Sermon for February 26, 2020 - Ash Wednesday - The Rev'd Jeffrey W. Mello

Isaiah 58:1-12; 2Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Mathew 6:1-6, 16-21

Someone once told me that they don’t come to church during Lent because, “Life was too lent-like already.”  

I hear some version of this just about every year.  Maybe not a complete absence from church for the season, but some expression that it would be just as well with them if we could skip from Epiphany to Easter.

The music is a little more solemn.  The prayers mention things like sin and repentance.  There’s lots of talk about discipline and giving things up that we like.

It all starts to meld into one giant ball of “bummer” or “downer”.  And who needs more of that in a world that seems to have a constant supply of bummer and downer at the ready?

This morning, Isaac and I stood outside on the Aspinwall steps offering ashes to any passerby that asked.  Some were from this church. Many were from other traditions, who feared they would miss ashes because of work or life.

You get lots of different looks standing outside, dressed in robes with ashes on your head.  You don’t always get to know what’s behind those looks. Lots of strained relationships with the church, I suspect.  

And a lot of suspicion why anyone would enter such a season as Lent willingly.

At the end of the time, I was by myself, thinking about how the mild weather of 7:00am had turned cold in my feet and hands.  

A car drove by and did a u-turn.  The passenger window rolled down and a woman in peer up at me.  “Oh thank God you’re here,” she said. “Oh thank God.”  

I reached my hand into the car to shake her hand and introduce myself to her.  She grabbed my hand with both of hers and brought my hand to her mouth, kissing it and crying.

Her son was the driver, now outside the car next to me.  Her husband in the backseat leaning forward, and mouthing, “thank you.”

Jane, as I’ll call her, was on her way to Dana Farber Cancer Institute for her weekly chemotherapy treatment.  

She’s had sarcoma in her legs for three years and can no longer walk.

I gave her ashes, the words getting stuck in my throat as I said them to this woman who has been facing her mortality for years. “Remember that you are dust,” I said, “and to dust you shall return.”

“Thank you.”  She said yet one more time, tears and a smile on her face.

“No,” I said. “Thank you.”

I let her know we would be praying for her, and that we were here, just two blocks away, should she need anything.

The window went up, and the car turned around, back down Aspinwall toward Dana Farber.

To lots of folks who drove, or walked, or ran by this morning, we looked foolish, perhaps quaint, and to some, unnecessarily focused on what is broken in us and in each other.

But to at least one woman, in the midst of a three-year Lent spent keenly aware of her physical broken-ness and mortality, ashes on the sidewalk was connection.  A strange priest offering ashes was connection. Ashes on her forehead was balm.  

And to this priest, this woman was Christ.  This woman was hope. This woman was courage, and this woman was peace.

In between ashes and chemo there was nothing “bummer” or “downer” about this encounter whatsoever.

And that’s what I hear in these readings.  I hear Paul writing not to the Corinthians, but to us.  I hear Paul reminding us that, to the outside world, following Jesus looks strange.  To the world, it looks like they are sorrowful, though they are rejoicing, that they are dying but they are alive, that they have nothing, but they possess everything.

To the world, Lent looks strange.  To the world, there is no sense in looking more closely at the things in our lives that separate us from the love of God because the world encourages us to ignore those things, cover those things up, or blur them out of our minds with things to consume, or to drink.

But that’s not what this season is about at all.  This season is a gift. This season of Lent is a chance to turn down the volume in our lives that masks God’s voice calling us back home, back to center, back to our belovedness.

This portion we hear from the Matthew’s Gospel is part of a long discourse from Jesus on how to be in a relationship with God.   Though we have cropped the reading to sound as though these are Jesus’ instructions for Ash Wednesday, they are really part of Jesus teaching his followers simply how to be with God. Here, Jesus teaches them how to be in conversation with God, how to talk and how to listen to God.  

The part we don’t read in the middle of this Gospel reading is where Jesus teaches them, and us, the words of the Lord’s prayer.

The whole thing is really just a long exhortation to his followers and to us to turn the volume down.  Don’t make it fancy. Don’t make it loud. Don’t try to make it perfect. Don’t feel like you need to do it the same way anyone else does.  

In the words of poet Mary Oliver,  “I know a lot of fancy words. I tear them from my heart and my tongue. Then I pray”

The point of the Lenten season, the reason we do all of the things that are associated with Lent -- the fasting, the praying, the almsgiving, all of it -- it isn’t to earn God’s favor. It isn’t to earn credit against previous bad behavior. It isn’t to feel bad for feeling bad’s sake.  It isn’t to suffer for suffering’s sake.  

It is only ever to see God in the midst of our lives and to be able to hear God speak to us, call us closer and whisper “I love you” in our hearts.

I invite us to approach lent like Jane, the woman in the car.  She does not need Lent to remind her that she is mortal, she already knew that.  Not to feel bad about herself, she doesn’t need that. It was, for her, a “time out” from the chaos of her life to encounter a moment of grace; to remind herself that no matter what her blood test shows today, she is God’s beloved child.

At least that’s what she taught me, though the world walking by would have known nothing about it.

“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It’s really good news.  It comes from Genesis where God is reminding humanity that we are a part of God’s creation.  We have come from God, and we will return to God, no matter what happens in between.  

Remember you are God’s, and to God you shall return.

If you don’t know that, if you can’t hear that, Lent is the season to wonder why not. Why don’t you know that?  Why can’t you hear that?

I invite you to do whatever it takes over the next 40 days to clear away the clutter in your life that competes for your attention.

Use this time to turn the volume down until the loudest voice in your heart is God’s.

Until you can hear God’s voice speaking peace. God’s voice speaking hope.  God’s voice speaking a love that promises to make you whole.

AMEN.

© 2020 The Reverend Jeffrey W. Mello