Sermon: Ash Wednesday - Lincoln College

Preacher:

Date:

Wednesday 5th March 2014

Venue:

Lincoln College, Oxford

Readings:

Isaiah 58:1-12

John 8:1-11

There's a column in the Guardian Weekend section entitled: 'What I see in the mirror'. It's an invitation to look beyond eye colour, facial features and beauty products.  Our faces tell our life-stories wordlessly. 

Peter Tatchell doesn't care about his appearance; he is content with it; but sees in the mirror the impact of his campaigning work; the lack of sleep and the injuries he's sustained. 

Laura Trott likes what she sees; she describes herself as normal and girly. She wants to be associated with sport not modelling; to be someone to look up to, for her achievements to be celebrated.

Brian Sewell is surprised by how old he looks: he doesn't see the young man he thinks he is; but someone with white-hair and dark patches under the eyes; the scars of operations; the signs that he is less sturdy now. 

Mirrors reveal marks of our character, our flaws and our potential.  We are marked by where we've come from and what has happened to us. A familiar, changing face; signs of love, pain, hope and disappointment.  What we see is more than skin deep.

Today we are confronted with the frailty and complexity of our humanity; we acknowledge the fragmented nature of lives. The mirror into which we gaze is one which not only exposes us to self-examination, but one which also opens us up to God's grace.  We know our need of repentance and forgiveness; the compelling dynamic of love between creature and creator; the power which reshapes our interactions. 

We are but dust: we are created out of the stuff of the earth; we are made in the image of God.

That reality imbues us with tremendous dignity and purpose. God creates with generosity and risk, giving us freedom to speak, act, create and wonder. We know those moments of when we take delight in the other, of find comfort in relationships, or glimpse moments of transformation, discovery and inspiration - where we glimpse God's kingdom breaking in.

There is also fragility and brokenness.

The gift of freedom means that we get caught up in things; we are distracted; we turn our attention to our own desires. Our speech judges, criticises and condemns; we are angered by words and wounded by actions; in silence we betray others and are betrayed. Our sin is our very spread-out-ness from God.

The prophet Isaiah recognises the contradictions of our human nature. We long to seek after God and to delight in his ways; yet we serve our own interests; we oppress others. Greed, selfish ambition, fear and the desire to control distort our dealings with one another. In the church, in the academy, in the concentric spheres of political, economic and social life we are away of the corrosive impact of those human traits.

Isaiah sets out the scope and substance of God's vision for humanity:  loosing bonds of injustice, bringing liberty to the oppressed, sharing food, shelter and resources.  How do we learn to love and grieve humanly? How do we handle our anger and impatience in a way that breaks cycles of misunderstanding, fear and oppression?  That is one of the hardest things to do: to know now to act in such a way as makes a real difference; to take the risk of releasing hope and generosity, rather than resentment.

We learn to let go; to align our wills to God's will.

And to dust you shall return: tonight we confront the reality of our mortality. Yet that is the place where God meets us and redeems us. Living in the face of death means letting go, relinquishing control, allowing the other to flourish. It means bearing with one another; and facing our failures. It demands courage and imagination to live intensely yet lightly.

Both the psalmist and the prophet give substance to this hope: it is God who cleanses and renews us; God who blots out our offences; God enables us to grow in wisdom and joy.  Our capacity to love and forgive is rooted in God's love and forgiveness of us. To live in attentiveness to God challenges us and changes us - grace is at work in us through the power of the Spirit.

God who has opened up space within us and alongside us. In Christ Jesus the one who creates us out of dust, calls us and redeems us. In him, God reaches out in love to draw us back. We are freed from the yoke that hinders us.  Our light shall rise, because in him we see light; in his Spirit we are restored, repaired and guided. Our capacity to respond to others without dehumanising them increases; we practice gestures of hospitality, incremental steps of self-control.

Tonight we receive on our foreheads the sign of the cross. We are reminded that in baptism we are called by name, that God says yes to us; he hates nothing he's made; as we respond to that 'yes', creates new and contrite hearts, we are reminded that we are dust and that our lives our precious. We are reminded that we face mortality and receive new life.

The cross is the sign of the cost of God's abundant love; it wordlessly calls to mind our need for forgiveness and restoration and our capacity for compassion and joy. It is not a comfortable place to stand; but it is honesty and liberating.

We are to see ourselves as God does: in our frailty and potential; we see love and forgiveness. We are invited to take time and make space.  Whatever we take on or give up this Lent, we begin by taking time to be marked with the cross, a sign of penitence, judgement and release.

Rowan Williams invites us to rescue this symbol from what he calls the banner of our own wounded righteousness.  He continues: If Jesus is indeed what God communicates to us, God's language for us, his cross is always both ours and not ours; not a magnified sign of our own suffering, but the mark of God's work in and through the deepest vulnerability; not a martyr's triumphant achievement, but something that is there for all human sufferers because it belongs to no human cause.

 

Tonight's reading from John's Gospel embodies precisely the breathing space Rowan describes: hesitation and silence.

A woman is accused.

The crowd humiliate and condemn her; they test and cajole Jesus.

Judgement is noisy and hostile.

Jesus bent down.

He wrote with his finger on the ground.

 

The questions continue to be fired at him; impatience grows.

Jesus straightened up.

Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.

He bent down; he wrote with his finger, trailing in the dust.

What is he doing?

He hesitates. He allows breathing space.

 

As Rowan puts it: he does not draw a line, fix an interpretation, tell the woman who she is and what her fate should be. He allows a moment, a longish moment, in which people are given time to see themselves differently precisely because he refuses to make the sense they want.  When he lifts his head, there is both judgement and release.

 

The crowd disperses. One by one they walk away, having seen themselves as they are; and into that silence, that breathing space, Jesus speaks words of grace and healing.

I do not condemn you; go on your way.

That is how God sees us.

Let forgiveness seep into your heart; be released from fear.

Sin no more.

Transformation begins in with dust and ash; with broken bread and out poured wine; on a night of betrayal, over supper with friends; with Christ and the cross.

Remember we are human, frail, sinful, loved, forgiven, created with a purpose.

And Rowan concludes his short mediation, words forged in the wake of bewilderment, grief and horror of 9/11, with this challenge. So this is writing in the dust because it tries to hold that moment for a little longer, long enough for some of our demons to walk away.

It is hard to wait; impatient for justice to overwhelm us.  It is only with the Spirit, enflaming and enchanting our souls, that a divine patience and healing can take hold of our lives.

Jesus bent down; he wrote with his finger, in dust.

 Go.

 With judgement and grace; with love not fear. Amen.