Monthly Archives: March 2023

An Example

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I preached the following sermon on 8/7/16 at St. John’s UMC in Staunton. I was struck that week by the lack of faithful Christian examples and felt moved to talk about Wilford Kirby who, in so many ways, talked the talked AND walked the walk of discipleship. Wilford died this week and I am reposting this in his honor – my life is better for having had him in it. Well done, good and faithful servant.

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Luke 12.32-34

Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. 

Meanwhile, when the crowds gathered by the thousands to hear him talk, so many in fact that they began to trample on one another, Jesus rose to speak. He warned his disciples against hypocrisy – live honest lives. He instructed them to confess fearlessly – all who earnestly repent will be forgiven. He shared the parable of the rich fool – you can’t take your money to heaven. And then he gave them some final instructions:

“Do not be afraid little sheep! For it is God’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give away your money, use your gifts to bless others here and now. For where your treasure it, there your heart will be also.”

Sometimes Christians drive me crazy. You know, the super pious ones who are forever wearing their faith on their sleeves; the ones who stand on the street corners of life blasting off about some passage or another; the ones who come knocking on your door and try to sell you on the gift of eternal life instead of the fires of hell.

Have you ever met or encountered a Christian like that? I can’t help but feel like they are the kinds of Christians that are giving the rest of us Christians a bad name. Jesus never instructed his disciples to act like the people from Westboro Baptist church who are forever picketing the funerals of people whom they believe did not live up to Christ’s expectations. Jesus never called his disciples to be racist or bigoted toward peoples of different nationalities, or race, or creed, or sexual orientation. Jesus never implored the disciples to use fear mongering to convince people to come to church or otherwise be threatened with the fires of eternal punishment. Yet, if you turn on the news, or get online, those are the kinds of Christians we hear about the most; the ones who give the rest of us Christians a bad name. 

Just once I would like a good Christian to be featured for all to see; someone who has absorbed the Word throughout his or her life and has lived accordingly; someone who believes the good news is so good, that is worth sharing not to fill the pews, but to fill hearts; someone who could stand like an earthly example for the rest of us to catch a glimpse of the ways Jesus calls us to behave.

I was asked this winter to be a guest preacher at Augusta Street UMC in Staunton. We had a midweek and midday service and I decided to preach about how good it is when we dwell together in unity. The service was well received and we gathered in the social hall after worship for a light lunch. I walked around for a couple minutes until I found an empty chair next to a man named Wilford Kirby who was deeply engrossed in a conversation with someone else. 

Wilford was “one of mine.”

Elsewhere in the room, United Methodists from all of the churches in our town were sitting with their friends from their churches. Like cliques in a high school, the Central folk were at one table, the Cherryvale folk at another, and so on. But Wilford refused to be subject to this paradigm. He was sitting with the preacher from Augusta Street, though I don’t think he knew that he was the preacher. Because I eavesdropped on the end of their conversation, and the last thing Wilford said to the preacher was: “You should come try out our church on Sundays.”

Anyway, I sat with Wilford and he was quick to make a couple comments about their church facility in comparison with ours, offered a few critiques on how my sermon could have been better, and continued to eat his soup and sandwiches. I had other things to get done that afternoon, so after I finished eating I excused myself and told Wilford that I’d see him in church on Sunday and left.

Not fifteen minutes later was my phone ringing. When I answered all I heard was: “Wilford fell, broke some ribs, on his way to the hospital.”

I immediately turned my car toward the direction of Augusta Health and beat the ambulance to the Emergency Department. But because they needed to do some x-rays and have him checked out I wasn’t able to get back, and he didn’t want me to anyway.

The next day I showed up at his house and banged on his door until he slowly made his way to the front of the house and let me in. I should have been a little more compassionate and patient regarding the fact that he was walking around with a few broken ribs, but I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to make sure he was okay. I wanted to pray for him.

And as we sat down in his basement, before I could even open my mouth, he asked me how I was doing, and then went through the list of everyone he had been praying for and wanted updates since he had been out of the loop for a whole day.

Wilford Kirby is the kind of Christian that makes the rest of us Christians look better.

Wilford Kirby is an example to us all about what it means to follow Christ in this life.

