Go out in life...

I know what I was supposed to say.  Because when the church calendar announces that it's Ash Wednesday, we all hop to.  We talk about sin and mortality and being made clean.  We say that we're going to sit in somber sobriety for the next six weeks, and that nary an "alleluia!" will cross our lips.  I mean, it's the least we can do... you know, since Jesus died for us.  The least we can do is do a little dying ourselves.

I have to admit I've struggled with Lent the last few years.  Last year, I said the right words.  I purely wept as I marked my congregation with ashes.  And then I wrote this manifesto.  This year, my brain and heart had a mutiny. The more I sat down and tried to write the words, the less I found that anything at all would come out.  I had a pretty little temper tantrum in my office.  Because no matter what the church calendar said, the words from Ecclesiastes rattled around in my head "To everything there is a season."  And while we might be out of sync with the rest of the church, I realized that we are not in a season where it is right our good for us to mourn or weep or ponder our brokenness too deeply.  We've had a tough year, and we're not out of the desert yet.  We're in a season where our words will be "Behold, I'm doing a new thing.  The former things will not be remembered." And our words will be "Do not be afraid."

So I forewent the usual Psalm 51, and anything else that smacked of what I was "supposed" to say.  And instead I lifted up for them Isaiah 61.  Before they came for ashes, I told them that I was marking them as a sign of life, not as a sign of death. As a sign of love, not one of condemnation.  And then as each lifted their forhead to me, I said the ancient words, but with something else.  "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  But go out in life."  Our eyes met, and every single one had the same response.  A weight lifted-- visibly.  And then a smile, mine then theirs.  Theirs then mine.  And before it was all over, we all smiled.

As the service came to a close, I said this. "Your bulletin says you should go out in silence, but for the  LOVE of God, please don't do that.  Please go out telling the good news, dancing for joy, and singing the loudest song of thanksgiving you know."

I realized what I should've added was "After all, what good is a Christian who has no alleluia to offer the world?"

It was a holy night.  A night when we traded our ashes of mourning and grief and anxiety and questions for a garland of beauty. A night when we together remembered what it is to be loved, and reclaimed our calling as people meant to shine.





Here's my Ash Wednesday meditation for those that have asked.

It’s not like Lent exactly snuck up on me.  I’ve had a year-ish, for pete’s sake.  But my brain isn’t ready for Lent-- and I think it’s having a mutiny.  Not in a forgetful way, but in a refusal to write the words way. Because what I’m supposed to say tonight is “Remember that you are mortal.  That you are broken and sinful.  That your body will die and it will be returned to the ground, Ashes to Ashes dust to dust.  That you should spent the next six weeks in somber reflection of that fact. That you should not say Alleluia, that we should not have flowers in the sanctuary.”  That’s what I’m supposed to say.

But every time I start to write it, I find that I am unable. And the more I pray about making those words come out of my mouth, and the less they still come out, I’m wondering if those are really the words I’m really supposed to say, or if they’re just words tradition says I’m supposed to say. Because every time I start to pray the Ash Wednesday words, the words that spring to my head are “Behold, I am doing a new thing.”  Maybe that’s the ashes part.  Because ashes are the most fertile thing for life.  A few years ago, when I worked at the children’s home, one of our children (out of anger) burned down one of the cottages.  But before we had gotten the building razed, there were flowers that started springing up. Beautiful, bold, alive flowers... right there in the place of burned decay.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

And as I look out (and as I thought about each of you tonight), I know that you’ve stood in Ashes more than you should.  I know that you’re worried and anxious and grieving and remembering simpler times. 

We’re like this teapot.  Everytime I walk by it, I remind myself to polish it.  And I tell myself that who ever made that teapot wouldn’t be so thrilled to see it that way.  Heartbroken maybe. Because I’d guess that teapot was meant to be a lovely piece, that was tea between friends, that was a cup of warmth at a holiday gathering, that was the mark of true and genuine hospitality.  But since that tea pot came to my house, that’s not been it’s life.  It sits there on a lonely shelf, neglected in a room that I rarely enter anymore.  It’s badly tarnished.  It’s a tragic thing I think when something of beauty isn’t beautiful anymore.  This teapot was meant to shine.

