Ash Wednesday Sermon

Next Wednesday, I give the Ash Wednesday sermon (twice—noon and 7 PM). Ash Wednesday has always been a bit of a curiosity for me, for although I grew up in a heavily Roman Catholic state (Maryland), most of the Catholic kids went to their parochial schools, so we never saw them. And we never saw the cross on their foreheads. Never had one on mine either.

We were always sort of reticent about religious symbols. Though most of my friends were Jewish, you would never have known to look at them. Boys never wore yarmulkes. If a girl wore a cross on a necklace, we thought of it as just a pretty symbol, nothing religious.

Next Wednesday I get an ash cross on my forehead. And I preach about it. And the text is Matthew 6 "Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them."

Now what? The writers of the lectionary have set me a pretty dilemma.

Let's back off a bit. I've spent most of my adult life associated with universities and colleges. Almost every building I have worked in has had someone's name attached to it, and even though we normally forget who these people were, the point was to memorialize a rich donor. On my campus, one of the dorms was Liggett because the tobacco magnate gave money for it. I attended classes is Busch because the beer manufacturer was a donor. Now I teach in Dauch, named after a man who made his money in auto parts (a less ominous trade than tobacco or beer).

Back in Jesus' day, wealth was seen as a sign of God's favor, and public praying and fasting was a way to show off how devoted one was. it was a great way to get public honor and praise. I think that's what Jesus is warning us against.

I'm always uneasy when some noted religious person stands in front of a TV camera to give a public prayer. When someone compliments the way someone prayed in a public meeting, that sets my teeth on edge. Some of the prayers God likes best are not too artistic—Romans 8:26 says the Spirit helps our prayers when we just cannot do it with good words.

So what about that mark on my forehead? I don't think it's a case of "Little Jack Horner" Christianity ("He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum, and said 'What a good boy am I.'") It's more a mark of ownership and possession. After all, we burned the Palm Sunday fronds to make the ashes. Those were earthly signs of Jesus' kingship. He's the king. Not me. It's not a smiley face. It's a symbol that someone died for me. It's a symbol of death and burning and destruction. It's also a mess and hard to get off. I'm stuck with the thing all day. I didn't put it there. I don't deserve any real credit. It's all Christ's doing.

I or We?

A few weeks ago, we had a Sunday morning visit from Brad Purdom, Canon for Congregations. He was supposed to be doing an "instructional Eucharist," and I thought I knew what to expect. "Here's when you cross yourself, and here's why."

Not bad stuff. Kind of interesting. Useful if you aren't too comfortable with the usual Episcopal way of doing things.

That's not what he did.

I have probably forgotten half of what he said, but the half that remains is that when we get together on a Sunday morning, it's all about US the corporate Christian entity, not about the I of my personal devotional life.

That emphasis is all through the liturgy. The confession of sins is first person plural. A prayer we all repeat every Sunday begins "Our Father." Several versions of the Nicene Creed are available, but the one for Sunday worship begins, "We believe."

Like most really good teaching, this one elicits the response, "Why didn't I catch that before? Of course!"

This isn't the way my previous Christian experience went. My memory of Eucharist is primarily of sitting in a pew, balancing a thimble of grape juice and considering my personal relationship with God. My memory of preaching (whether sermons I gave or sermons I heard) is almost all about a personal response to the Gospel: What am I going to do about it? Even the modern Charismatic movement, with all the corporate singing and dancing, is primarily focused on my emotional response to God. "Was Sunday worship good?" = "Did I enjoy it?"

I don't think Purdom wanted to eliminate personal response to God; in fact, I know that's a very vivid part of his message. But this was different. We, as a group, are the body of Christ, and Sunday in an Episcopal church is a celebration of that unity.

Christendom?

When I was younger, the Christian world was divided rather neatly into about three camps. There were the Liberals, the Conservatives (with their awkward cousins the Fundamentalists), and the Roman Catholics. Nobody was quite sure where to put the Episcopalians, so they usually landed in the Liberal category, along with the mainline churches such as the Congregationalists and the Presbyterians. I remember one speaker (at a Methodist church) saying that Presbyterians were just Methodists with money.

Each group was pretty content looking at all the others and saying, "Well, you're not a Christian, are you?" More than once at a youth conference I heard someone give the testimony that "I used to be a Roman Catholic, but then I became a Christian."

