Our Ashes, God's Breath

 

Psalm 51:1-12, 17

The ashes we use on Ash Wednesday come from burned palms - palms waved with Hosannas and high hopes at Jesus’s coming, then discarded in confusion and disgust when what came next was death instead of victory and triumph.  

There is an honesty and familiarity in the ashes. They’re personal. They represent the incineration of our lost hopes and ruined plans, our decimated dreams and broken relationships. They come from “the debris of good intentions, the residue of our mistakes and failures.” (R.A.)

From ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

 One commentator says, “The[se] words do not refer to some universal concept of inanimate matter nor is the dust from an outside source. No, the ashes are us. The dust is the actualities of our lives. Our physical bodies. Our passions, limitations, mistakes and memories. Our families and friends. Our streets and neighbourhoods. The world in which we live. Our embodied journeys in time and place.”  (Rodney Aist - Wild Goose)

These are the ashes of the burned stores and restaurants in Minneapolis as our city and country cried out in anguish and anger, and this is the dust of the ripped out walls in our church basement to open up space for new life. This is the dirt in which we’ve buried those we love and lost this year, and the dirt from which we grew tomatoes and zucchini to share with our neighbors through the summer. These are the ashes of our bonfires on the church lawn, sitting 10 feet apart when we could not gather side by side indoors. They're the dirt on the boots that trampled through our nation’s capital sounding out loud the chasm of division and pain in the heart of our nation. And these are the spent embers of our energy and enthusiasm for more of this pandemic kind of life after months and months of isolation and distance. 

But “from the cinders of the cross come the soil of resurrection.” (R.A.) From our death, our brokenness and impossibility, God moves to bring new life.  God breathes life into dust to create the Adam, the creature of the earth, Adamah.  We are made from dust, and we bring to God the dust of our lives knowing "what God can do with dust." (as Jan Richardson says.) 
 
Each year at Lent we return to these ashes, as the emptiness, nothingness, from which our God creates. This is the soil we offer to God to grow new life – in us, and in the world. 

It is a relief to gather this way. To see visibly our mortality on the faces of those looking back at us across a screen. We are a community of honesty, and it is here that God meets us.
 
Now we wait. 

We cultivate a spirit of waiting. Waiting for God to do what only God can do. For God to do what God does. 

Lent is a gift. We rest in the honesty and the waiting. 

We hold up our ashes to God and watch for what God will do with them.
May you be blessed in your Lenten wait.


PRAYER PRACTICE
Our Lenten prayer journals are a way for us to pause and process as we receive each week and set intentions for the following week. 

This week:What do these ashes on your own face represent to you? What are the ashes you bring to God, seeking resurrection and life?

Where Jesus Is

 

Mark 9:2-9

It’s so cold out there that one of our church families froze clothing into statues in their yard, and someone in my facebook feed froze an egg half cracked open, balanced in the air on a frozen puddle of egg white on the sidewalk like a pedestal. It’s so cold you can hammer a nail into wood with a frozen banana, and throw boiling water in the air to make a puff of cloud that doesn't fall back down.  Maybe those are the ways to celebrate what has come to be called The Transfiguration, because words can’t do it justice.
 
Jesus knew words couldn’t work here. He tells them not to talk about this moment till after he’s risen from the dead, when they’ll recognize that the laws of physics, and life and death, and time and space don’t always apply, and it will be fun to recall that one time on the mountain when Jesus all glowey and the mvps of the faith were back from the dead chatting him up.  
Still, they whispered to each other all the way back down the mountain, “What does he mean by risen from the dead?” 
Because, whattity what??
 
So maybe next year on Transfiguration Sunday we’ll just listen to ethereal music, or watch amazing colors, or contemplate some unfathomable intricacy of nature or boundless mystery of space instead of turning to words to try to understand what’s happening here. 
 
But perhaps the gift of this scene –for us today but for the disciples there on the mountain and for Jesus himself – is the mystery of it. The inexplicableness of the encounter.   
 
Peter at least has his wits about him enough to recognize that whatever this is, it’s important, so he jumps in with a strategy, Let’s just stay here never leave; we’ll make each of you a dwelling.  But he’s quickly shushed by an almighty cloud, and by the words of the gospel writer apologizing for him – he didn’t know what he was saying, you guys, because they all were terrified.
 