I think maybe we get tarnished too-- though it isn’t so obvious as my poor teapot.  But don’t we get tarnished when we’re weighed down by worry and concern? Don’t we get tarnished when we’ve lost the notion that the gospel is the Good News promise of amazing love? Don’t we get tarnished when we keep it to ourselves? 

So, the more I think about it, the less I’m willing to tell you to spend the next six weeks thinking about your sin, and focusing on what you’ve done wrong. I’m unwilling to tell you that it’s proper to give up things in the name of Jesus.  Because the truth is that Jesus died for you, but he died so that you might have life and have it more abundantly than you’ve ever known.  Jesus did not die so that you or the church could sit in the ashes.  Jesus died so that you might know grace, because the problem of being a human being is that we’re all broken and incapable of getting it right.  So why would we talk about sin, except so that we can talk about grace?

Here’s my proposition for you for Lent.  If you’re really feeling called to give up something, do.  If you’re really called to take on acts of service, do. That’s fine and good. But I’d like to invite you into a very different spiritual discipline for the next six weeks.  Warning: it may not be any easier than giving things up. It will require discipline.  My invitation to you is to spend the next six weeks shining.

Whatever it is that is tarnishing you, let it go.  Let it go, let it go, let it go. And instead, shine. We shine when we are joyful from the inside out, shine when our trust is unshakable because of the one it is in whom we trust. We shine when we love, even when it is hard or inconvenient.  We shine when we tell the story.  We shine when we invite people in-- meeting them where they are, not where we want them to be. 

So.  Shine.  This (hold up cup) is who you are meant to be.

These are the words I leave you with: 

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,    because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,    to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,    and release to the prisoners;

2 

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,    and the day of vengeance of our God;    to comfort all who mourn;

3 

to provide for those who mourn in Zion—    to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,    the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,    the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.

4 

They shall build up the ancient ruins,    they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,    the devastations of many generations.

I will greatly rejoice in the Lord,

    my whole being shall exult in my God;
for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation,    he has covered me with the robe of righteousness,
as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland,    and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.

11 

For as the earth brings forth its shoots,    and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up,
so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise    to spring up before all the nations.

Pancakes and Ashes

We had a great turnout for Shrove Tuesday Pancakes.  We always have a great turnout, because we Presbyterians firmly believe that "If you feed them, they will come."  And God knows, we all want to be fed.

But Ashes just aren't as much fun as pancakes. Who wants to think about sin and mortality.  Even syrupy sweetness can't make that palatable. Still, a few will come.  Maybe they come because they want to support the preacher.  Or maybe because the doors are open, and they feel like they should be there.  Or maybe because it's strange and different, or because it's a statement of who you are to wear a cross on your forehead.  Or maybe because they want what's real--even knowing that Ashes aren't nearly as much fun as pancakes.

I always want to make a "no ashes, no pancakes" rule, or ask faithful pancake seekers to promise to show up for ashes too.  I want people to realize that the journey to the cross is hard, and that it isn't paved with pancakes.  But of course, I don't say that.  Because, every year, as I wear my "St Pious--keeper of all things" hat, I realize that I'm not a saint, nor am I pious, nor should I be the keeper of all things.   And so every year, I have this fight with myself. Apparently, at least on some small level, I value works--even though I preach grace.

But Christ takes me anyway.  And just as I take off my Tuesday Jester's hat, and put on my Wednesday robe, I remember the words I will say.  "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  Repent and believe the good news."  And I have to repent and believe the good news that God didn't come for just the ones who show up every time the doors are open.  I have to believe that Christ didn't come just for the ones who are brave enough to receive ashes on their foreheads, but just as much for the ones who are too scared to think about their lives that way.