Luke, in this passage about our treasures and our hearts, calls for us to put first things first. The things of the Lord are to be the most urgent and pressing priority in every Christian’s life. We are not to be afraid nor are we to succumb to the worldly distractions of wealth that constantly distract us from God’s love and care. There are no wallets, or stock portfolios, or bonds that will not wear out in time. God promises not to fill us with earthly wealth and material possessions, but instead surprises us with the gift of the kingdom. 

Receiving this gift, the kingdom, makes us rich beyond our ability to comprehend. But being rich toward God is not about putting sizable sums in the offering plate during worship. What Jesus rejoices in, is our reorientation toward the whole of life as an abundant gift from a generous God – a gift that can be given away with abandon.

Wilford Kirby has given his life to the kingdom, because the kingdom was first given to him. 

He has easily attended more worship services than anyone in this church over the last three years, including me (and I’m the pastor!). On Sunday mornings Wilford is the first layperson to enter the sanctuary making sure our heat is pumping in the winter, and the AC is on during the summer. He checks the lights for optimum worship participation, and he checks through the bulletins to make sure everything will go smoothly.

Every winter he sits out in his truck for hours on end waiting for people to come take a peek at our Christmas trees and offer them his assistance. Even though we have a giant sign advertising the times the lot will be open, Wilford believes in being present for the kind of people who ignore signs like those. 

He is here an hour before our special services throughout the year like Ash Wednesday, and Good Friday, and Christmas Eve just in case anyone arrives extra early. 

He is almost always the first person to show up in my office to find out how someone from our church is doing and how he can be praying for him or her. 

For years he has mowed the lawn of our church and cared for the property as a volunteer. He never complained; he never sought recognition; he never wanted praise. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been sitting in the comfort of my air-conditioned office day-dreaming about God when I’d see Wilford come flying past my window on the lawn mower with a smile hidden underneath his dust-mask. 

Wilford has been here for every funeral since I arrived. Even for people he never knew. Yet he always stands in the back greeting people as they walk in, not because he was asked to, not because he was told to, be because he believes it’s the right thing to do. 

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. 

The greatest treasure that Wilford Kirby has offered this church has been his very life, and he has given it with abandon. 

But why? Wilford could be spending his precious time working with other civic organizations trying to make the world better. He could be spending his afternoons on the golf course or relaxing in the comfort of his home. He could use his life to do any number of things, but instead he has given it to this church.

My suspicion is that Wilford has given his life to the church because he knows and has experienced how the kingdom was given to him, and he wants to share that gift with others. He trusts that the Lord will provide. He humbly obeys the commands to love even the unlovable. He has seen first-hand how the kingdom of God can become manifest in other peoples’ lives. He put his treasure in this place because his heart has always been here. He wants other people to be blessed in the ways that he has been blessed. So he shows up. He prays. He cares. He loves. And he is an example to us all.

But that’s not to say that Wilford is perfect; he’s not. There are plenty of Sunday mornings when I finish a service and walk down the center aisle only to see Wilford standing in the back with his arm outstretched and his finger pulling me in as if to say, “Let me offer a suggestion.” Or there have been plenty of times that I’ve heard his footsteps walking down the hallway and I know from the texture of his tempo that he’s coming not to congratulate me on something but to complain about something that has happened in the church. But the thing is, even when Wilford is frustrated or upset it is because he believes our church can be better. He believes that we are part of the kingdom and we can’t be just like any other church. He expects excellence precisely because that’s what God expects from all of us. 

Being rich toward God involves a generosity of spirit that opens our perceptions toward God’s generosity. Wilford knows how blessed he is, for the kind of life that he has had, and therefore he knows no other way to live than the way that he does.

Theses words from Jesus first meant for the crowd, and now meant for us, decisively interrupt our lives in this place and on this day calling us to focus not on the demands of the overly scheduled life, but on the Lord who comes in surprising ways to offer comfort, assurance, and love. Through these words we hear Jesus telling us that the time is now to start living a new life, not dictated by the past, but defined by God’s belief in our future. God uses people like us, people like Wilford, to make the kingdom manifest so that lasting joy will come to God’s little flock we call the church. 