This captures it all! Peter thought. The glory of Jesus revealed! Here is where we should stay. Here is where the truth is, the way is, the life is. Right here. 
 
But the moments of mystery and wonder are not where Jesus remains.  As soon as they get back down the mountain they are confronted by the utterly anguished father of a child tormented by illness and demons, whom their prayers couldn’t heal. And in Matthew, Mark and Luke, these two scenes come back to back, like a boxed set, like they belong together: the mountaintop glory and the valley despair.  You can’t have the one without the other. 

Who is Jesus? Both of these. We see him revealed in the limitlessness of the inexplicable mystery and wonder on top of the mountain AND in the heartbreaking barriers of impossibility below. Both are where Jesus is, and both are part of the disciples’ experience of following him. 
 
Jesus says to the boy’s dad, “How long has he been like this?” And he invites the father to tell his story of pain, to speak of the affliction his son has experienced his whole life. How long have you suffered? And Jesus listens and receives him. Then he heals the boy, and blesses the father, and calls the disciples again to follow.
 
The voice on the mountain said, This is my son, the beloved, the embodiment of my love, listen to him. The same voice said at his baptism, This is my son the beloved, in whom I delight. Then immediately Jesus was sent into the wilderness where he was tempted to use his power to protect and save himself, tempted to get the recognition he deserves. Hungry, tired, weak and emotionally spent, he was tempted to claim and stay in the glory. But instead, he chose to claim and dwell in his humanity and weakness. And there is where God’s angels were able to minister to him, and restore his strength. And he was sent to minister from that place of being met by God in his weakness and need. 
 
Why can’t we just live up on the mountain in touch with the transcendence all the time? Peter thought, What else matters when there is this? 
 
And yet, there is also that. And Jesus came for that, not for this. Jesus came for the broken children and the anguished fathers and the temptations we all face. 
We swing between the mountains and the valleys, the transcendent glimpses that there is something more, tastes of joy or terror, moments where we feel absolutely alert and awake to the deeper, where words don’t make sense and can’t contain it, and the complications, temptations, stuckness, brokenness, sorrow, desperation, impossibility.
 
The world the needs redeeming; we need ministering to. And while the inexplicable glimpses of glory feed us, God’s redemption ultimately doesn’t come through these mysterious, unexplainable moments of transcendence.  It comes through the transcendent one taking on our humanity and letting what breaks us break him too. It comes when Jesus dies, just like every one of us and all those we have loved and will love will die. It comes when Jesus goes through death and comes out the other side and death no longer has the power to define or determine reality, and the glory and the brokenness come together in the person of the risen Christ.  
 
And so much of life is lived not even purely on the mountains or in the valleys or even in the wild swings between, but in the midst, the both/and – where in the midst of the sorrow we have a flash of joy, in the midst of the tension, a feeling of letting go, in the midst of fear, a moment of trust and absolute love. And very often we don’t have words for these glimpses of glory; they are not experiences that make clear, logical sense.
 
So we are asked to live in the paradox. Always. In the tension and the honesty of it –that the complications and temptations and divisions and weakness are real and they feel insurmountable. But also that we are held in a reality that transcends all the limits and boundaries of this world and calls us to something deeper, and wider, and eternal, that holds us all together in love. Both are true at the same time. Just like Jesus was both fully God and fully human. 
 
We exist inside the constraints of this world in all our messy, broken, impossible situations, but also inside a bigger story of love so powerful it transcends all limits of space and time. We live in the paradox of the piercing division in our families, communities and country, and also connection and belonging so deep we are joined not only with those around us but also with those gone before and those to come.
  
Our faith exists in tension, the paradox that runs deeper than logic.  
So we watch for the glimpses of beyond while we live utterly here.
 
Can we entrust ourselves to the one who embodies absolute love and walks this earth as the great paradox of God’s unlimited otherness and also persistent nearness?  The father of the boy trapped in seizures says it best, I believe, help my unbelief. I trust, help my untrusting heart. 
 
Jesus will soon say again to Peter, James and John, “Come with me” and they’ll follow him to the garden, where he will pray with so much fear and intensity that he sweats blood, begging God not to have to face death. I can’t help but think these three needed thismoment to get them through that moment.  But maybe so did Jesus.  Unspeakable glory and wonder exist alongside unspeakable horror and suffering.  Jesus takes on our horror to bring us into his glory.
 
