“Yet even now...”

Sermon for Ash Wednesday

Saint Peter's | Arlington, VA

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17 Psalm 103:8-14 Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

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Happy Valentines Day, Beloveds—hope you didn’t forget to pick-up a bouquet of mortality! Well, just in case... I got you covered.

In a widely circulated poem, the Irish peacebuilder, theologian, and poet, Padraig O’Tuama, reflects on this thing of being human. Here are the opening lines to his poem titled “The Facts of Life:”

That you were born and you will die.

It is a bluntly straightforward observation that is rather simple enough—but delivers cold, hard facts, nonetheless. And the following lines continue with the some pithy honesty:

That you will sometimes love enough and sometimes not. [...] That you will lie if only to yourself. That you will get tired. [...] That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of your attention. [...] That life isn’t fair.That life is sometimes good and sometimes even better than good. That life is often not so good.

Now, like any good work of art—and much like the nature of so many of the psalms—as the poem unfolds something new is discovered:

That life is real and if you can survive it, well, survive it well with love and art and meaning given where meaning’s scarce.

And then, with this new trajectory, the poem concludes with these final “Facts of Life:”

That you will probably be okay. That you must accept change before you die but you will die anyway. So you might as well live and you might as well love. You might as well love. You might as well love.

What begins as a rather bleak reality slowly stumbles its way into something else. Something different. And more than just contentment or a mere resignation, it is filled with a vigorous joie de vivre.

There is more to fully inhabiting life, it suggests, than a set of rigid either/or predicaments. Rather, it is full of a both/and-like wonder. A wonder that is life-giving as much as it is deeply humbling.

A similar shift takes place in our lesson from Joel. The prophet sets a gloomy scene, and then three very simple words pierce through the ominous clouds: “Yet even now...” As our readers theatrically demonstrated for us a moment ago, there is a shift in tone.

Our readings and liturgy this evening facilitate an energetic tension. Much like our own back and forth engagement and participation with one another tonight, Ash Wednesday brings multiple things into conversation with one another. Things like...

You and I are but dust, mere dirt of the earth

—and yet every beloved molecule of our being is infused with stardust...

Our wayward, sinful ways rightfully kindle God’s anger

—yet even so, “the merciful goodness of the Lord endures forever”...

Take care to practice your piety in secret

—and do so with a cross marked on your forehead...

It’s an interesting dialogue—especially amid red roses and heart-shaped chocolates.

Ironically though, in bringing together the whole of our lives, this morbid reminder brings us closer to really, actually living... Which is precisely what God desires. As the Psalmist instructs, “Rend your hearts and not your garments.”

But even while God is after what is truly real within us, it is all-too-easy to instead offer up public displays carefully curated to disguise the parts of ourselves of which we are ashamed. The places within us where we are most vulnerable, most in pain, most desperately in need... And for as inadequate and unsatisfying as this selective disclosure is, it sure is convenient.

Because honestly exposure can be deeply humbling—and even utterly mortifying. Rarely is it comfortable to admit there is a void for which we alone are insufficient to meet. And perhaps, there may even be some discomfort in watching someone else make this admission. It’s all just a bit intimate isn’t it?

Now, the comically ironic part to this symbol of ash which we shouldn’t do publicly, is that it merely brings to light what has been true all along. The thing we know deep within ourselves yet try so hard to conceal: we are people of need. There’s really nothing secretive about it. As much as we may convince ourselves we are self-sufficient, everyone else can see quite plainly that we are not—almost as if it were written on our forehead.

This symbol then is a public proclamation of inadequacy. It is a confession—to God, to others, and to ourselves—of weakness and need. We confess in this season of penance that we cannot avoid being human. With all of its finitude, frailty, and painful faltering.

Now, let me assure you, in acknowledging this truth you will not unravel. You will even be more than just “probably okay.” Instead of diminishing the size of our lives, embracing the reality of our humanity begins our return to the source of life itself...

This evening, in the center of this conversation, shines the paschal candle. It is the anchor point around which we orbit. In a few moments, we will each be invited to come forward where ashes will be imposed on our foreheads. And in moving through this space together, we will each draw near to this light of Christ’s Love that illumines our night.

Now, with our attention on this flickering flame for a moment, I invite you to hear and let these words of assurance sink into your very marrow:

“The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”

So then, as beautifully broken, sinful, dearly beloved people in need of wholeness, come and let this season move you closer to the source of Love that mends together each and every fragment of your being.

Amen