Sermon for Lent 2 A

Did you sleep well last night? I hope so…Tossing and turning as the hours tick past can be a wretched experience.

I wonder if that’s what brought Nicodemus to Jesus…Perhaps he had been mulling over something he’d heard and just couldn’t sleep till he’d cleared it up.

Jesus had started a train of thought that had ended with a really burning question…it must have been pretty overwhelming to actually get him out of bed

If you had, as the song puts it “Just one question” to put to God’s Son, I wonder what you’d choose…what you most long to hear answered….

Think on that.

Maybe even try asking him, sometime?

Meanwhile, though, back to Nicodemus.

Perhaps he's afraid of what his friends and colleagues will say if he's seen approaching this controversial itinerant preacher. Hence his nocturnal ramblings. He’s chosen the cover of darkness, because actually he’s scared.

Scared of being caught showing an unhealthy interest in Jesus.

Scared that in engaging with him, he might be identified as one of the lunatic fringe.

After all, Nicodemus is a respected figure, part of the establishment with a reputation to protect, and a lot to lose. He’s not in the same position as that ragtag handful of Galilean boatmen who could just drop everything and go where Jesus lead. He has real status – and status and Christian discipleship are always uneasy companions.

It makes sense for Nicodemus to be anxious, even fearful.

Fearful as some of our brothers and sisters in the world church still are, fearful that faith might cost them their livelihoods, even their lives.

That’s not a kind of fear we are familiar with, enjoying the freedoms we do.

We’ve come through these doors in broad daylight – and though the world may seem to walk by our west screens we don’t feel the need to put up blackout curtains, lest we be seen at worship.

The worst we face, on the whole, is a kind of incredulity – that as sensible people we would choose to spend our time in chilly buildings talking to an imaginary friend.

That may be frustrating, and should make us wonder what we might do to share our faith in ways that actually speak of God’s living reality – but it doesn’t put us in fear of our lives.

I wonder whether, in comparable circumstances, you and I would have visited Jesus by night – indeed whether we’d have actually managed to leave home at all.

Are we engaged enough to leave our beds to meet with Jesus?

Would we risk our reputations for his sake?

Would we mind being identified as disciples, if there were any inherent risk?

Again, if you’re not sure how you’d answer that, it might be worth reflecting on.

Perhaps you could talk God, or to one of his friends whom you trust…

Because really, there doesn’t seem to be much point in turning up week by week, if this whole faith thing hasn’t yet taken you by storm, nor the wind of the Spirit swept you off your feet, planting you somewhere you neither chose nor expected…

That passion that forced Nicodemus from the safety of his home by night is a gift of the Spirit that transforms the way of faith from duty to joy – and it’s something to ask for, and to celebrate.

I think that’s where Jesus was going as the conversation unfolded. Here’s Nicodemus, immured in his current way of life…believing that he’s too old for a fresh start…. But still he comes, armed with his deductions, in search of some answers..

You see, he thinks he has worked it all out.

Jesus is undoubtedly a Rabbi sent specially by God.

That’s the only explanation for the signs and wonders that so many have witnessed.

In grasping that, Nicodemus is already half way there but recognising a heaven-sent teacher is not in itself enough to propel a man from his bed in the small hours. Something more is nagging away… but he doesn't know what,- he is just aware of that vague feeling of disquiet which is often a sign that God is trying to get through to us, if only we will stand still and listen. A restless searching is another of those gifts of faith to be cherished and engaged with

Nicodemus, of course, has come to listen, to be taught, but he must have found Jesus's response at best discouraging, - positively baffling i. Instead of being congratulated on his perception, - he does recognise the presence of God when he sees it,- he is told that he can't even SEE the kingdom, still less enter it.

He’s still way off course.

He needs to be born again.

"Ah yes, born again" we say, nodding sagely, for this has become a Christian cliche over the centuries, carrying with it all sorts of associations, helpful and otherwise.

It is hard to imagine how very strange the phrase sounded to Nicodemus – who is much too adult to consider a new start.

We’re confident that we know much better than him, with his literal vision of re-entering the womb

Actually, though, his confusion has much to say to us, if we really think about a new-born baby, something I’m very keen on doing at the moment, as the granny of Eleanor Grace, now three whole weeks old. She arrived, as do we all, naked, totally helpless, dependent upon others for food, warmth, love, everything she needs to help her live and thrive.

In the same way, Nicodemus and all who seek the kingdom must become totally vulnerable and helpless before God, accepting that without him we can do nothing, that it’s never about pleasing him with our best efforts, proving our faith with acts of loving service, however much we might want to earn God’s love.