There is one command in this text: Listen to him. Listen to Jesus. And sure, you could go back and read the things in the bible that he said and let those in. That would be a lovely way to listen to him.  See who Jesus is, what he says, what he does, let that speak to you. 
 
But also, just listen. Maybe we can cultivate a posture of openness to Jesus. In his humanity, in his divinity, in his risenness and presence with us even now. 
 
Jesus, help us listen to you.  

You who were tempted and afraid, who cried and died, you who sits at the right hand of God far above all powers, through whom the whole earth had its life spoken into being. You who listen and receive the whole of us and our stories when you set us free and bring us healing. 
 
We’re tired, Jesus. We’re despairing. We’re divided and in pain. We’re struggling. Some of us are sick. Some of us are angry. Some of us are lost, or hopeless, or afraid.  
 
Help us listen to you. We want to see you and what you are doing. We want to live guided by your love—nothing less, nothing else. 
 
So help us to follow you where you lead, and seek you where dwell – right alongside one another in our weakness and our need – where you minister to us as we minister to each other. There is the way, the truth and the life, there you are.  

And from time to time, to help us through the valleys, please give us the mountaintop moments of mystery and wonder too. Thank you.  

Amen.

Almighty, Adoring God

 

Isaiah 40:21-31

I recently did a google search for “scriptures about fatigue” “bible verse about being tired,” and instead of getting verses from the Psalms like, my bones are heavy, I can barely lift my head, I got a big long list of scriptures about how to fix being tired or be careful not to get tired. “Your body is a temple,” “lift your drooping hands” “love not sleep lest you come to poverty; open your eyes and you will have plenty of bread.” And then it also helpfully suggested, “Based on your search, people also ask, ‘Is being tired a sin?’”  
 
But just like there are difficult people in the bible, there is lots of tiredness in the bible.  Because there are humans in the bible. Our Scripture today is addressing people who have been living in exile for 70 years.  They are exhausted. They are faith-worn and weary. They’ve kind of given up hoping. Their answers to ‘what is a good life and how do we live it?’ have had to change. They’ve had to adapt their answers to be things they didn’t chose, to settle into a life they never intended to be living. But now they’re accustomed to it and the idea of this ending and having to muster the energy to go back where they came from and start up that life again feels impossible.
 
Who is this God and what is God up to?  That’s a question they’ve almost stopped asking.  What’s the point? It just gets painful and complicated to muck about in the wondering.  Did God abandon them and let them be captured? Is God too weak to protect them? Or does God not really care about them? Why stir it all up?
 
So now, they can go back to Jerusalem. But do they want to?  Their trust in God is worn a bit thin, their imagination is dulled for what was or could be, and they are wearied by even the thought of starting over and rebuilding. So, the prophet is nudging them, inviting them, as one commenter puts it, “to poke around in the ashes of a long-dormant faith to find a small spark still left.” (Charles L Aaron Jr, Working Preacher).
 
All of chapters 40-55 in Isaiah are what scholars called, “Second Isaiah,” written to a people in exile, inviting them to remember who God is.  Encouraging, gently cajoling them to wake up to recognize both God’s unsurpassed power and might, and God’s loving care, to let themselves trust because God is trustworthy.  
 
The ancient Hebrews believed the earth was enclosed in a dome, like a snow globe, and God sits above the dome of the heavens holding back the waters of chaos.  Almighty, all powerful, ruler of everything. 
 
Friday, while my daughter and I were snowshoeing, feeling invincible, racing across the top layers of knee-deep snow, and then feeling ridiculous, waddling awkwardly across plowed paths in our giant unwieldy footwear, she commented that humans are adorable.  
“What do you mean?” I asked.  
“Think about it,” she said.  “Humans are so cute! We are not aquatic creatures, and yet we love to play in the water. So we put on special water outfits and go paddle around in it. Or we decide we want to go to the moon so we build spaceships and go there and bring back some rocks, like, Look! A souvenir! Humans are so cute!”
 
We are like adorable little grasshoppers in God’s terrarium.  
There is no doubting whose world it is, or who has the ultimate power in this world. And it’s not anyone or anything inside the terrarium. Not shifting circumstances, not rulers or regimes that come and go like shallow weeds that get blown down, not our fellow grasshoppers, that’s for sure.  
 
To whom will you compare me? God asks.  