At this table, where Wilford has come time and time again, we receive the body and blood of Jesus Christ. In this profound moment we are offered the kingdom again even though we do not deserve it. We come forward with hands outstretched remembering this incredible gift that has been given without cost. And by receiving this gift, we cannot help ourselves but live transformed lives. 

So come and see that the Lord is good. Feast at this table where heaven and earth are bound together. Join together with Wilford Kirby as he walks to the front to receive the gift of the kingdom once again. And let it change your life like it has changed his. Amen. 

The Law Brings Wrath

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Romans 4.13-17

For the promise that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. If it is the adherents of the law who are to be the heirs, faith is null and the promise is void. For the law brings wrath; but where there is no law, neither is there violation. For this reason it depends on faith, in order that the promise may rest on grace and be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham (for he is the father of all of us, as it is written, “I have made you the father of many nations”) — in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist.

brown wooden stand with black background
Photo by Tingey Injury Law Firm on Unsplash

We think the “law” can save and fix our messed up and broken lives.

From infancy we’re spoon-fed a narrative of righteous self-determination, that if we do all the right things, and go to the right school, and marry the right partner, then everything will be as it should be.

Until it isn’t.

And then the “law” refuses to let us go.

So we adopt new habits: we buy a Peloton, we go on a new diet, we stay up late into the evening looking at Zillow for the next perfect house, we “Marie Kondo” our lives in order to get things under control.

And, even if some things change, perhaps we get that nice dopamine hit from imagining ourselves in a new place or we can fit into clothes we haven’t worn since college, we can’t actually fix ourselves with the “law.”

At some point the new house becomes the hold house, a few weeks away from the gym brings our waistline back, and on and on.

The law kills, or as Paul put it: the law brings wrath.

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But Jesus came to bring us something better than another law, something better than another set of things we must do in order to get God to do something for us. Sure, we’re called to love God and neighbor, turn the other cheek, pray for our enemies, but those are never prerequisites for the Kingdom.

Remember: The Kingdom is already among us. Our sins were nailed to the cross and left there forever. 

The Law (from scripture and from life) is good, but it kills us. It exists to accuse us and it shows us, over and over again, who we really are. For, to borrow another expression from Paul, no one is righteous, no, not one.

Even our subtle exercises in self-denial during Lent help to remind us of the condition of our condition: Lent isn’t about participating in spiritual olympics in which we compete with one another to see who can be the most holy – instead it’s about confronting the fact that our desires will always get the better of us.

But the Law, and its ability to deaden us, is Good News and exactly what we need. It’s only in death (read: Baptism) that we begin to know the One who came to give us grace.

Contrary to how we often water down the Gospel, we worship a rather odd God. Our God who, among other things, speaks from a burning bush, promises offspring to a wandering octogenarian, and saves the cosmos through death on a cross.

And for Christians, we know who this odd God is because we know Jesus Christ. 

Therefore, Jesus is not some new Moses who offers a set of guidelines to save ourselves and the world. Instead Jesus comes to be our salvation in himself.

Here’s the Good News: On any given Sunday the people of God called church gather together to hear the most important words we will ever hear: Christ died for us while we were yet sinners, and that proves God’s love toward us – In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven.

Notice – Christ died for us while we were sinners, not before and not after. Christ chooses to die for us right in the midst of the worst mistake we’ve ever made or will ever make. 

In the end, that’s what it’s all about. 

We don’t follow Law in order to get God to save us. 

We are already saved which then frees us to follow the Law – we do the things Christ calls us to do not because they earn us anything, but simply because they set us on the adventure we call faith. 

How Odd Of God To Save This Way

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This week on the Strangely Warmed podcast I speak with Jason Micheli, Teer Hardy, and Stanley Hauerwas about the readings for the Second Sunday in Lent [A] (Genesis 12.1-4a, Psalm 121, Romans 4.1-5, 13-17, John 3.1-17). Our conversation covers a range of topics including righteousness, So I Married An Axe Murderer, Nicodemus, tribal identities, young theologians, agency, lettuce sermons, control, salvation, recapitulation, the crucified Christ, David Bentley Hart, and eschatological tension. If you would like to listen to the episode or subscribe to the podcast you can do so here: How Odd Of God To Save This Way

A Peculiar Prayer

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What makes a sermon, a sermon?