But of course, we’d rather be loved and admired for what we can do…specially in this age of achievement, when we want to believe that we have conquered the world and everything in it. Accepting that, in matters of eternal significance, we are ultimately helpless without God isn’t easy.

It wasn’t easy for the cultured, educated Nicodemus either.

Total vulnerability never is.

We want to believe that we understand the world and have mastered its way, unlike a newborn baby who comes without intellectual or emotional baggage, with literally no pre-conceptions.

Nothing is impossible, impractical, foolish, beneath that hypnotic newborn gaze.

In contrast, when we find ourselves challenged by the Gospel, too often our response is limited by our ideas of what is actually sensible, or socially acceptable. It takes a lot of courage to dump all that we have learned about how the world works, even when we are becoming aware of the shortcomings of the system…but if we are starting from scratch, we can be more genuinely open to the radical implications of the gospel message.

Being born again might look a bit like that

Finally, a baby and its parents in those very first newborn days can become all the world to each other, giving and receiving absolute unconditional love. There are no distractions for the baby: she knows no-one else to love, and has no idea that her parents, brimming with good intentions, will ever let her down. Eleanor is loved by all her family simply because she is herself. And that, wonderfully, is the way God feels about us.

He can’t HELP loving us. Amazing! Incredible, but true.

That gift of love is offered to us, today and always, by the God Nicodemus yearned for day and night.

The God we meet in Word and Sacrament.

the God who loved the world – not just the good, not just the Jews, not even just the Christians - the God who loved the WORLD so much that he sent his only Son…

A touch of perfectionism?

I'm glad that George Herbert gave me permission to lose touch with my Lenten discipline earlier in the week, or I might have been tempted to slink away altogether having not blogged since Monday. However, I have the BEST excuse, as I've been focusing my time and energy on the divine Eleanor Grace (who will have her very own blog post when my brain can catch up with my emotions, which may take some time on current showing), and dear George was very clear that it was OK to fall over and then get up and carry on - that there was no need to abandon the journey completely just because it was interrupted...so, here I am, back again, and still working on "King of Glory..."

Wherefore with my utmost art
                I will sing thee,

And it is so very tempting to assume that "utmost art" will be particularly attractive to God...

It is, actually, a particular temptation in a Cathedral, - where you are surrounded by all sorts of beauty, for 

eyes and ears alike. People come to be with us at least in part because they value an illusive 

something that might be described as "excellence in worship". 

Though I'm confident that it was God who called me to Coventry, it was the lure of working in a place where 

beautiful music was part of daily life that initially made that call accessible, even attractive.

I'm all for utmost art.

Except...Is that really what God asks of us?

There's a risk that studied perfection may become soulless...and a risk, too, that it may become an

end in itself, rather than a signpost to a beauty beyond words.

"Utmost art" can be dangerous.

Perhaps, then,my Cathedral can teach me  to look at things differently.

"To the glory of God this cathedral burned" is a startling thought to find beneath your feet as you stand

at the West Screens of my beloved Coventry, - but those words have more power for me than the 

usual inscription on foundation stones "Erected to the glory of God".

They suggest that all the beauty, all the artistry and skill that was lost when the medieval cathedral of

St Michael's, Coventry, was destroyed, and indeed all the artistry and skill that was lavished upon the

Spence cathedral that replaced it, came a poor second to the moment when all was swept away, lost

in the fire of that night in November 1940...

That's challenging, isn't it?

Utmost art, beauty designed to enthrall the senses, and draw heart and mind towards heaven,

has less power than that story of destruction and the amazing work of reconciliation that was born 

from the ashes. 

Yes, of course we long to give of our best to God in response to his indescribable gift

to us...but the point is, surely, that longing rather than the splendour of the gift.

Once upon a time, a shrewd ABM assessor intimated that I might have an issue with perfectionism.

I explained that, if there were the possibility of giving God a bouquet of roses from a garden, it 

seemed mean to contemplate substituting a wilting fistful of daisies...but that if a child brought those

daisies, they would surely be received with joy.

So - utmost art not because God can only be offered perfection. There's nothing we can do that will

come close to his own "endless perfectnesse" ...

But utmost art because as God pours out Godself for us, so we are moved to respond in kind.

It's not his need but ours that we meet here...

Love is a choice

KIng of  Glorie, King of Peace,
                I will love thee:
And that love may never cease,
                I will move thee.

