Ash Wednesday Homily Preached at the Good Shepherd Lutheran Church On March 1st, 2017 Scripture: Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21 When I was a child I liked anything that gave me a tangible connection with what I learned in church and Sunday school. And I often recruited my poor brother to participate in my re-enactments. One favorite was Jesus’ miracle feeding of the multitudes from 5 small loaves and 2 fishes. I insisted that we feasted on solid, sad unleavened “loaves” I had made from flour and water, along with sardines from a can. We’d act out the story for our parents to watch. I was a religious child and didn’t shy away from public acts of piety. I participated in every Christian festival on offer, between my mom’s Methodist chapel and my dad’s Anglican church. Palm Sunday was a favorite, with the waving palm leaves and bringing home a pre-fabricated palm cross. When it came to Lent, my family always ate pancakes and syrup for dessert at dinner on Shrove Tuesday. Then my parents would fast: my mom from chocolate and my dad from wine. The money they saved was added to the collection in the “Lenten box” kept on our mantle. The money in the box went to the care of those suffering from leprosy in foreign lands. But there was a festival that remained quite mysterious to me. Ash Wednesday. The day came and went, without the appearance of any ashes. Nothing for me to see, nothing for me to feel, taste or smell. I had a vague notion that at some time, or in some places, ashes had been smudged on foreheads. But I never witnessed such a thing, much to my disappointment. Years later, I researched a paper for my liturgy professor in seminary. I discovered that the Anglican and Methodist churches in the England had only very recently introduced the practice of “ashing”. The Anglicans began in 1986 and the Methodists began in 1992. I felt cheated out of this tangible practice I would have loved so much. My seminary liturgy project included a design for an Ash Wednesday service, which I offered my pastor to use at my home church. He was willing to use it and asked me to participate in leading. I had included a number of Taizé chants in the service. So the Minister of Music and the choir had been recruited to lead some of the chants that were unfamiliar to the congregation. On Ash Wednesday evening, as the congregation gathered, I greeted a member of the choir. This man was usually very friendly, and often made jokes. I had not realized that he did not normally attend Ash Wednesday services. “If anyone tries to put ashes on me,” he said, “I’ll punch them!” I was shocked at his extreme reaction. But later, I realized that this attitude is not so unusual among Protestants. Many are deeply suspicious of rituals and sacraments … outward, visible signs of inward invisible truths. Later, I reflected with my liturgy professor on why this man had reacted so strongly. She suggested that perhaps the truth behind the Ash Wednesday ritual was the thing he was resisting. It is an uncomfortable truth to embrace, that we are mortal and that we will die. And perhaps, beyond that truth, even more uncomfortable is our complete dependence on God’s mercy and forgiveness through the cross of Christ. It’s not light-hearted stuff. In our gospel text for today, Jesus warns against outward, visible displays of fasting, prayer and giving donations. I sometimes wonder if this text, especially as we read it on Ash Wednesday, might fuel some protestant distaste for the ritual of imposition of ashes. After all, standing up at the front of church receiving an ash cross, and keeping that cross on your face all day for all to see, is quite a display. Six times, Jesus repeats the word “secret”. Give your gifts in secret, pray in secret, wash your face and fast in secret, so that you Father who sees in secret will reward you. Ash crosses are not exactly secret. We protestants have come up with a solution to dilemma though. We have our Ash Wednesday services in the evening. That way we can drive home in the dark and wash the crosses off our faces before anyone sees them the next day. But this morning, Pastor Alissa and I broke with that tradition, as we imposed ashes at the Wollaston T station. I wore my Ash Wednesday cross all day for the first time. I discovered that, in spite of my childhood attachment to acting out, sporting a smudgy cross all day is a little uncomfortable. You cannot joke around about that cross on your forehead, when it symbolizes death – your death – after all. To pick up a coffee, groceries, to stop by the post office, or the library to go to your place of work, or school, feels very difference when you know you have a cross displayed for all to see on your face. Usually I would remain anonymous in those situations. I’d avoid showing my faith for all to see, especially the more serious side of my faith. It feels strange to walk out in public with this sign saying that I am entering a period of penitence for my sins. I feel vulnerable, announcing to the world that I desire reconciliation with God, and I seek that reconciliation through the cross of Christ. That is somber, uncomfortable stuff. Some may react violently, or with embarrassment, to the notion that God offers this kind of grace. It’s not easy to talk about with the people that we meet. It’s easier to be known as the new woman preacher with a British accent at the congregational church, or as a lead soprano in the choir, or as a noted donor to a key charity, or as one who goes about doing good to the poor. These are the showy things of our religiosity. But, to wear the cross is to confess to our own inadequacy to save ourselves. And it is the sign that we are willing, even as we hurry home to wash it off, to accept God’s greatest gift: reconciliation with Godself. I still regret that I wasn’t offered the chance to participate in Ash Wednesday when I was a child. I know I would not have understood its significance. I would probably have shown off my cross for all to see, eager to be thought of as pious and holy. But I do believe that over time the gravity of the ritual would have sunk in. Each year, as the minister solemnly imposed the gritty, messy stuff on my forehead, their thumb would etch the symbol into my skin. It would be a symbol I would become uncomfortable with: that symbol of my death, and my need for Jesus’ reconciling death on the cross. And then it would be fine for me to go out in public. Remember, my friends in Christ, you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Don’t be surprised if this feels a little uncomfortable. Amen
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