Monday, Tuesday & Wednesday in Holy Week - March 25-27

From the prologue to Cyril of Jerusalem's Catechetical lectures to new converts who would be baptized at Easter (language modified and updated slightly):

Already there is an aroma of blessedness upon you, O you who are soon to be enlightened: already you are gathering the spiritual flowers, to weave heavenly crowns: already the fragrance of the Holy Spirit has breathed upon you: already you have gathered round the vestibule of the King’s palace; may you be led in also by the King! For blossoms now have appeared upon the trees; may the fruit also be found perfect! Thus far there has been an inscription of your names, and a call to service, and torches of the bridal train, and a longing for heavenly citizenship, and a good purpose, and hope attendant thereon. For he does not lie who said, that to them that love God all things work together for good. God is lavish in beneficence, yet He waits for each person’s genuine will: therefore the Apostle added and said, to them that are called according to a purpose. The honesty of purpose makes you called: for if your body be here but not your mind, it profits you nothing.

Palm Sunday - March 24

Palm Sunday: The Sunday of the Passion

Our worship together today began with a commemoration of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. We cried “Hosanna!” Even the stones cried out welcome. The voices of children made sweet hosanna ring. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. It’s a wonderful celebration, full of enthusiasm and joy, eager shouts of welcome as Jesus arrives.

I sometimes wonder about the people who came out to welcome Jesus back then, to cheer along his way. Who were they? Why did they come to lay their cloaks along the road and wave leafy branches as they cheered?

Probably some of them had been with him along the way, his disciples. And for them to see this teacher, healer, prophet, Messiah… ride into the great holy city of Jerusalem was very exciting, a great triumph.

Maybe some of those cheered hoped that Jesus would bring political change, freedom from the Roman oppressors. Not so much in Luke, but in other Gospel accounts Jesus is identified as King David’s heir as he enters Jerusalem.

Undoubtedly many were just curious. Who is this guy? What’s the fuss? A parade is always fun.

Then, once Jesus had passed and gone on his way, what did all of those people do? Did they just go back about their lives? They had been a part of the great excitement of Jesus’ arrival. They had cheered in welcome. But what would happen next?

There must have been expectancy but uncertainty. What were the next days like? Many had welcomed him, but they had all sorts of different expectations of him.

Some people certainly stayed with him, wanting to be near his presence. I imagine some went home, thinking their part in the story was done… We’ve cheered in welcome, now we’ll wait and see he does. Actually, I expect a lot of people went home after the parade, sparing only a passing thought towards Jesus over the next few days. Wondering what would be the result, the consequences of his coming? Would it mean anything to them?

He had been triumphantly welcomed. But what would be the consequence of his coming to Jerusalem?

Of course, the direct consequence of Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem was his crucifixion. Probably not what anyone back then expected. The direct consequence of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem was his crucifixion.

This odd holy day that we call Palm Sunday – colon – The Sunday of the Passion commemorates both the jubilant welcome and the consequence of Jesus’ arrival in the holy city Jerusalem. The triumphal entry and the crucifixion.

And we who live in this day and time live our whole lives in the midst of both the joyful welcome and the crucifixion. We cry hosanna, but we also know what the consequence of Jesus’ arrival is. And we also know that the triumphal entry and the crucifixion are linked; they are inseparable. We are the link.

Today’s liturgy reminds us that our voices are both the voices that joyfully welcome Jesus and the voices that cry for his crucifixion. In many of the dramatic readings of the Passion Gospel the congregation takes the part where the people cry for Jesus’ crucifixion. And our voices sang hosanna.

Essentially we say to Jesus: Welcome, Jesus. In triumphant joy, I say welcome. But in a few days, I am going to crucify you. We cannot welcome him without acknowledging our participation in his death. To raise our voices in welcome is also own that is our voices calling for his crucifixion. That’s who we are. That’s how the story ends.

The deep yearning and the excitement for Jesus to come into our hearts, into our lives… that’s a part of us. And our inescapable sinfulness is a part of us. That’s who we are every day. Jesus, I desperately need you; I love you; I welcome you. And I know I will crucify you. Again and again and again.