I’ve long held that the mere writing of a sermon, words on a page, don’t actually make it much of anything. A sermon is only a sermon when it is proclaimed among and for God’s people within the context of worship. The prayers, music, and even presence of individuals make the sermon what it is because the Holy Spirit delights in making the words proclaimed from the pulpit God’s words for us.

And so, I have a sermon that is not really a sermon. I prayed over these words and put them together for the first Sunday of Lent, but became sick prior to Sunday morning and asked Eric Anderson, the Director of Next Gen Ministries at Raleigh Court UMC to preach it on my behalf. I am thankful to serve a church that is willing to pivot when necessary and to work alongside Eric who, admittedly, probably did a better job preaching “my” sermon than I would have had I been well enough to do it.

Here’s the sermon I wrote and that he preached…

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Matthew 6.9

Pray then in this way: Our Father in heaven, hallowed by your name.

John 15.13-17

No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name.

people inside room
Photo by Pedro Lima on Unsplash

When we pray, if we pray at all, we usually do so because circumstances have convinced us that we are completely and totally alone, and that we have to navigate and figure out our circumstances alone.

This is my fault and I have to fix it.

No one knows what this feels likes, which is why no one else will understand it.

If I just pretend this isn’t happening, maybe it will all go away.

And all of those lies begin to unravel with the words, “Our Father.”

Jesus is in the middle of his Sermon on the Mount. It begins with blessings, and talk of salt and light and law. Jesus warns his disciples about practicing their piety publicly. And then, without much warning, he teaches them (and us) how to pray.

When you are praying, Jesus says (notice, Jesus assumes they/we are already a praying people. What’s important is not that we ought to pray, but that we ought to pray a certain way). 

When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard because of their many words.

In other words, don’t puff your prayers up with all sorts of adjectives and adverbs. You don’t need to sprinkle all that fancy stuff on top because, Jesus says, your Father already knows what you need before you ask.

And yet, when you pray, pray this way:

Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, and we also have forgiven our debtors. And do not bring us to the time of trail, but rescue us from the evil one.

What a peculiar prayer.

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Notably, this isn’t the only prayer in the Bible. The psalms are filled with prayers. Any speech toward God is a prayer, so when Peter is encountered by Jesus and says, “Go away from me Lord for I am a sinful man,” he is praying. Jesus tells stories about prayer, and rebukes others for the way they pray. And, in Luke’s telling of the Gospel, Jesus teaches this prayer, though the words are a little different, not in the middle of a sermon, but because the disciples ask Jesus to teach them how to pray.

Among the many things that might describe what it means to be Christian, to be disciples of Jesus Christ, at the very least we are people who pray. We understand prayer to be important, whether we can articulate it or not. We speak to God and we listen to God. 

Contrary to how we might imagine it, living a life of faith isn’t about adhering to a certain set of beliefs as much as it is learning how to pray. 

Karl Barth once wrote, “To be a Christian and to pray are one and the same thing; it is a matter that cannot be left to our caprice. It is a need, a kind of breathing necessary to life.”

And yet, among all the prayers in scripture, both the Old and the New Testaments, and among all the prayers we might discover in something like The Book of Common Prayer, even our own extemporaneous prayers, this prayer, the Lord’s Prayer, is what makes prayer possible. 

It is, admittedly, a bit strange to pray to God as Father. For, even since the beginning of the church, Christians have understood that God is beyond our human understandings of gender. God is neither male nor female. God is God.

And yet, for as strange as it is to refer to God as Father, it is far stranger that we begin the Lord’s prayer with the word, “Our.”

brown wooden cross on brown wooden wall
Photo by Josh Eckstein on Unsplash

Our, of course, is often understood as a plural possessive pronoun, but when we say, “Our Father,” we are not communicating that God belongs to us. Rather, the our in the Our Father is a bewildering claim that God, the author of the cosmos, the One in whom we live and move and have our being, has determined to become our God. That is, God doesn’t belong to us, but we belong to God, together.

In other words, long before any of us reached out to God, God reached toward us, claimed us, and promised to make us God’s people. 