In those comfortable days, when we were so self-assured in our niche, the big news media more or less ignored Christian faith issues. If a church had a special music program or dedicated a new building, the news might show up in the Religion section of the Sunday paper, but about the only news that broke out of that cubbyhole was something truly groundbreaking, such as consecrating an openly gay bishop.

Things have changed. Now you can easily find opinion columns in the Washington Post, Newsweek, and other major secular news media discussing core issues of Christian faith and doctrine. One recent example was a column in the Washington Post titled "The Trump evangelicals have lost their gag reflex."

I see this new public awareness as the result of several forces:

1. Beginning at least as far back as the Supreme Court abortion decision (Roe v. Wade in 1973), a major faction of the Conservatives decided that their path to actualizing God's Kingdom on Earth was through politics, not preaching. (To be fair, the Liberals had adopted similar priorities during the Civil Rights protests a decade earlier.)
2. Conservative Christians had never voted much, and during the comfortable 1950s, the dominant culture had supported most of their priorities. As the 1970s and 1980s became more frighteningly diverse, these voters became an easy prey for politicians who promised a return to the good old days.
3. Single-issue voting became quite normal. More than one person told me that he/she was voting for Donald Trump because he was opposed to abortion, and that one issue defined whether he was the Christian candidate.
4. Because of this single-issue focus, good church folk were quite willing to swallow non-Christian behaviors and attitudes in other areas. If a candidate was opposed to abortion and/or gay marriage, some folk can easily put up with sexual harassment, racial bigotry, selfishness, and a general disregard of the values most of us have called "Christian" for centuries.

Thus we arrive in a place where "Christian" means "maintaining the status quo of the 1950s and ignoring a lot of activities that victimize others—especially if those others aren't much like me."

The mainstream media are taking notice and are heaping scorn on this kind of religion.

Where should Episcopalians stand in all this?

Every Sunday morning, our priest follows the sermon with these words, "Let us stand and reaffirm our faith in the words of the Nicene Creed." That's a good place to begin, reaffirming our faith and identity as members of the Episcopalian arm of the Jesus Movement:

1. Faith in Christ is central. "Christian" does not mean "supporting traditional American values." It means a radical commitment to Jesus and to His priorities, even when they might be uncomfortable. If someone (whether Roman Catholic or Conservative Baptist) shares this commitment, we are members of the same family.
2. Hatred and fear are not part of our Gospel. That's difficult to remember because it is so easy to hate people who distort the truth and spread anti-Christian propaganda in the name of Christ. We must not hate them either.
3. Jesus has a special place in His heart for the poor, the outcast, the rejected. If we are to be his followers, we need to have the same attitude. Even if we suspect that someone is poor because of making unwise choices, it's not our business to judge; our business is to provide help.
4. A church that reflects the priorities of Jesus will be quite diverse. It will be multi-colored. It will be multi-ethnic. Gay people and divorced people will find a home here. Muslims and Jews will understand that we are their friends.
5. The church was never intended to be a department of the government. (OK—I know that our history belies this, but I'm going back to the "Render unto Caesar" comment.)

I'm sure there's more to say, and I'm sure that Episcopalians, being a very diverse bunch, will include quite a number who disagree with me on one or more of these points, but this is the sort of church I want to be part of.

This should be so simple

Everyone who spent a childhood in Sunday school should remember these:

The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions ... But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22)

It should be very obvious. Any religion or political philosophy that runs on hatred and jealousy is simply not a Christian religion or philosophy. Hatred, rage, and selfish ambition are not characteristics of God's Spirit.

Got it? So when a hate-filled, cross-carrying person spews out venom against some person or group, you can be pretty sure that the message did not come from the Spirit of Christ. Even if the person is carrying a cross.

The Minimum for Salvation

Back when I was in seminary, one of the professors asked just how many biblical people we are totally certain made it to heaven? OK, Jesus, but that's sort of cheating. Enoch and Elijah are good candidates because they were swept up without dying, but there is only one about whom we can really be certain. The thief on the cross.

He's the only one to whom Jesus said, "You will be with me in Paradise."