Back then as Jesus triumphantly entered Jerusalem, he knew that the consequence of his arrival in the holy city would be his crucifixion. Jesus knew that the people who welcomed him would kill him, and still he came. Jesus knew that the voices that cried hosanna would also cry for his death, and still he came. That’s the good news. He also knew then, as we do now, that his crucifixion was not the end of the story.

The Fifth Sunday in Lent (aka St. Patrick's Day) - March 17

St. Patrick's Breastplate

This morning I’m going to talk about St. Patrick’s Breastplate.

I can’t claim that it is directly related to the readings for today. The collect and readings that we heard today are for the Fifth Sunday in Lent. We are not celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. In the rules governing our liturgical calendar very little is allowed to take precedence over the regular celebration of a Sunday. Certainly not a saints’ day. An exception is made if it is a parish’s patronal saint, but you can’t even celebrate your patron saint on a Sunday during Advent, Lent or Easter. Even my former parish in Maine, St. Patrick’s, is celebrating the Fifth Sunday in Lent today.

But I think a reflection on St. Patrick’s Breastplate is appropriate for Lent.

St. Patrick’s Breastplate is a poem, a prayer, written in Old Irish. It has been attributed to St. Patrick since the early 8th or late 7th century. The poem itself can only be traced back to the 6th century. Ancient as that is, it is not old enough to have likely been written by Patrick. Most of the stories told of Patrick are legend, but he was an historical figure who lived in the 5th century. So scholars doubt the attribution of this prayer to Patrick, although as Holy Women, Holy Men says, “it expresses his faith and zeal.”

Most clergy, along with a few choir nerds, know the poem best in a metrical version written in 1891 for use in the Irish Hymnal. That version also appears as a hymn in our current hymnal that begins, “I bind unto myself today the strong name of the Trinity” (Hymn 370). It is chosen as the processional for probably 95% of the ordinations done in the Episcopal Church. So clergy, who attend a lot of ordinations, come to know it well. It’s also often sung, not surprisingly, on Trinity Sunday.

But I strongly associate it with ordinations. And in my mind that first line, “I bind unto myself today the strong name of the Trinity” gets mixed in with the ordination vows. So I’ve thought of this prayer, this hymn, as a sort of extension or affirmation of the ordination vows. This day I vow for all time to support the doctrine, discipline and worship of the Episcopal Church and to bind myself to faith in the Trinity.

But, actually, St. Patrick’s prayer isn’t about vows at all. Ordination vows or broader vows of faith.

It’s about getting dressed in the morning.

Later I’m going to read you a major portion of the prayer, in a translation that was new to me. It begins, “I gird myself today with the might of heaven.” It’s a prayer to be said while getting dressed. While girding oneself with the clothes for the day. Any day, every day. A prayer to be said while getting dressed in the morning. That’s a pretty good thing to think about during Lent, a time when we seek to rededicate ourselves to regular prayer. A prayer to be said in the morning while putting on clothes for the day.

This sort of prayer is called a lorica. Lorica is a Latin word that means body armor. Hence St. Patrick’s Breastplate. Sometimes it is called the lorica of St. Patrick. It may be that this sort of prayer originated with soldiers putting on the armor before battle. A prayer seeking God’s presence and protection to be said while getting dressed for battle.

Legend has it that Patrick sang this lorica (yes, legend! remember that Patrick didn’t actually write or even know these words)… Legend has it that Patrick sang this lorica as protection from the pagan Irish king Loegaire mac Neill and the Druid fire-worshipers who were attempting to prevent Patrick and his followers from reaching Tara where they would proclaim the Christian faith. The power of the lorica caused Patrick’s company to appear to be a herd of deer, sparing them from attack by the pagan king… (W. Milgate, Songs of the People of God; cited in Raymond F. Glover, ed. The Hymnal 1982 Companion).