It is never because of what we do or have done, but because of what God in Christ has done that we are able to pray, “Our Father.”

And it’s not just that we are able to pray those words, we are bold to pray them. 

Does it feel bold to you to pray the Lord’s Prayer? I’ll be the first to confess that, as a liturgical moment in our worship every week, it can feel a little boring rather than bold, just another thing we have to do.

Hence this sermon series.

But there is a boldness to this peculiar prayer. We do well to not pray it lightly, or treat it as one more thing we have to do. It takes guts to pray this prayer.

It takes courage to address the great I AM who can make the impossible possible. As Buechner put it, “We can do nothing without God and without God we are nothing.”

And yet, we can boldly pray this prayer because we belong to God. God has intruded into our lives in spectacularly weird and peculiar ways in the person of Jesus… who teaches us this prayer. And the us is important. 

Being Christian isn’t something that comes naturally, and its not something we can figure out on our own. Being Christian is a result of being initiated (through baptism) into a group of people called church who are shaped by this prayer. 

Therefore, the our in the Our Father is admission that we are not alone. Even if we pray this prayer away from other people, the “our” is a stark declaration that there is no such thing as a solitary Christian.

We are bound to one another, and we are bound to God.

Can you imagine how different the faith would be if Jesus taught us to pray, My Father who art in heaven, give me my daily bread?

Our faith is a communal one where we cannot know what we are doing unless there is a we. 

In other words, The Beatles were right, We get by with a little help from our friends!

Thomas Aquinas, the great Catholic thinker from the 13th century, is famous for quipping that we are created for no greater purpose than friendship with God. The our in the Our Father reminds us that we cannot pray without friends. This is why you can tell if someone is a Christian by who their friends are.

And, oddly enough, Jesus chooses us to be his friends. 

It would be one thing if Jesus called us his servants, serving the Lord is a worthy task. But, instead, Jesus befriends the disciples and all of us.

And what is the surest sign of a deep friendship? Listening.

Do you have someone in your life who is a good listener? I hope so. I wouldn’t be where I am were it not for those who have been willing to listen.

And that’s exactly what Jesus does for us. But not just that, Jesus listens to our prayers, and Jesus responds to them.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be they name.

The God we worship, the God we pray to, our God, rules from heaven. That we pray to God in heaven is important. For, it is the reminder that God is placed, located, and active. Our God is somewhere and that somewhere is different than where we are. But it’s only because of God’s location, that God is able to do far more than we could ever ask or imagine. From the throne of the cosmos God acts and it made known to us in ways seen and unseen. 

Therefore, we pray not because it’s good for us, though it may be. Prayer is not self-help. Rather, prayer is the recognition that we need help from outside of ourselves. For, if it were all up to us, things would remain the same. We need others to enter and act in our lives just as we need the acting and enacting Lord of heaven and earth to make a way where there is no way. 

We hallow God’s name, we call it holy, out of recognition that God is God and we are not. We pray to the Holy One because only the Holy One can make us holy. Otherwise, prayer is just empty words offered to no one but ourselves.

But the Gospel is a stark reminder that we are not alone. Our Father will not let us remain isolated and abandoned. Whenever we lift these words up, words straight from the lips of Jesus, the connections between us, one another, and the Lord are reconstituted and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Our Father reigns from heaven, God’s name is holy, and because of such, we can pray the rest of the prayer. Ultimately, we learn how to pray by following Jesus, who is God’s prayer for us. Amen.

Cut To The Heart

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Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21

Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. 

Where does this day come from?

Well, it’s a bit of a mystery. We can point to these definitive moments in church history when certain leaders in the church decided we needed certain days on the liturgical calendar, but the habit of Ash Wednesday, and Lent for that matter, is a little more complicated.

As best as we can tell there was a one to two day fast leading up to Easter in the early church. Fasting, of course, is about preparing one’s body and focusing on the Lord. And, at some point, this extended backward to a week’s worth of fasting and was marked as Holy Week – Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday. Eventually one week grew to three, and then forty days. 

We do know that once the church adopted this forty day season leading up to Easter, it was primary about preparing baptismal candidates to be received into the church on Easter.

