The Rev. Dr. Austin Leininger
Sermon of Ash Wednesday
14 February 2018
Readings:
Isaiah 58:1-12
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Psalm 103 or 103:8-14
Coming into this season of introspection, growth, and preparation, I was really struck by Isaiah’s words for today’s service.
The conversation between Isaiah and God is one in which God calls the fasts of the people hypocrisy. They fast, humble themselves, and pay lip service to wanting to know God’s ways, but their actions don’t match up. They complain to God, “we fast, but you do not see; we humble ourselves but you don’t notice!” God’s response calls attention to their injustice while they claim to seek to make things right with God. They oppress their workers, quarrel and fight with one another, and somehow think this will pass unnoticed while they put on ashes and sackcloth and an air of false humility.
God’s description of what a fast should be is an amazing testament to the ways the people ought to turn away from their current practices to embrace God’s desire with wholehearted humility, but they don’t. God’s fast is one in which injustice is challenged, the oppressed lifted up, the hungry fed, the homeless poor housed, the naked clothed, the needs of the afflicted satisfied, the infighting and finger pointing brought to an end, and one in which the “GLOOM” associated with fasting in the population becomes like the noonday—a beacon of light and hope to all people. If this were the fast observed by the people, God says, then God would guide them continually, satisfy their needs in parched places, and make their bones strong—essentially, if they were actually working to care for one another, God’s abundance would be so active in their lives and world that no one would be without. They would be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail; their ancient ruins rebuilt and they would rise up the foundations of many generations—as the repairers of the breach, the restorers of the streets to live in. Again, to put it plainly, their whole identity would be caught up in abundance, restoration, reconciliation, and wholeness.
This is Lent! A time for deeply examining our own identity as a people, as a community who similarly come together to draw near to and learn more about God as we worship and grow in our relationships of faith with one another and with God. And just as Isaiah called God’s children together to actually live as God’s children in their own time and place, we too are invited into a time of mutual flourishing with all those around us.
Our Psalm for today echoes with the praise of this same God who forgives, heals, satisfies, redeems, and crowns us with mercy and loving kindness; who is full of compassion and mercy, and who cares for us as a doting parent—even when we fail to live into our identity as God’s children; even when we can’t even claim that identity.
I had a strange experience at Clergy Conference last Wednesday. Week after week, I remind all those who come to this place that they are God’s children and that they are loved, no matter what. But for the first time in a long time, I heard those words echoed back to me by another clergy person who was addressing us and referring to us as God’s children. Quite unexpectedly, a little voice in the corner of my own mind said, “well, except you.” Surprised, I spoke with my new spiritual director, Amber, about the experience the next day (our first visit together), and just as surprising, I suddenly burst into tears because I had just given voice out loud to a deeply held fear that I didn’t even realize was still a part of me from my childhood. As much as I believe that God loves every one of us unconditionally, without hesitation, without expectation, and seeks for us passionately in relationship—as much as I’ve preached it, written about it, and talked about it in reference to everyone else in the world—there is still a part of me that was so shamed as a child who didn’t fit into the categories I was supposed to fit into that forty some years and three advanced degrees later there was still a part of me that was afraid that God couldn’t love me. In that moment, I couldn’t accept the identity of being a child of God; and it was a deeply revealing and healing experience to face that fear, to name it, to give it voice rather than continuing to tell it to stay quiet, and to work through it in affirming and reconciling conversation with someone who echoed back to me the unspoken words of my own hope—that I had also never heard out loud.
Identity is a tricky thing. Who we have become, both as individuals and as a community, is a process of formation that has taken our whole lives to build, and none of us has gotten where we are without at least a few scars.
Echoing both Isaiah and our Psalmist, Paul pleads with his beloved community in Corinth that they be reconciled to God and reminds them that God’s patience, love, and care stand as a constant invitation to them even when they have separated themselves from God’s love.
Working from the other side of the same theme as Paul, and from the same premise as Isaiah, Jesus says in today’s gospel, beware of practicing your faith only for the appearance of piety. What he is getting at is that faith isn’t something that is for show—it isn’t something to be taken lightly or abused for social capital. If we’re actually engaged in it, it goes deep to the core of our identity and to the core of our being.
We’re invited in this holy season to a time of introspection, to a time of going deep with our faith and to finding reconciliation with both ourselves and with God. [We’re invited to let down our guard, even if just for a brief season, to let our scars show, to find the safety in prayer or even with a trusted friend to allow ourselves to be vulnerable with God, to find healing, and to start down the path to wholeness.] As a community, we’re invited to think deeply about who we have become as a family and how we are in relationship that encourages us and those around us to practice our faith in a way that affirms the depth of God’s love in us and for us and all people. How do we help both ourselves and those who are too wounded to even enter into this place of prayer and community to listen with compassion to the silent fears and doubts that stand between us and claiming our identity as God’s children, to find reassurance and reconciliation, and to invite that part of us that has held back to join the party?
May this season of Lent be an invitation to find our identity as God’s beloved children, to try it on in the deepest core of our hearts, and to find the community love and support to actually be able to believe it. Again, I tell you, you are God’s children. You are loved with an eternal and passionate love that has no qualifiers. And no matter how long it takes for you to finally grasp the enormity of this gift, God will be there at the core of your being waiting for you to go deep enough to find it.
Blessed Lent to you.
Amen