"My grace is sufficient" are the words that never fail to echo in my ears. Sufficient for pancake eaters, for ash wearers, even for pastors who forget, and would like to make rules about how to be holy.

Beauty for Ashes

3.9.11

Ash Wednesday

“Remember, o mortal, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” What haunting words those are.  I remember the look in my dad’s eyes every year as he would trace the sign of the cross during our church’s Ash Wednesday sermon.  I remember that his hands would shake and tears would fill his eyes.  And I remember the first year that I was a minister, and I made the same sign on my new husband’s forehead, my own eyes filling with tears.  And this year, I’ve said the ancient liturgy, “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust” as I’ve commended a dear friend into the hands of God.  They are haunting words. The words are not easily said.  They do not tumble joyfully out of our mouths as do other things that we say.  No, they become thick and syrupy, and force the speaker to think very carefully about what he or she is saying.

 

And they are words that no one wants to hear.  After all, who of us cares to be reminded that our days are finite-- that there will come a day when air will no longer fill our lungs, and our spirits will again be joined with the Creator.

 

These words stand in opposition to what our culture would have us hear.  Every year, we as a nation, spend more money than is imaginable to keep ourselves from aging. I’ve laughed at my Dad the last few years as he keeps saying “I’m a 25 year old, trapped in a 62 year old body...that’s a dirty trick!” He is not, nor are mom and I, interested in thinking that his body is growing older, and that he is just not able to do all the things he once was.  The world around us says “You’re only as young as you think you are.” But God says to us, “The days that you are alive in this earthly realm are numbered, but from start to finish, that is in my hands.”

 

Oh yes, the ashes remind us that our days are finite.  And the other reason we mark ourselves with ashes is no better.  After all, who cares to be reminded that in addition to being creatures with a limited lifespan, that we’re also tremendously sinful creatures.  Yes, I know...I’m just filled with good news tonight.

 

And I know, maybe from personal experience, that it’s quite easy to convince ourselves that our sins aren’t that big.  Most  of us work rather hard at keeping the Big Ten, at least.  And because  we don’t murder and steal or take God’s name in vain, we figure we’re doing alright.  Oh, we know we’re not perfect, but we reason to ourselves that we’re probably good enough.  At least we’re not as bad as some people.  And besides, surely we get some heavenly brownie points for the fact that we come to church, and offer of our time, talents, and treasure.  We seem to have the same attitude as the country song, “Everybody wants to go to heaven”, which says this:

Said preacher maybe you didn’t see me
Throw an extra twenty in the plate
There’s one for everything I did last night
And one to get me through today
Here’s a ten to help you remember
Next time you got the good Lord’s ear

 

Well, of course, that’s silly when put like that.  We know we don’t buy our way into God’s good graces--at least not literally.  But it is awfully easy to think that God might put a checkmark next to our name every time we love our neighbor or warm the pew or refrain from saying something we shouldn’t.  Tonight, our pews are thin-- this isn’t a popular service because we really don’t want to be reminded of our failings, or be forced to take our sin as seriously as God takes it.

 

When I get a few free dollars in my pocket, one of my favorite things to do is go to an antique store and find pieces of sterling silver for not too much.  I’ve found lots of great pieces this way-- pie servers to tea sets to serving bowls--and they are usually quite inexpensive.  I asked one of the dealers why that was, and she said “because it’s a different world.  No body either wants to or has the time to bother with polishing silver. People would rather have something that doesn’t require so much care.”  Well, of course, upon hearing that, I determined that I would break that pattern.  I’d buy silver or receive it as gifts and I’d keep it polished.

 

Every time I’ve walked by some of my favorite pieces in the last month or so (which have been really busy), I’ve thought “Gosh I need to polish that.” And then I will remind myself that it won’t get much worse in a day or two, so I put it off until a day when I have a little more time.