So loricas may have originated with soldiers. But their use has spread. I couldn’t find specific examples, but I’m pretty sure some monastic communities have prayers to be said while getting dressed in the morning. There are prayers out there that priests say as each particular vestment is put on before divine worship. They are not a part of my training or tradition, but I would not be surprised to hear that some of predecessors said them. But a lorica need not be reserved for people with some extraordinary vocation. St. Patrick’s lorica is a wonderful prayer that could be said by anyone, by everyone, while getting dressed in the morning. Any morning.

Interestingly there’s another Lorica in our hymnal (Hymn 488). A prayer for getting dressed in the morning.

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;
all else be nought to me, save that thou art--
thou my best thought, by day or by night,
waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

A prayer for God’s presence and guidance throughout the day.

In a book on Celtic Christianity, David Adam writes about the devotional value of St. Patrick’s breastplate, or potentially other loricas.

The history of salvation and incarnation has to become our own personal history. The Celtic way of ever inviting God into their activities and seeking to become aware of him in everyday events is the most natural way of achieving this. The [sixth] verse of St. Patrick’s hymn is worth a daily meditation: ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me…’ Here we have a weaving of the Presence around our lives like the Celtic patterns on stones and in the illuminated gospels: Christ moves in and out, over and under. We are encircled by him; encompassed by his presence and love. This is not something we create, it is a reality to become aware of, a glory that is ours but that we so often miss.

(D. Adam, The Edge of Glory; prayers in the Celtic tradition, quoted in Glover).

Perhaps we would miss that glory less often if we said a lorica daily. Perhaps we would know the glory of God’s presence interwoven into our daily lives if we said this prayer attributed to St. Patrick every morning as we dress ourselves for the day.

I gird myself today with the might of heaven:
The rays of the sun,
The beams of the moon,
The glory of fire,
The speed of wind,
The depth of sea,
The stability of earth,
The hardness of rock.

I gird myself today with the power of God:
God’s strength to comfort me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to lead me,
God’s way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God’s angels to save me
From the snares of the Devil,
From temptations to sin,
From all who wish me ill,
Both far and near,
Alone and with others.

May Christ guard me today
From poison and fire,
From drowning and wounding,
So my mission may bear
Fruit in abundance.
Christ behind and before me,
Christ beneath and above me,
Christ with me and in me,
Christ around and about me,
Christ on my left and my right,
Christ when I rise in the morning,
Christ when I lie down at night,
Christ in each heart that thinks of me,
Christ in each mouth that speaks of me,
Christ in each eye that sees me,
Christ in each ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through the power of the Trinity,
Through faith in the threeness,
Through trust in the oneness,
Of the Maker of earth,
And the Maker of heaven. 

(Robert Van de Weyer, Celtic Prayers, Abingdon Press, 1997)

I gird myself today with the might of heaven and the power of God. Amen.

The Fourth Sunday in Lent - March 10

The Younger Son, The Elder Son AND The Father
 Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

The Gospel story we just heard is probably best known as the parable of the Prodigal Son. It’s a very familiar story. Studies show that Biblical illiteracy is rampant, but I hope that all of you know it backwards and forwards. And probably you have a sense of what it means for you.

If you put yourself in this story, which brother do you identify with? I’ve said before that I identify more with the elder brother. The one who worked had and followed the rules and wanted the world to be fair.

But in this story both brothers are blind to their father’s love. They put barriers between themselves and the love their father offers them. For the younger son, I guess it’s mostly pride. “I can make it on my own. I don’t need or want anyone’s help.” The elder son certainly harbors resentment and perhaps just a bit of envy, too, towards his younger brother. These sins distance them from their father and his love.

Regardless, to both sons, the father is compassionate, faithful, loving, generous, forgiving. These traits have led some to call this parable the parable of the “Faithful or Loving Father.”

We have a tendency to interpret Jesus’ parables allegorically. In an allegorical interpretation, each person or thing in the parable represents or symbolizes some person or thing in the real world. There is a direct one-for-one correlation. An allegorical understanding of this parable casts each of us as either one of the sons, and sees in the father a representation of God.