His theology is a bit thin. He believed that Jesus did not deserve to be executed, and he believed that somehow Jesus was moving toward his heavenly kingdom. That's it. His only request was "Remember me." (Luke 23:43)

In seminary, we used to ask, "What is the minimum one needs to believe in order to be saved." Again, it's quite minimal. When Paul and Silas answered the jailer's question, "What must I do to be saved?" the response is simple: "Believe on the Lord Jesus." (Acts 16:31)

Of course, this was all very confusing for students who were deep into systematic theology and church history and all the rest, but it's refreshing and reassuring. And it keeps the focus in the right place. Jesus.

Jesus plus

I remember reading a book about Christians and communal living. The book made the point that to be really a Christian, one must believe in Jesus and live in a household with other people. That seemed odd. Didn't ring true.

We see a lot of this. Believe in Jesus plus something else. Recycling. Gun control. Freedom to carry (and use) guns everywhere. Capitalist economy. Young-earth creationism.

Believe in Jesus PLUS this other thing and you will be saved, because a plain faith in Jesus isn't enough.

That REALLY rings hollow. Not the message of the New Testament.

Minus Jesus

One problem with "Jesus plus" faith is that Jesus often gets excluded from the equation. In our day we see that "Jesus plus anti-abortion" morphs into a faith that says the message of "Oppose abortion and you will be saved." "Jesus plus family values" morphs into "Support 19th century family structure and you will be saved." "Jesus plus patriotism" becomes "Support American exceptionalism and you will be saved."

Say it that way and the lie becomes apparent. If someone only opposes abortion or gay rights, many are willing to call that person a "good Christian" whether that person has any clue about Jesus or not. We even have the sordid example of a church leader claiming that it's God's will to bomb North Korea because, obviously, any threat against the American people is contrary to God's will.

What we're up against

"Jesus plus" theology always ends up losing Jesus along the way, and the current public conversation is hate-filled and self-centered, an ideal environment for churches and preachers to spring up claiming that the only point of the Bible is to oppose abortion or to oppose gay rights or to advance the political claims of the white middle class in America.

We're better than that.

I don't know about your Bible, but mine has 1220 pages, none of which mention American exceptionalism. Jesus didn't say anything about gay rights, one way or the other. The "Jesus plus" and "Minus Jesus" people will hate us for this, but we need to get on with the business of loving God and loving our neighbor, whether or not it's the politically correct path.

That was the answer Jesus gave to the rich young man who wanted to inherit eternal life. Provide for the poor. Follow Jesus. That's it. (Mark 10:21)

Our response to Charlottesville

When I was a boy, the pastor of our white, suburban Presbyterian congregation of peaceful, middle-class government workers would take time off to participate in civil rights protest marches.

My father thought that was terrible.

I realize now that our pastor was right.

It is very easy, particularly in peaceful Ashland, to assume that these troubles are "out there" and that we can get by with just blending in. We can't do that if we want to follow Jesus.

Here is where the Episcopal Church stands on white supremacy, "just blending in" and our duties to our fellow humans.

We Have Almost Made It

Rev. Kay returns from her sabbatical in a couple of weeks (I hear she got to Ireland as part of it), and my worst fears didn't materialize.

People in general—and particularly in churches that make a vivid distinction between the roles of the clergy and the laity—are tempted to think of the church as the priest/minister's private project. Their attitude is that the church is like that little local shoe store: Paul owns it; Paul sets it up his way; if Paul isn't there the thing just sort of stops. The cultural attitude toward churches is the same. (How many church ads and signs do you see that really highlight the minister's name and picture?)

So I was afraid that with Rev. Kay gone, the whole thing would come to a hideous, screeching halt. It didn't.

Our numbers have been typical for a summer. The offering plate is doing well (always a concern for a treasurer). Recent newcomers have kept attending, and so have the regulars.

Those special Saturday events were well-attended (surprise!), yet the following Sunday Morning Prayer also had people (bigger surprise!). We have one more of those this weekend (Saturday at 11 AM) because this Sunday is Transfiguration Sunday (a big deal in our church) and we couldn't get a priest to do Eucharist on Sunday.

Aside from the usual glitches (mainly focused on problems getting the Sunday program printed), it all went well. We did have one odd Sunday when we all thought we were going to do Morning Prayer, and we had people prepared to officiate and to preach—but then a priest showed up, having gotten dates confused.

I'm glad it all worked. I'm glad we were able to pull together and actually depend on one another and cooperate with one another.

And I'm glad Rev. Kay is coming back. We did miss her.