Scripture can be found here and here…
Sometimes our lives of faith seem to send us mixed signals.
Take Ash Wednesday, for example. A few minutes ago Cathie read for us from the gospel of Matthew, the same passage that is appointed for Ash Wednesday every year. Its strong emphasis is, don’t flaunt your faith. Don’t stand in front of everybody virtue-signaling—letting them know how good and pious you are, because, if you do—well, your reward is that people noticed how good and pious you are, and that feeling, as we know, is fleeting. So, keep your faith quiet, Jesus says. Avoid ostentatious displays.
But in a minute I’m going to invite you all to come forward so that I can smudge some ashes in a cross on your head, a sign that could possibly have other people nodding to you in affirmation of your shared Ash-Wednesday values when you run to Price Chopper on your way home. Or, conversely, that sign could also prompt some other kind-hearted person to pull you aside in the Price Chopper to say, “You have some… schmutz on your head, here, have a Kleenex.” This day, this ashy tradition, is saying, Wear your faith on your forehead, please.
Mixed signals.
Lent as a whole can send us mixed signals. Traditionally, during Lent we are encouraged to take on some practices, called “disciplines.” I’ll name prayer, fasting and almsgiving as the “official” disciplines, but we also know that people both “give up” and “take on” things during Lent. While some find peace and a greater sense of connection with God in these disciplines, others may find them difficult, even damaging. One woman, a pastor, has written,
I remember giving up things for Lent to practice resisting temptation and feeling the weight of my sin like a cloak of guilt… At times in my life… this Lenten energy has become crushing, even to the point of self-hatred.[i]
If that’s what Lent does to us, then we have taken in some really harmful messages along the way. As Presbyterians we are people in the Reformed tradition. That’s a religious lineage that lifts up the writings of Saint Paul that affirm for us: the God of scripture, the God revealed in Jesus, present in us and with us in the Holy Spirit, is a God who loves us unapologetically and unreservedly. There is nothing we can do to earn this love; it is a gift, it is showered upon us, free of charge. It will all be alright, God reminds us, over and over. Come back to me, even now, with all that you are, and I promise—it will all be alright. This God does not want us to be crushed, by anything, let alone something that is supposed to do us good.
What about the Lenten disciplines, then? I always like to remind myself of the roots of a word in a moment like this: discipline comes from the word “disciple.” And a disciple is a “learner.” Someone who is learning, that’s all. So, I would ask this: Do our Lenten disciplines help us to learn anything, to grow in our faith? Do they deepen our sense of connection to God? If the answer to that is “no,” we need to find other disciplines, because the one thing, the central thing we need to learn, and re-learn, over and over, is that we are loved. We are God’s beloved children. Even the ashes remind us of that.
Ashes, for sure, are a symbol of death… the traditional words for imposing the ashes are, “Remember, O man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.” Sobering and true. But the ashes remind us of other things, as well. Because we’ve burned up palm branches to make them, they remind us how life can turn on a dime, how, in a handful of days, Jesus goes from being adored and admired to being strung up on a tree.
But another thing ashes remind us of is the very act of creation, by which God decided—on purpose!—to make us. God created us—fractious, cranky, often not-getting-it-right us—because God needs us. Not in the sense that God can't get along without us, but in the sense that God is so purely and essentially love, that God's love must have a direct object, a place to flow, a place to go. And that would seem to be us.
Let there be no mixed signals about this: God created us in order to love us. That's the truth behind the ashes. That truth holds whether we give up chocolate or wine or social media for Lent or whether we take on the whole world with our prayers; it holds if our discipline is to take 15 minutes to appreciate God’s creation or if it’s to read through a gospel or if it’s to do absolutely none of the above. God loves us, not because we are good or we are getting better or even that we are trying. God loves us because God is love. God’s love abides. We are God’s beloved dust.
So come.
Bring your whole self, all that you are,
in every messy and uncomfortable detail.
(God loves the messy, uncomfortable details.)
Because the truth moves us one step closer
to that abundant faith we are all longing for.
Take the ashes that are the sign of God’s unfathomable love for you,
Because we all need reminding, even here, even now.
Take the ashes and remember that you were created
so that you could be loved, that God’s love needed a place to go,
a place to flow, and that place is you.
And, for this season, commit to becoming a disciple—a learner—
whose entire curriculum can be summed up in three very little words,
with meaning that reaches beyond the stars: God is love.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
[i] Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman, “Theme reflections from the Sanctified Art creative team,” Sermon Guide, Full to the Brim, @asanctifiedart.