This allegorical interpretation is helpful and reassuring and there is nothing wrong with it. Jesus’ parables, however, offer us more. They offer us a world, an entire world in which God’s grace is present and active, and they invite us to imaginatively inhabit that world. And in the world of this parable, where God’s grace is vibrantly active, there are people, regular human beings, who act like the father. In a world inspired and motivated by God’s grace, there are people (not just God) who act like the father.

I’m also reminded of something I once heard a therapist say. He said we are all of the people in our dreams. Not just the one that appears to be me. All of the characters in our dreams are us.

The younger son is us. The older son is us. And, the father is us.

You may or may not feel much like the Father. Remember, though, that Jesus was talking to the Pharisees, self-satisfied religious leaders. It’s hard to imagine that they would have identified with dependent children. More likely they saw themselves as the father. Maybe Jesus was trying to highlight the contrast between their actual behavior and a more faithful example of behavior.

This past week in the Lenten class, I talked about the idea of being specially elected or chosen by God. In that class this discussion was part of a consideration of the idea of predestination. The idea that just some people, and not others, are specially elected for salvation. But the idea of election has a much broader meaning in the Scriptures. Often it refers to being chosen by God for a special purpose or responsibility. Not chosen to some special status; but chosen for a special calling.

You remember the scene of Jesus in the temple when he takes the scroll and reads... The Lord has anointed me for… The Lord has particularly anointed me to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, to bring recovery of sight to the blind, and to let the oppressed go free.

There are Christian thinkers who would say that the church, the Body of Christ, is elected or chosen by God for a special purpose. To bring the good news into the world. To make real God’s love and forgiveness. We are chosen for a special role in the fulfillment of God’s purpose.

The father is compassionate, generous and forgiving. Even to sinners like the younger son and the older son. The father shows compassion, generosity and forgiveness regardless of whether or not they are deserved, regardless of what is fair. Regardless of merit. The father is compassionate, generous and forgiving even with people for whom it might seem difficult if not downright inappropriate.

So this parable comforts, comforts us sinners with the reassurance of God’s unconditional love for us. But maybe it also can inspire us. With God’s grace we can be more like the father. We can serve as witnesses to this world of God’s unconditional love. We can be the means of bringing God’s grace, God’s compassion, God’s forgiveness into our world.

In all of the discussions I’ve been a part of concerning this parable, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone say that they naturally identify with the Father. But we fail to appreciate the power of God’s grace in our lives if we imagine that we can never be like the father. We sell God short. We deny the power of God’s grace working in us when we say that we cannot be like the father. God has anointed us to bring love, generosity and forgiveness into the world.

The Third Sunday in Lent - March 3

On the Road Again
Exodus 3:1-15 
Luke 13:1-9 

I’m thinking that if the life of faith had a theme song… if our Christian life had a theme song, it might be “On the Road Again.” Sorry, I know I have cursed some of you with Willie Nelson inside your heads for the rest of the day. On the road. To be living as a Christian is to be on the road. There are a couple of important features of being on the road. One is motion. If you’re on the road, you’re not sitting still; you’re moving, going somewhere. And one of the places you’re going is into the future. To be on the road is to have a future to move into. Both the Old Testament reading from Exodus and the Gospel today, directly and indirectly, speak of being on the road and how we are nudged, pulled, pushed to get on the road, to step into the future.

The Exodus reading is the very familiar story of Moses and the burning bush. There’s a technical word for this sort of occurrence. Theophany. Theos – “God” and phainein – “to show.” A theophany is an experience where a person comes face to face with God, where God is shown to them. When Moses encounters the burning bush, he knows that he is meeting God, seeing God, talking with God. In that particular time and place, Moses encounters God.

But God does not say to Moses what we might expect. God does not say, “Behold me. I am here. Behold and worship me here.” Rather, God says, “Pack your bags and get on the road to Egypt. And I will be with you. On the road. God gives Moses a job to do, Moses’ part in doing God’s work in the world. Go to Egypt and help liberate my people from slavery.

