(This post is an edited version of a sermon originally given at the Episcopal Church of St. John the Baptist in Wausau, WI on April 2, 2017)
Well, our journey through Lent is
almost over. It was already 5 weeks ago that we gathered on the last Sunday
after Epiphany and looked at the story of the Transfiguration. And we spoke of
seeing Jesus, and maybe even one another, again with brand new eyes.
And then, just a few days
later we made our way into the season of Lent—a season of deep introspection
and reflection. On Ash Wednesday our priest, Father David, marked us with ashes and in rather stark, blunt words he reminded us that “we are dust, and to dust we will
return.” Lent, among other things, is certainly a time of humility. It is not
only this, but it is a time to reflect on our limitations and our sin. It is
even a time to acknowledge, perhaps, the role that our shortcomings and
limitations play in the passion and crucifixion. We are, after all, tied in
with the whole fabric of humankind.
For as much as we celebrate
the greatness of human accomplishments and in those accomplishments, see a
connection—a bit of ourselves—so too, we must also admit that we share in the
frailties and faults that lie at the worst of humanity as well. Though we like
to play the mental comparison games that allow us to hold ourselves in a
separate category from hard criminals or those we consider to be lost, the hard
reflection and introspection of Lent will eventually force us to see our own
brokenness and in that brokenness to also know how closely knit together we are
with all of humanity. We are a mixed bag, or as Martin Luther famously put it,
we are “sinner and saint”.
As this Lent draws to a
close, I think of the events that took place right here in the Wausau area a
week and a half ago. Our hearts ache for the innocent victims and their
families, but so too does my heart ache for the one so twisted up and lost in
his own brokenness that he couldn’t see a better way out… Even more, we know
that such occurrences are far too common in our world. “Why?” we wonder, “Why
do these things have to happen?” We might even shake a rightfully angry fist at
God when we ask, “Why?”
And in this season of Lent we
wonder, “Why does Christ have to go to the cross?” Was it because the religious
authority had it out for him? Because the Romans felt threatened? Because the
Father needed him to? That doesn’t really make sense to me. Because of the sins
of the world? Because of your sin? Because of mine? Why” There is no ultimate
or truly satisfying answer to that question. There is only the truth that this story
is now a part of our story. And that story, too, is a mixed bag—so much good, and
so much bad right there along with it.
And so we wrestle with it.
And in the church we devote a whole season to this wrestling. The other day in
our book study we noted how counter-cultural it is to engage with the season of
Lent and to actually “celebrate” days like Good Friday. For it’s not a
celebration at all is it? No, to enter into Lent and where it leads is to go
right into the hard, mysterious places of life and to embrace the whole of it.
Lent leads us to the sorts of
places in our readings for today—places like the valley of the dry bones in
Ezekiel or places where Jesus too is overcome by the brokenness of it all and
weeps right along with us—where even he seems to be asking, “why does it have
to be like this?”
We see in these scenes our
own limitations once again. In Ezekiel, God tells the prophet that the dry
bones are the whole house of Israel. The house of Israel—the symbol for all of
humanity—cries out, “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off
completely.” To go deep into Lent is to face these hard places. To go deep into
Lent is to wind up where hope seems lost and we feel cut off. Of course, we
know that Ezekiel also holds out a promise of the things that God will do, just
as in Lent we see the promise of who Jesus is and what God can and will do.
But
I notice something else in this Ezekiel text. What stands out to me in this
humble season is the role that Ezekiel plays. See, this isn’t just a story of
God doing something spectacular by giving life to the dry bones. No, this is a
story of God giving life to the dry bones through
Ezekiel—Ezekiel is in the valley and it is Ezekiel who speaks the words that
bring bone to bone. And it is Ezekiel who speaks breath into those bones
saying, “Thus says the Lord GOD: Come from the four winds, O breath, and
breathe upon these slain, that they may live.”
And
it is only when Ezekiel has done it that the bones have life. See! Here in this vision we have the high and the
low, the mixed-bag nature of humankind all wrapped up into one. We are both the
dry bones of the house of Israel—the dry bones who can do nothing on our own,
the dry bones who at times lose all hope—but we are also exemplified by
Ezekiel! We humans are the ones empowered to partner with God in God’s movement
in this world, to create, to give life.
We’ve been given dominion
over the animals of the field, we build homes and buildings, bridges and
cities. We create technology we make a giant web of computers and cables and
satellites that connect us all. We are dust,
and to dust we will return, but we are some amazing, God-empowered dust while
it lasts!
And not only that, but in all
of our striving and struggle to make our way here in this world, we actually do
give life as well. Not as Ezekiel did with the dry bones and not as Jesus did
in raising Lazarus. But we give life in the smaller ways of our interactions
with one another. We give life in our relationships. We give life when we help
a friend through a hard time. We give life when we serve a meal to one another.
We give life when we do all that we can to make sure that no one is given over
to the hopelessness of the dry bones. Sometimes we give life, simply by being
present and acknowledging one another.
It
reminds me of a conversation from the podcast On Being. In that program, Krista
Tippett interviewed a man named Bruce Kramer. Bruce was a professor of music in
Minneapolis who was suffering from ALS and nearing the last stages of his life.
At one point Bruce recalled how, as his body began to really fail him, he
encountered what he referred to as “the look.”
“The look” was a certain way
in which peoples’ eyes would gloss over when they encountered him. Eventually,
he would see the look, even in the eyes of colleagues and friends who knew him
well. He couldn’t completely describe it, but he explained how they seemed to
be looking through him, or as he said, “choosing not to be present” with him.
His body was failing him, but his mind was still sharp. What he saw in others
was the fact that they no longer saw him. They saw only his body, only his
disability… Can you imagine it? They were no longer engaging him, they were no
longer in relationship with him, there was no longer any life present between
them.
But the conversation wasn’t
about feeling bad for Bruce, it was about what he had learned. He realized how
easy it is not to see people and to thereby deny them their personhood. He
learned—through his disease—that we do indeed have the power to give or
withhold life.
Friends, as we continue our
journey into the hard places at the end of this season, and as we see the
fullness of our humanity—it’s fragility, it’s brokenness and sin, but also it’s
god-empowered and life-giving capacity—let us be aware that we are a mixed-bag.
We are sinner and saint. And let us
recognize the responsibilities we have. Let us embrace the opportunities we
have to work with God to give life. As Easter people we know that we are to
look for and be about resurrection in this world. Let us remember that it might
be through us, through you and me, that God works that resurrection. Let us
seek to see and acknowledge one another and the people of our community and to
see where we, simple dust that we are, can stand in with our presence and voice
and give life to those around us. –Amen.