Lift your head from what’s in front of you and look around at the vastness that is so beyond you, and yet held by God, who knows each and every single star and far flung planet and doesn’t lose track of a single one. 
Then he goes on to say, as Eugene Peterson paraphrases it in the Message, 
 Why would you ever complain, O Jacob,
    or, whine, Israel, saying,
“God has lost track of me.
    God doesn’t care what happens to me”?
Don’t you know anything? Haven’t you been listening?
God doesn’t come and go. God lasts.
    God is Creator of all you can see or imagine.
 
This God does not wear out, or give up, or need rest. (And yet God does rest, by the way. More on that in a couple of weeks).  No, this God gives power to the faint and strength to the powerless! Even the young and energetic get tired, even strong athletes collapse with exhaustion. But those that wait on God will renew their strength. 
 
This is one of our, “Don’t get tired, or here’s how to fix it if you do.” verses that we like to put on posters and coffee mugs and bookmarks.  Here’s a strategy to run and not grow weary – look to God.  Or to put it more starkly, If you really had faith you wouldn’t get tired.  But that is not what this is saying. Our translation doesn’t quite capture the meaning of the eagles’ wings thing – it not like an eagle spreading its mighty wings and easily taking flight, it’s more like an eagle molting its feathers and getting brand new wings.
 
Wait on God, the prophet says. 

It’s not your job to muster the strength for what’s in front of you, not even to figure out the next step.  God will give you the direction and the strength for what is to come. It will be God’s strength imparted to you.
 
It’s impossible to go back. Going back is not really an option. That world is over. That life is done. The Israelites far from home for decades have changed; home itself has changed.  What they will be going to will be different. It is a move forward, with God, led by God, into something new, by the strength of God.  In a few chapters, Isaiah will tell them exactly this- God is doing a new thing, do you not perceive it?
 
Obviously we are not in exile.  And yet… and yet. 
This is our 48^th Sunday worshiping together online.  It has been almost an entire year since we “temporarily paused” gathering in person.  Our kids finished a school year out of school and most likely will finish another one this way as well.  In the meantime, restaurants we love have closed (or burned down), patterns of work and life were disrupted and altered, nearly a half a million of us in this country have died of covid, and 2 ½ million in our world.  We’ve had to adapt to things we didn’t choose, to settle into a life we never intended to be living.
 
We will go back, the day will come. But it wont be back. It will be forward into something new and different.  It will take imagination and energy for rebuilding, revamping, revitalizing what has been shut down and redirected.  And most of us are exhausted, not sure how we are going to make it through the rest of this, not to mention that.   
 
And in the midst of it we are apparently googling things like, Is it a sin to be tired?  
 
Friends, some of us haven’t been alone – except for in the shower – in months and months. Others of us have only been alone for months and months.  We are not wired to live this way. We need each other. We need community. We need lives of input and dialogue, of celebrations shared and grief alongside. We need touch. And sometimes we need to not. always. every. single. minute. be. touched. 
This life is hard. It’s not easier.  Maybe you need to hear it again because it has been a while since we’ve said it overtly – this is really, really hard. Not being able to take things for granted, thinking through every move. Plans always about to be canceled, hopes always about to be dashed.  Living under the shadow of threat and risk. Constantly weighing safety and risks, navigating masks and distancing, negotiating people’s differing boundaries and strong feelings about those boundaries.  Tracking cases, and variants, and deaths, and treatments, and vaccines. Bearing the economic implications and political tensions.  This is an exhausting life. It’s a slow leak of energy all the time.  And then we act surprised or feel guilty when we feel weary.  We should feel weary. And we should listen to that feeling and not judge or ignore it.  This is a life that requires more rest, more gentleness, more patience with ourselves and each other.

And at some point, this uncomfortable life that we’ve adjusted to will end, and we will “go back” – except it will be different. We will be different. And what we go to will be different. 
 
So then or now, at all times, our job is to trust God. To entrust our weariness to God. To wait on God to lead us forward into the future we can’t envision for ourselves. And to trust that when God does, God will give us all the energy we need to participate in the rebuilding.  God will give us new wings.  
 
To whom can we compare this God? No one. There is no one like God. And this God cares for us.  Take heart, beloved ones. God gives power to the faint and strengthens the powerless.  That’s us.  God has got us.
 
Amen.