Sermon for February 17, 2021 - Ash Wednesday - The Rev. Elise A. Feyerherm

Isaiah 58:1-12; Psalm 103 or 103:8-14; 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6,16-21

The name for the season we are about to enter – Lent – comes from the Old English word lencten, meaning “spring season.” It is the time of year in the northern hemisphere when the days begin to lengthen, the daylight strengthens, and we look for signs of new growth in the natural world.

We would be forgiven, this year, if for us the idea of “lengthening” seems just too much to bear. For we have been in an entire year, not just a season, of lengthening – it’s felt not just long, but interminable. We have had to adjust our expectations and hopes to keep in our sights a constantly moving target. The far-off goals of normal life, without masks, without social distancing, without the loneliness and constriction of our days, keep receding into the distance, even with a vaccine to fight the coronavirus in our midst.

A colleague of mine who teaches at Virginia Theological Seminary gave voice to this in an essay he wrote a few weeks ago. He has been hearing many say, do we really have to do Lent this year? Haven’t we been in an entire year of lengthening Lent, of self-denial, of facing our own sin, of being surrounded by sickness and death? Can’t we just skip Lent?

If Lent were primarily about making life difficult for ourselves, about self-flagellation, about suffering, then I would be the first to say, let’s skip it this year. We have had enough suffering. But Lent is not, and has never been, about punishing ourselves. It is about training ourselves to face sin and suffering and death, without flinching, and with God’s grace, opening ourselves instead to the work of health, joy, and life.

The Shaker vision offered in the hymn, Simple Gifts, is one of the clearest pictures of the goal of Lent that I can imagine.

’Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,

’tis the gift to come down where we ought to be.

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

’twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,

to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed.

To turn, turn, will be our delight,

till by turning, turning, we come ’round right.

Dancing, as we know, doesn’t just happen – it requires practice. The practices of Lent – prayer, fasting, and almsgiving – stretch and strengthen spiritual muscles so that we can be more fully open to God’s grace. More fully open to the gift. This year, we need that not less but more than ever.

Like dancing, health and vigor, whether physical or spiritual, are not easily won. As weary as we may be of thinking about the global pandemic that has held us in its grip for the past year, fighting a virus may still be the most apt metaphor we have for what we are about to undertake this Lent. When we are in the throes of a disease, one that can spread from person to person and that brings not only suffering but death, we would like nothing better than to ignore it and hope it will go away. Many have tried to do just that, which is why we are where we are right now.

Like some aspects of Lent, the remedies for contagion and illness can be uncomfortable, even painful. We are separated from those we love. We wait in long lines. Our lives feel constricted. We are in strange and alien territory. In and of themselves these are painful experiences. And we cannot easily track our progress toward the goals of health and freedom and joy. We can only trudge along. Small, painful steps, with no vision yet of the end result. Not seeing immediate results is one of the hardest things for us.

Vaccines also work under concealment – Though we believe, we know from scientific studies that they are effective, they do the work of protecting us out of sight, deep in the hidden recesses of our cells. Quietly, they train our bodies to recognize danger and to respond. And this is key: in the process of training our bodies, there is still discomfort. The second vaccine, we are told – and some of you may know firsthand – can trigger a significant immune response. It can feel a lot like actually being sick. So why go through that? Might the remedy be worse than the disease itself?

Lent is, in a sense, our vaccine. The aim is not to inflict pain, although that can sometimes happen. The intention is to train our spiritual immune system to recognize what has the potential to cause us harm – to recognize the sins that hide in ourselves and in our systems. Of course, recognizing what harms us is not enough – the immune system has to respond, to attack the disease of sin. And as we’ve seen in scripture and in our world, sin will not go quietly. It hollers on the way out, with its fevers and chills and aches and pains. It loves to make us wonder if it wouldn’t be better to let it stay.

Our Lenten vaccine is this: prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. It has ever been thus. But every year the booster needs to look a little different, because our year has been different. The sin virus mutates constantly, attempting to slip away and multiply.

What is the mutation of sin you are facing this year? For me, it manifests in almost constant irritation, the tendency to lash out at those to whom I am closest. It is a product of exhaustion, yes, but also of a stubborn refusal to ask God or anyone else for help. I can do this all by myself, thank you very much. Whether you try to help me or leave me alone, I will judge you. That is one of the mutations of sin I am facing this Lent.

So what might be my spiritual vaccine? Perhaps it will be as simple as allowing – no, making –  myself sit daily and bask in God’s love. Silence, scripture, music, breathing deeply – all of it will help my spirit know how to respond when the virus of irritation and spite comes calling. I may just hate it – it may just provoke a whopper of an immune response. And, that is what it is going to take to make a way for God to transform me. To save me.

The lengthening of Lent, the opening to longer days and sprouting seeds of love, is needed not less, but more than ever this year. As tempting as it is – as tempting as it always is – I’d better not skip it. I’m always in need of more life, more grace, more joy, especially when I’m more likely to push it away. I’m always in need of learning, as the hymn says, to dance with God.

During certain seasons we can just abandon ourselves to the dance without worry, and sometimes, as in the season of Lent, we have to focus on the hard training that forms the foundation for our freedom. Sometimes, we can walk freely in the world with no mask and no distance between us. And sometimes, for the sake of the future, we accept and lean into the uncomfortable but necessary effects of being inoculated against an even worse malady.

We are invited once again on this journey, trusting that it will lead us, as it always does, to the valley of love and delight.

Let us pray:

O God the great physician of our deepest selves, you look upon our weakness and weariness with compassion and mercy. Hold and steady us as we open ourselves to the hard remedy for our sins.

Make our bones strong. Do not let us hide from the healing work of Lent, and bring us to the Easter valley of love and delight. To you we give glory, for you live and reign with Christ and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.