 

But of course, it all starts adding up-- and pretty soon, the silver pieces that I love so much are this ugly color.  And what if the maker of my silver pieces, the ones who lovingly and gently fashioned them, saw how I was taking care of them?  They’d be horrified, because that’s just not what the pieces were created to be.  They were created to be beautiful and shiny, to bear witness to good craftsmanship.

 

As I was noticing how tarnished my pieces were becoming, it dawned on me that that’s how sin works.  Even our little sins that we think don’t matter too much start adding up-- and pretty soon our hearts are terribly tarnished.  Pretty soon we’ve gotten so far away from God’s will, and we haven’t even seen it. Wouldn’t it be awful to realize that our hearts, like silver, some times require more work than we’d really like to put in?

 

And so we gather here tonight, not sure that we want to hear it, but knowing deep down that we’ve lost sight of Christ’s call to us, and that we’re every bit as tarnished as my poor tea set here. Tonight, we will be marked with ashes, and remember the ways that we miss the mark.

 

There have been years when I’ve thought that the Ashes on our foreheads were a sign and reminder of our sinfulness, but that’s actually not entirely correct.  We wear ashes as a sign and reminder of our willingness to repent.  The tradition of ashes even shows up in the Bible-- several times we read that Job sat down in ashes and repented. Even the gospels mention the idea. We allow ourselves to be marked with the ashes because we want to do better, because we again want to draw close to Jesus, because we want the world to know that we are a new creation, and that sin will not get the last word in our lives.

 

So my invitation to you during this six weeks before Easter isn’t about giving up things.  It’s not even about adding things to an already busy calendar, but if you’re feeling so called, please do those things.  But my invitation to you right now is to make a conscientious effort to shine.

 

“How’s that?”, you say.  Shine by coming clean before God-- own up to your sinful ways.  Recognize that you want something better, and ask God to show you how. Work really hard at being Christ-like, even when it’s downright inconvenient. Let Christ’s light shine through you, because when that happens, that smudge of ash on your forehead means not that you are sinful, but that you don’t want to be tarnished anymore.

 

Don’t shine to impress people, or because you think you might get a checkmark by your name in heaven’s roll books, but shine because this [hold up candelabra] is who you were created to be.

 

Charge: There’s a verse in Isaiah that says this, “The Lord has anointed me to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.” As God has again made us clean, we have been given beauty for Ashes.  Our only job is to shine, to be the people we were created to be.

 

Hold On

The church still smells of last night’s feast-- of bacon grease and pancake mix.  It hasn’t yet been replaced by the holy smell of an old church. The tacky green and yellow and purple jester’s hat that I wore still sits on my desk, ready to be retired for another year, but it’s not done with me yet. “Remember”, it says to me.   The sounds of the party have not yet left the building, still echoing the noise of laughter and fellowship and community.  Usually the church is silent throughout the week, save for the occasional creak or grown of a building that’s seen so many years. The colors have not yet been changed in the sanctuary-- if you were to walk in, you might convince yourself that we were still shining in the light of Epiphany, instead of starting to trudge toward the cross of death.  The ashes have not yet been made ready, maybe because I’m not ready.

What a jarring thought to realize that on this holy and somber day, the church still bears witness to the party we had last night. It’s like the church is holding on, not yet ready to let go.  “Don’t you know it’s over?” I started to ask the church, but of course it doesn’t know. I wanted the church to feel somber and reflective, so that maybe I would too.  But the church still seems to want to celebrate, and maybe I do too.

Quickly, though, the preparations will be made, the smells and sounds will fade, and the church will shift from a season of light to a season of dark. The party can’t last forever.

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” are the words I will weep to say over loved ones tonight, but I’d really much rather say “Remember that there was life and fellowship and joy--even in this place.”

The church doesn’t know the party’s over and I, for one, don’t plan to tell it.

Little church, hold on for me.  In the dark and quiet days of Lent, I might just forget.  Hold on, because it’s good and pure and holy, because though we pack away our Alleluia’s, they are not lost to us. Hold on to the celebration, beloved church, because we yet have much to celebrate.

 

KLJ, 2011