A Sermon for Ash Wednesday - February 14, 2024
St. Mark's Episcopal Church - Millsboro, DE
There’s a wonderful book I’ve been reading (and recommend highly) called, The
Amen Effect, by Rabbi Sharon Brous. In the early pages of the book,
Rabbi Sharon describes a passage from the Mishnah about an annual pilgrimage
that took place when the temple in Jerusalem still stood.
Hundreds of thousands of Jews “ascended to the Temple Mount, entered the
courtyard, turned to the right, and then circled and exited to the left,
except for one to whom something had happened.”
That person, who “entered and circled to the left,” would be asked why. “They
would reply: ‘I am a mourner,’ and they were blessed,” the Mishnah text
continued.
Another counter-circler might answer “Because I have been ostracized,” and also
would be blessed, although the content of the blessing is debated.
The ancient Rabbis hoped that the blessing would open the heart of the one who
had been ostracized so that they might find their way to repentance and
forgiveness and the fabric of the community would be repaired.
Rabbi
Brous says that the word "Amen," comes from the Hebrew word emunah,
meaning “to believe” or “to affirm.” The word amen serves as an acknowledgement
of the other. Yes, I believe you, I see you. Amen.
Ash Wednesday, for me, is the day when Christians enter the Temple to the left.
Some of us are in mourning, yes, but others have been ostracized; still others
may not be formally ostracized but there is a separation, a rift, in a
relationship.
Some of us are not so much mourning but rather are simply sad - sad about the
state of affairs in our families, our neighborhoods, our church, our state, our
country, or the world. Others of us know that something is wrong with us. Why
are we snapping and grumpy all the time? Why have I become so critical and
criticize everthing?
Am
I using my busyness as a sort of defense - a barrier or boundary - to keep
myself, protect myself from the need to engage with others when I just don’t
have the energy - or the desire? Because maybe they WILL see me? And then, what
will I do?
Are we really that tired and exhausted all the time, or has the sadness we
can’t really name become a form of depression? Some of us are scared and
anxious because we know our bodies - and perhaps our minds - are not what they
once were.
Ash Wednesday, as the beginning of Lent, marks us as the ones entering the
world from the Left. We’re the ones with a big black smudge of ashes on our
foreheads, announcing to the world that we understand that we are not going to
live forever, that our time on this earth is finite and limited, and that we
are struggling to come to turns with those facts.
The smudge of Ash Wednesday declares that while everyone else is walking to the
right, we are taking this time to intentionally walking to the left.
Counter-circular. Counter-clockwise. Against time. Reclaiming our time to take
the time - 40 days’ worth of time - to repent, to turn around and take steps in
another direction and consider our lives in faith from a different perspective.
We have forty days to reconsider our relationships with others and the ways in
which we might take the risk of repairing that which is wounded or sore and
tender and needs healing.
We have time - this time, this Lenten Season - in the words of that great hymn,
to “ponder anew what the Almighty can do” if we but open our hearts and our
souls and our minds and confess our imperfections, acknowledge our limitations,
and concede our shortcomings.
This is also the time to look into the eyes of the people who are walking to
the right - those who seem to do it right, to have it right and all together,
at least enough to bless us if they stop to ask why we are mourning or fasting,
or marking Lent.
Lent heightens our awareness that appearances can, indeed, be deceiving, and
when someone who is walking on the right looks at you, walking on the left, it
may well be because they recognize something in you that they know is in them,
too. Some who are walking on the right have not yet had the courage to walk on
the left, to admit that they are not perfect, that they, too, need healing and
a blessing.
Lent is a time to exchange our Alleluias for an Amen. To say to each other, “Yes, I believe you.
Yes, I see you. Yes, I recognize your pain, your struggle with questions, your
quest for answers.”
As I mark your foreheads with the ashes of the Hosannahs and Alleluias in the
palms of yesterday, let us whisper to each other, “Amen”.
Let us say silently to each other, with our eyes which are an amplification of
the soul, “I see you. I see you are a beloved child of God. I see you are
hurting in some way. I bless you. Please bless me.”
Scripture tells us that we were created out of the dust of the earth, that we
are mortal, and only God is immortal. We know that life is a fragile gift and
our time here is limited, so how can we make it better? Make ourselves better
people? Become the person God had in mind when we were conceived and created?
On this particular Ash Wednesday, the 14th of February, while the
rest of the world walks to the right and celebrates Romantic Love, let us
smudge our foreheads with the stuff of our mortality, walk to the left and
celebrate the Love of the Eternal.
Let us confess and say right out loud the words of our faith, that we believe
we are dust and to dust we shall return.
And let the church whisper to each other, “Amen”.
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