Also in this passage, Moses asks God for God’s name. It’s my understanding that this passage in the Hebrew is difficult to translate. As we heard this morning, God’s reply is usually translated “I AM WHO I AM.” But I gather it can also mean I WILL BE WHO I WILL BE… moving into the future.

One commentator on this passage suggests that what God is saying to Moses is, “You will know me only by traveling forward with me.” You will not find me or know me by staying here next to this bush. We are setting out on the road together to Egypt. And it is by traveling together that you will come to know me, that we will build a relationship.

I imagine that each of us longs for a theophany. A burning bush moment full of the clarity and certainty of God’s presence that Moses knew. Maybe you’ve experienced theophanies. Whether or not as dramatic as Moses’, a time and place when you know with certainty that God was with you. There face to face. And, to the degree that we have had these experiences, they are important milestones along the road of faith. And we can cherish and remember them, but Exodus reminds us we cannot cling to them. We cannot stay in that time and place. God moves on.

The Scriptures do not even suggest that Moses built an altar there by the burning bush to commemorate his theophany. We know that he set out for Egypt, step by step taking up the task God had given him. And that God was with him on the road.

The Gospel reading also talks about being on the road, although the reference may be a bit more indirect that the Exodus story. The people gathered around Jesus ask him if those who suffer are suffering because they are worse sinners than other people. Jesus clearly says, no. Then he goes on. He seems to imply that the people around him are unrepentant. That they are just sitting there with their sins, confident perhaps that because calamitous suffering has not come upon them, they don’t need to worry. Jesus says to them, unless you repent, you will perish. Some way, some how you will perish. Unless you repent. But there is a road open to you, a future that you can move into, and God is there. The road of repentance leads to reconciliation, renewal, new life in God’s presence. Jesus is on that road that lies ahead, offering forgiveness and renewal.

Then Jesus tells the parable of the fig tree. The fig tree that was just sitting there, barren, not producing fruit, not living into the fruitfulness that God desired for it. But the fig tree is given a future, a road forward, an assurance of God’s care and guidance—at least for a time. We are given a future, a road into the future, on which to be creative, to live into our identity as people created in the image of God, beings who create. And God will be there, fertilizing, inspiring and sustaining us if we move forward onto that road.

David Lose, the Lutheran preacher whom I often quote, says of today’s Old Testament reading… It should be titled: Get up off the couch. In your life of faith, get up off the couch. Take a step forward. Get on the road again.

The goal of the Christian life is not to ‘get it all together’ and settle down, it is to keep moving, to be on the road.

There’s a lot to do “on the road”:

There are people to free; vocations to pursue. Tasks to perform as our part of God’s work in the world.

There is the ongoing road of repentance and forgiveness and renewal, which (Lent reminds us) is needful for all Christians.

And there is the road of fruitfulness. Of the God-given joy of being fruit bearers who create beauty, sustenance, and learning for others.

Each Sunday when we come here for worship, we are offered theophanies. The chance to see and know and experience the living presence of God in the living Word of God, in the Sacrament of at the Lord’s Table, through the vibrant Spirit manifest in God’s people. This service offers us that every Sunday, but it also asks the question “what are you going to do tomorrow?” “Where is your road with God taking you?” God is with you on that road. But remember the Christian life is not about just sitting around waiting for next Sunday. It’s about knowing and traveling with God on the road… the road of doing our part in God’s work, the road of repentance, forgiveness and renewal, the road of fruitfulness and creativity. It is on the road that we find and know God and fulfill God’s hope for us.

Lent, perhaps more than any other season is perceived as a road. But we think of Lent primarily as a road that leads us to Easter. But, as I’ve often said, I love the seasons of the calendar for what each of them teaches us about our life in Christ. But, ultimately, we live the seasons simultaneously. We live them all at the same time. We live with both Lent and Easter at the same time, all the time. We are always “on the Lenten road”. And, as we travel that road, we are always accompanied by the risen Christ of Easter.

