Sermon preached by The Rev'd Nicholas Lang

St. Paul’s on the Green, Norwalk, Connecticut

Ash Wednesday - February 6, 2008

Well, this Ash Wednesday is (was) a wet dreary day and, albeit warmer than expected, still in the deep of winter. It seems an appropriate background for the reading from the book of Joel with its language about darkness, gloom and clouds, but it does not help those for whom today is not a favorite church observance.

Let’s face it. Ash Wednesday is pretty low on the popularity scale. For some, the best thing about it is probably an excuse to party hard on the day before—Mardi Gras. Or, we may need to find some humor in it so as not to become overly morose—like the story of the young boy who went to church with his mom and after hearing the psalm verse that ends “For he himself knows where of we are made, he remembers that we are but dust,” turned to his and said in a stage whisper, “Mommy, what is butt dust?”

Just as on another very somber day, Good Friday, today the procession enters in silence—no organ, no hymn, no fanfare. The most Good News we get today is that we have either neglected to do what is important or fasted, prayed, and given alms for the wrong reasons. The contrast from worship on most Sundays is striking. There is nary a flower in the chancel, replaced by bare branches, a stark reminder of the six week desert experience to which the church invites us. Somber purple vestments and altar hangings replace the more colorful and joyful ones. Alleluias are verboten and no where to be found in any text.

Then our foreheads get smudged with a dribble of dirty soot and we hear those dreadful and alarming words: "You are dust, and to dust you will return” and quickly confronted with a daunting list of all the things we've done and left undone—and for which we ask forgiveness. It’s not pretty, but what we do today is a very ancient rite. In the very early church, those who were recognized as public sinners, dressed in sack cloths and ashes and banned from worship, began the road to repentance to be reunited again with the faith community through the absolution of the bishop at the Great Vigil of Easter.

When that extreme measure of reforming sinners lost its appeal (for obvious reasons), the practice ended and Lent was for a time reduced to a period of just one week. However, it became clear that Christians were more devoted to their comforts than to religion so the Church decided it had better extend a wake-up call because Christians were no longer people you could pick out of the crowd based on the exemplary lives they lived.

So the Church announced a six week season of Lent, a word that in the Old English means “spring,” in the hope of calling us back to our senses and putting us in touch again with the deep roots of our faith. Lent is meant to be a springtime for the soul, a time of spiritual rejuvenation. Modeled after the forty days and nights Jesus spent in the desert, it is the time of year designed to house clean, to cleanse us of the clutter and open our eyes to what remains when all is said and done and all the comforts are gone: dust.

As much as we do not like to face such a reality, Ash Wednesday shouts at us to acknowledge our mortality, our humanity, our transience. None of us are going to get out of this life alive. We are always confronted by that truth, aren’t we? Yesterday’s news told of the tragic death in an auto accident of the wife of a teacher at West Rock’s school.

The article framed this sad happening in the context of a family going about their normal Saturday chores never expecting how, in an instant, life would be taken or changed for them. How often, when we hear such news, do we think that, given the number of fatal accidents that occur, it could have been me.

Even so, if we focus solely on the ashes we wear as a sign of the inevitability of our death—we’ve missed the point. The ashes of Lent are not meant so much to remind us that we're dying—but that we are still living. They tell us to take a good look at our life—and everything about it—and to take nothing at all for granted.

If you have not seen the movie, The Bucket List, staring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman I recommend it as a Lenten gift to yourself. This dynamic duo play Edward Cole and Carter Chambers, two older gents who end up in a cancer ward together. Edward is a crusty, no-nonsense billionaire, while Carter is a kindly auto mechanic who can't help but answer questions on Jeopardy! before the contestants do. They hit it off right away. Good thing, too, because they have been given less than a year to live. As their hospital stay is about to end, the two decide to make the most of their last days. To do that, they come up with a "bucket list" - that is, a bunch of things to do before kicking said bucket.

For Carter, the list is an opportunity to get philosophical - do someone some good, laugh until it hurts, see something truly grand. But crass old Edward has other ideas, most of them to do with living in the moment. He wants to hunt big game, climb a tall mountain, stick it to someone who deserves getting stuck. In the end, Carter dies rather suddenly but not before leaving a note for his new found sidekick to be opened after his death—the essence of which is this: Whatever you put on your list, remember to find the joy in your life.

I pray that Lent will be a time for you to remember what it is like to live by the grace of God alone and not by what we can supply for ourselves. The truth we need to face today is that we are driven by our creatures—our schedule, our work, our possessions, our wants. If we make these things our treasures, we may have fleeting happiness, a bit of euphoria, a few good times, but we will not find joy—real honest-to-goodness joy.

So can we put a new slant on Lent this year? During the coming weeks, look for the joy in your life. The joy—not the things that just make you feel good. You will know it when, in its presence you feel a sense of peace, of hope, and an awesome awareness of grace. Not surprisingly, I discover that most often right here in this church in one way or another.

Old St. Augustine uncovered the truth for us when he wrote in the fourth century, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are not at rest until they rest in you.” In the Gospel today, Jesus offers us the simple, triple formula for finding the joy.

Bring our restless hearts into the presence of God in prayer and quiet. Might we designate a weekday each week of Lent when we to Evening Prayer and just be still in the sacred space of the chapel? How might we give of ourselves during Lent to ease the suffering of someone else—either from our treasure or our time? From what can we distance ourselves and keep a fast so that we can unclutter our lives and make time for what is really important.

We don’t need to be ready to kick the bucket in order to make our “Bucket list.” Can you take some time when you return home (today) tonight to write a brief list for yourself this Lent. How will you try to find the joy in your life? Where will you go to discover it? What will you do to experience it? What will you avoid in order to allow the joy in your life to be present for you?

The ashes of Lent are not about death. They are about life—yes, a life that has its limits and that will one day end— but they offer us a season in which to reflect on what we have chosen to do with that life and to find anew the joy in it. The things we choose to do in Lent are not meant to change the world; they are meant to change us.

This past Sunday, Father Tombaugh set the tone for today in his sermon “Each of us,” he said, “is called to move to an ever deeper understanding of God in our lives and in this community. The journey will be different for each of us. The road will be dusty and sometimes bumpy. However, the promise at the end of the journey never changes: we are all to be nourished by a vision of the glory of the risen Christ. Lent has begun. Now you and I are on a mission together to find and savor and give thanks for the joy in our life.