken a more introspective turn.

Do I know the harm that I do?

I know that I have done harm to others, that’s for sure. But do I know the extent of the harm? Perhaps I have been the cause of some lingering hurt with behaviour I have too quickly forgotten. Perhaps thoughtless words have slipped too easily from my lips, only to take up residence like an uninvited guest in the heart of another. 

It seems to me that Ash Wednesday is a day to ponder such possibilities. It is on this day, after all, that we are encouraged to confess our humanity, to acknowledge that we are frail and all too fallible. From dust we are, and to dust we shall return. This is a day when we confess our trespasses, admitting all the while that we trespass much farther than we know.

That’s why, Presbyterian as I am, I find myself drawn again to the “General Confession” in the Book of Common Prayer:

We have left undone those things which we ought to have done;
And we have done those things which we ought not have done;
And there is no health in us.

The call to confess the things we have not done is a reminder of my impaired vision. I do not know what I do. And I do not know what I don’t do, either. (If that doesn’t sound too Donald Rumsfeld).

And I confess this knowing that it is true for us all. When it comes to appraising the impact of our behaviour, it seems we all peer through ash darkly.

That’s why we need to accept Ash Wednesday’s invitation to adopt a posture of deep humility. We need to cultivate a holy introspection, asking God to help us be attentive to ourselves and how what we do impacts the lives of others, including (perhaps especially) the lives of our enemies. We need to mouth along with the psalmist, Search me, O God, and know my heart … See if there is any wicked way in me. 

In other words, on this Ash Wednesday, we need to appropriate the words of our Lord for ourselves: “Father, forgive us, for we do not know what we do.”