The First Sunday in Lent - February 17

Our Creed:  God With Us
Deuteronomy 26:1-11

If you think about it, the Old Testament reading appointed for today may seem a bit odd for the first Sunday in Lent. It is celebratory and full of thanksgiving for the gift of the Promised Land. But it comes right after the people of Israel have spent 40 years in the wilderness. Today’s Gospel is about Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness. That is the connection.

The reading from Deuteronomy describes a worship service that became an annual event in the lives of the early Hebrew people. The celebration of the Feast of Weeks, a summer harvest festival, filled with thanksgiving for the bounty of the Promised Land.

And Deuteronomy includes specific instructions for a creed that the people were to recite at this worship service.

A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Lord have given me.

Biblical scholars call this a creed, although it may sound different from the creeds you are used to. The things we call creeds, like the Nicene Creed, are theological statements of belief. This creed is expressed in terms of experience, of history, rather than theology. It speaks of what God does. And it describes a very specific history. Jacob is the wandering Aramean and God’s liberation of the people is the Exodus. As a creed, rather than saying, “I believe in God who brings liberation to people,” it says, “the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand.” Both of these statements speak of the same God with the same attributes, but the Deuteronomic creed describes that God in terms of actions within history. Both affirm a God who liberates people from bondage, but Deuteronomy expresses that belief, that creed in language that is concrete and personal.

How might we recite a similar creed? A creed based on historical experience rather than theological belief?

I had fun thinking about how my personal creed might go: A wandering Norwegian was my ancestor. And he left his homeland to come to South Dakota, a land definitely not flowing with milk and honey. But you, Lord, were with him and helped him persevere to build a new life in this new land. God was there in a historical event.

This is my personal story, and we are sometimes encouraged, as Christians, to write our personal spiritual autobiographies. It’s a helpful process… to look for those specific events in your individual life in which you felt God was present. Each of us has our own individual story, as unique as we are different as individuals. But the Deuteronomic creed is not an individual creed; it is a peoples’ creed.

So, if we were to write our common creed as Episcopalians, it might begin: A bawdy king was my ancestor (Henry VIII). He was faithful, but coveted power. But you, O Lord, heard the people of his realm who called out for reform and you came to them, guiding and inspiring them for the renewal of your church.

Or if we were to write our creed as Christians, as part of the great and glorious Body of Christ, how might it go? Peter was my ancestor. The faithful bumbler. Or Paul. The firebrand and converter. The disciples are our ancestors… You came to be with them, to share their lives, to share our lives. You were with us to feed us when we were hungry; you were with us to teach us and to help us when we were in doubt; you were with us to touch us when we needed healing. Those stories in Scripture are our stories, our history, of God with us.

Every Sunday we say the Nicene Creed, a theological affirmation of our belief. We also hear a historical creed like the Deuteronomic one, an affirmation of God’s presence and action in our history, in the Eucharistic prayer. It is more than a formula of consecration of bread and wine, it is a description of shared sacred history. As you hear that prayer today, think of the “us” as the people of this congregation. We are the people created by God in his image. We are the ones with whom he broke bread. We are the people saved by his death. This historical events are the events of our salvation.

And, remember, our story of God with us, God saving and healing us, does not end with the last supper. It is an ongoing story of God’s life shared with ours. Whenever two or three are gathered—every time since Jesus resurrection—God has been with us. For the early Hebrews, the primary story of history was the power of the God’s hand saving his people in the Exodus. That is our story, too, but for us as Christians, the primary story of God with us is the intimacy of Communion. God sharing our lives with us and inviting us to share God’s life with him.

But in the historic events that tell of God’s presence with us continue after the Last Supper. There are the early councils, the Reformation, the establishment of the American church, the founding of this parish. All of these are events in a history that speaks to “God with us.”

 God with us. Not somebody else. Us.

This is our story, the history of our experience of God. In the plural. This our common story. I find that powerful and reassuring… to think of this as a common history of which I am a part. It’s much bigger than me. This history is full of all those events experienced by thousands of Christians who knew that God was with them. That’s the story. That’s the creed. Which means that even on the days when your belief is in tatters, God is still with us. God is with us. That’s the story that our history tells. Even on the days when you cannot imagine God anywhere near you, we have innumerable stories from our Christian history of events when God is with us.