Now, the forty days has all sorts of biblical connections – the 40 days and nights with Noah on the ark, the 40 years of wandering through the wilderness with Moses, and Jesus’ 40 days of temptation.

Today, the season of Lent exists for three main reasons – it is still a time of preparation for baptism, it is a time for reconciliation for those estranged from the church, and it is a time of repentance for the whole church as we renew out commitment to following Jesus.

No matter how it started, and no matter how it transitioned into what it is today, Lent is a season of introspection. Looking inwardly. And it begins in the most introspective way of all, by confronting our mortality and sinfulness.

In other words, Ash Wednesday is not for the faint of heart. It requires a community to hold us up at a time like this when we are told the deepest truth that we otherwise avoid at all costs. No one makes it out of this life alive.

black powder on white surface
Photo by Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

And yet, there’s this strange temptation to receive such a difficult truth but then we wear it proudly and piously when we leave church. It’s a bit odd that the ashes on our foreheads have become a marker of faithfulness. 

I remember a few years ago, after presiding over a service just like this one, I got on my phone and saw all these people posting selfies with ashes smeared across their foreheads. Only they didn’t call them selfies, they call them #ashies.

Nothing could be further from the text we read today.

Jesus’ rebuke against those who go around piously comes in the midst of his Sermon on the Mount and is admittedly a bit ironic. At the beginning of the sermon he lists off blessings and then he commands his followers to be salty and shine their light so that others might know the light of Christ.

And then, just a few paragraphs later, he tells his followers to pray in secret away from others, and he warns them against practicing their piety in public.

Public piety is but another form of self-justification – it’s the Pharisee in the Jesus’ parable who does all the right things so well that he’s wrong. “Well, at least I’m not like that person,” is a projection of our righteousness over and against others.

Ash Wednesday refuses to let us have any of that. 

Lent is a season of accusation, and ever ringing reminder that we are not as we ought to be. We can’t even practice our piety publicly because we do so not because of our commitment to God, but because we want to be seen by others.

Ash Wednesday, the irony of making our foreheads notwithstanding, has nothing to do with our goodness or our piety, it has nothing to do with how many bad habits we’re going to try to drop, or how many good ones we try to adopt. 

Ash Wednesday, oddly enough, is about grace.

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The ashes in the sanctuary point us toward the strange and devious links between sin, death, and even rebellion. The words I say, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” come from Genesis when Adam and Eve receive punishment for their sin. Judgment, Peter reminds us, comes first for the household of God. The ashes remind us of our fragility and finitude. 

But more important than the ashes themselves is the fact that we receive them in the form and shape of the cross.

Therefore, the ashes are both a reminder of our failure, and Christ’s victory, all at once. 

This is the day that we are bold to confess our truth, we are sinners, we are failures, we are not righteous.

We have not loved God with our whole hearts, we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves, we have failed to be an obedient church, all of that. 

And yet, Christ dies for us while we are yet sinners, and that proves God’s love toward us.

Which means, despite how hard the words are for me to say, or even for you to receive, the crosses on our foreheads are the great declaration of God that there is nothing we can do or leave undone that will ever separate us from God’s love in Christ Jesus.

Lent, contrary to how we might imagine it, is not about how angry God is with us for our sins. Even though God has every right to be angry with us. Lent is actually all about how God, in Christ, intervenes on our behalf to make a way where there is no way. We, therefore, don’t practice our piety publicly or privately in order to appease God. We instead receive these ashes as a sign of the great gift of grace that comes to us no matter what.

Jesus’ rebuke against practicing our piety publicly, particularly as we enter the season of Lent, they cut straight to the heart. But sometimes that’s exactly what we need. Our hard-heartedness often renders us convinced that we have to earn our ticket to heaven whereas the crosses on our foreheads reminds us that heaven has already come to us. 

In the end, we are not called to be good, or virtuous, or even pious. We are called to be disciples. And discipleship is often nothing more than following Jesus toward the cross.

The cross reminds us that we can’t fix ourselves. In any other place and any other institution that is unmitigated bad news. But here, in the church, it’s the Gospel. It’s good news because nobody, not the devil, not the world, not even ourselves can take us away from the love that refuses to let us go. 

Or, as Paul put it, “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me; and the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” Amen.