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Sermon at The Church of
the Holy Apostles, New York City,
February 25, 2004,
Ash Wednesday, Year C
by The Reverend William A. Greenlaw, Ph.D.
Isaiah 58:1-12
Psalm 103
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
The starkness, the solemnity of this day is marked in part by
taking everything away from the usual beginnings of our service,
and moving straight from the collect of the day to Holy
Scripture. For on this day we first need to listen, to hear, to
digest. In keeping with this pattern, I want to say a word about
each of our lessons.
Our first lesson from Isaiah has
an eerie relevance to both our nation and its, that is to say,
our, priorities, and also to each one of us on an intense,
interior level. These levels are so intertwined, I think they
need to be dealt with simultaneously.
This lesson from the 58th
chapter of Isaiah is from the period of the restoration of Israel
after her exile. Have the people learned much from all they have
been through? It would seem not. The prophet is told by God to
“Shout out, do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet!
Announce to my people their rebellion, to the house of Jacob their
sins.”
And the prophet goes on to speak
of Israel almost sarcastically, as if it were a nation that
practiced righteousness—when plainly, it does not. The leaders of
the people, the educated class, practice fasting all right, but
they do not see with discernment. They put on humble airs, but
keep on tolerating injustice. Listen again to the prophet’s
words:
“Such fasting as you do today
will not make your voice heard on high. Is such the fast that I
choose, a day to humble oneself? Is it to bow down the head like
a bulrush, and to lie down in sackcloth and ashes? Will you call
this a fast, a day acceptable to the Lord? Is not this the
fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the
thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break
every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and
bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked,
to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?”
Going through the motions, being
in either literal or symbolic sackcloth and ashes—these things do
not cut it if they mask a heart that is not changed, not feeling
the truth of the prophet’s indictment. It is very well,
and I mean that sincerely, that we do the things we do in this
parish to minister to and to feed the hungry and the oppressed of
our society. But so long as our society continues to disengage
from the social ills of our time rather than seeing them as an
urgent national priority, we incur at least some of that prophetic
wrath. An outline of our public sins could and should go on and
on, but I think the point is obvious.
On this day, Isaiah suggests that
we discern, and then resolve to work toward letting the oppressed
go free, of eliminating hunger and homelessness, of working to end
these scourges of our land. And so much more.
If we do these things, then,
“your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing
shall spring up quickly… Then you shall call, and the Lord will
answer… …You shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of
water whose waters never fail… …You shall be called the repairer
of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.”
I certainly do not wish to assert that this day is
only about these hugely important issues of our time, for there is
clearly much more to this day. But what I do want to suggest is
that if we look at this day only narrowly in an individualistic or
“religious” sense only, we will have missed a great deal indeed.
That said, when we turn to Psalm
103, we are in a quite different world. On this solemn day of
penitence, our psalmist proclaims, “The Lord is full of compassion
and mercy, slow to anger and of great kindness. He will not
always accuse us, nor will he keep his anger forever.” Every
human being who turns to the Lord, who fears the Lord, is offered
hope and possibility and forgiveness. “For he himself knows
whereof we are made; he remembers that we are but dust.” Such an
amazing word is this, and so important for all of us to hear and
to know its truth.
Our epistle from Paul’s Second
Letter to the Corinthians is one of my favorite Pauline passages.
I say this because Paul here so brilliantly illuminates that
fundamental dialectical tension in which we are strung—where we
know and experience two very different, even contradictory
realities at the very same time. And their deepest truth
is known when we are open to living in their tension, not
imagining we can resolve them in this life: “We are treated as
imposters, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known;
as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed;
as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich;
as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”
Christians, sometimes even some
of us here, even clergy, can at times be simply insufferable, for
a whole host of reasons. We can be nothing less than imposters!
And yet, there is something true, of the truth, in
us—perhaps when we least expect it. We may feel a part of a vast
sea, or so isolated, or lonely that no one notices or cares—and
yet our Lord knows us intimately. At times, we feel we are on the
verge of losing it, literally or symbolically. And yet, here we
are, still singing God’s praises. We have all known our share, or
more than our share, of grief, and yet, again, here we are even
rejoicing. On one level we are literally, or at least
symbolically, poor—and yet at the very same time we are making
many rich, and we possess all that we could ask for or imagine.
As long as we are alive and
kicking, we need to acknowledge the tension in these truths about
our lives, for if we do, I believe we can’t help but feel God’s
presence in our lives, and hope filling our hearts no matter
what.
It is in our gospel lesson where
we find the most splendid paradox, particularly on this day—where
living into the tension is especially tricky. We are told
plainly: Give to others in secret. Pray in secret. Fast in
secret. In all these things, Jesus tells us that our Father, who
sees in secret, will reward us.
Now, just what is it we are doing
on this day? Well, to give in secret is hard when you come to
volunteer at the soup kitchen. And many of you are involved
directly in a host of other important works—where it is clear who
you are. And, consider, the soup kitchen is hardly anonymous, in
serving the hungry. On the contrary, we seek all the publicity we
can get—and for good reason! And this is that amazing day when,
in spite of our Lord’s injunction, all sorts of folks wander
around this city with ashes on their foreheads—and most of you
present will soon join that throng, even if it is at least
symbolically nearly the 11th hour. That sign on your
foreheads suggests that you have prayed—and not in secret! And
who knows, you might even be fasting.
As happens so often, I am helped
in this matter by our soup kitchen guests. My initial reaction to
the substantial numbers of soup kitchen guests seeking ashes was
to think, they don’t need them anywhere near as much as the rest
of us do, as I do. They already know what it’s like to be
close to the edge; they don’t need a symbol to remind them of
their mortality. Many of the rest of us do everything in our
power to stave that off. We are the ones who need to be
reminded of our mortality and frailty!
But then another powerful paradox
hit me. That symbol of mortality, ashes, quite miraculously
becomes a sign of grace and blessing—and it is one our guests
embrace with a disarming clarity and simplicity. It is God who
saves us. Really and truly. And that is finally what matters.
And God alone can do it. For those of us who are not so sure of
that, as revealed in how we live our lives most of the time, we
are the ones who should perhaps wash our faces, because we are
precisely in our own way those hypocrites of whom Jesus speaks.
The prayer said over the ashes
says it all. “You have created us out of the dust of the earth:
Grant that these ashes may be to us a sign of our mortality and
penitence, that we may remember that it is only by your gracious
gift that we are given everlasting life.”
So simple. And yet so hard. The
means of grace. And yet so difficult to accept. The Word of
life, if only we can say “yes.”
Through God’s grace and the
presence of the Holy Spirit, my prayer is that on this day we
might all resolve to keep a holy Lent—and thereby grow in our
faith.
If we can do that, then I believe
two lines toward the end of our Litany of Penitence can come to
life with new grace and power:
“Restore us, good Lord, and let
your anger depart from us;
Favorably hear us, for your mercy is great.
Accomplish in us the work
of your salvation.
That we may show forth your glory in the world.”
Amen.
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