God is with us. God is with us. That is our creed… the experience of our history. God is with us.

Ash Wednesday - February 13

You Are Not Dust

This may seem like a bit of a stretch on Ash Wednesday, but bear with me. I enjoy one of the new sets of Geiko commercials. These are the “happier than” commercials. There is a standard format. A couple of entertainers ask one another, “How happy are people who switch to Geiko?” “Happier than…”

How happy are people who save money by switching to Geiko? Happier than a body builder directing traffic. And if you remember that one, he’s a very well-sculpted body builder, doing body builder poses in the middle of the street as he directs traffic.

How happy are people who switch to Geiko? Happier than Christopher Columbus with speed boats.

Or my favorite—I think it’s the newest one. How happy are people who switch to Geiko? Happier than a slinky on an escalator.

In each of these ads, people (or a personified slinky) are placed in situations tailor made to appeal to them because of some individual skill or interest or quirk. The situation is specifically imagined to be a perfect fit, bringing happiness or fulfillment.

It was this Ash Wednesday service that got me thinking about this. Why do people come to this service, this Ash Wednesday service? People do come. My sense is people have a strong internal motivation to come to this service. It is an important service. Within the parish I’ve urged people to come. But It’s more than that. And, why? The service is a downer with its emphasis on mortality, sinfulness, human insignifance. Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

So if this service were a Geiko commercial, for whom would it be a perfect fit? It seems tailor made for someone with really low self-esteem. Come to church on Ash Wednesday and have your extremely poor sense of self-worth affirmed and reinforced by the church. You are dust!

How happy are people who switch to Geiko? Happier than people with low self-esteem attending church on Ash Wednesday.

I say this not out of insensitivity to people who do struggle with self image, nor just to be funny. But to emphasize that it is the perception that the point of this service is to bring us down. To bring us soberly to a place of despair and emptiness. And it works. The service works. Even on the most sanguine of Christians. Even the most normally cheerful and confident are brought to dust.

And, as someone who has preached at this service many times, I can attest that, within the context of this service, it is very easy to tap into that place within all of us, no matter what your prevailing psychological disposition may be. It's easy to tap into that place where each of us is aware of the weight and insignificance of our mortality. And for some reason there is something attractive about going to that place for all of us. I think that is what draws us to this service. It feels significant to face our insignificance. It feels spiritually noble to acknowledge our mortality.

But I think we may have it all wrong. I think Ash Wednesday is not primarily about affirming our wretchedness. I think the value and purpose of this service does not lie in bringing us to the place where we can feel our mortality. In fact today is not primarily about us at all. It’s about God.

This day is an important reminder, an in-your-face sort of day. But it is a reminder more about who God is than who we are not.

God… the God we know and worship is a God who can and does create light in the midst of total darkness. God is a God who can and does create life (life!) out of clay—or dust. And not just life. Life that is filled with meaning and beauty and wonder and courage and joy. The God whom we know and worship longs for and builds reconciliation from the broken pieces of human sin and hope from despair. God takes our mortal hearts and makes them new!

There is a General Thanksgiving prayer in the back of the Prayer Book. I refer to it fairly often; many of you know it. In one phrase of that prayer, we thank God for those disappointments and failures that lead us to acknowledge our dependence upon God alone. That’s a good prayer for Ash Wednesday. A prayer of thanksgiving that this day leads us to acknowledge our dependence upon God alone.

Yes, without God we are but dust. We do have to start there. And it’s easy for us in our daily lives to forget that piece. But the primary message of Ash Wednesday is not so much about us spiritually wallowing in the dust as it is about acknowledging the difference between dust and what we are. Only and wholly by God’s grace. We are not dust.

By God’s grace, we are not dust. That’s the thing to remember. By God’s grace alone, but by God’s grace, we are not dust.

Ash Wednesday is about gratitude. Humble, but joyous gratitude. Today, this Lent reflect upon the difference between dust and the life you’ve been given. And turn to God in humble and joyous gratitude.