Thou hast granted my request,
                Thou hast heard me:
Thou didst note my working breast,
                Thou hast spar’d me.

Wherefore with my utmost art
                I will sing thee,
And the cream of all my heart
                I will bring thee.

Though my sinnes against me cried,
                Thou didst cleare me;
And alone, when they replied,
                Thou didst heare me.

Sev’n whole dayes, not one in seven,
                I will praise thee.
In my heart, though not in heaven, 
                I can raise thee.

Thou grew’st soft and moist with tears,
                Thou relentedst:
And when Justice call’d for fears,
                Thou disentedst.

Small it is, in this poore sort
                To enroll thee:
Ev’n eternitie is to short
                To extoll thee.

Herbert was, famously, a musician - and his poetry is replete with musical 

imagery through which he attempts to define humanity's somewhat erratic 

relationship with God. But we sing his poems,too, as hymns - and so I suspect

 this was the very first of Herbert's poems I ever knew.

I can remember singing it at the Anglican Convent school I left 

before my 7th birthday.  I didn't understand much of it, but as one who really

disliked the "top of the milk"I remember being quite upset that poor God should have to

put up with the "cream of my heart".

I'm pretty sure I worried, too, about the fact that the writer hadn't yet 

managed to officially love God. "Will" was only an expression of future intent, as far as

I was concerned.

Fast forward to a wedding during my first year of priesthood, where the couple had, 

in a welcome departure from the normal "All things B&B" chosen to sing this hymn.

And, after a wedding sermon in which I'd pointed out that in saying "I WILL" and not

"I do", the couple were making a decision, a choice to hold them steady on the days 

when the strong emotions of the wedding day had vanished beyond recall.

And I realised that loving God was a decision as much as a feeling, too.

And that Herbert recognised this with his next couplet

"And that love may never cease, I will move thee".

It is only by continuing to talk to God, sometimes to just witter (yes, I do that alot),

sometimes to entreat and implore, sometimes to praise and delight in him, that 

we keep that love going. 

There are days when the world seems particularly messy, when the last thing I 

FEEL is love for God (or neighbour, for that matter)....but I tell God about that too

and by throwing all my feelings, good, bad and muddled, in God's direction, I trust 

that I'll keep the relationship alive.

I WILL love thee, God...stubbornly, determinedly, because it's what you made me for.

Some thoughts on Lent for Urban Hope and Open, 5th March 2017

Lent

Why do we have to keep it?

 

40 days without chocolate

40 days of getting grumpier by the second

40 days that feel like 400….because you’re trying to do without whatever gets you through

Is that what it’s actually about?

And if it is, why on earth should we bother? Life’s hard enough without making it worse by giving up things that make you feel good

But for some reason the Church  seems to think that Lent is worth thinking about...maybe because we know that at the end of Lent comes Easter with its explosion of new life and new hope, its promise that no matter how hard the here and now things WILL be better than we can begin to imagine, as God’s life bursts up again to heal all the brokenness we find in ourselves and in our world.

And maybe, when we think of that, we begin to wonder if we’re quite ready to really celebrate that promise and that new hope – think that we might like a bit of time to get ready, to look at who we are now, and who God invites us to be – and a bit of help to make the journey from here to there.

And I’d say that’s what Lent is about.

It’s name ties it very firmly into the spring time – because it comes from a very old word that reminds us that the days are getting longer...that there is, little by little, more light coming into the world.

More light. That's something to think about

It’s really welcome to find myself waking to birdsong, to walk the dogs after work without having to find a torch first…I feel happier and safer….but there’s also the small matter of the way that light on the windows makes it very clear quite how grubby they are...and more light in the house reminds me that it’s a really really long time since I did any serious housework at all (I blame the job...but come to think of it I never really did much). Light shows up the dirt – in our lives as much as in our homes...things that we know aren’t quite the way they should be….things we ought to find time to fix…

And that’s both a challenge and an opportunity.

A very long time ago I was saying something like this in a school assembly, and a Y3 put up her hand and said “Are you saying that Lent is when you spring clean your soul”

And though I hadn’t been...she was completely right...that’s part of what it’s all about.

Using the light (the true light, that comes from knowing about God and his love for each of us) to have a hard look at the messy parts of our own lives and our own ways of behaving...and to ask God’s help to put them right, baby step by baby step. 

Sometimes that means we need to say sorry to God or to put things right with other people – and it’s worth getting on with that, because we’re not here forever. As Lent starts, some churches invite people to have a cross marked on their foreheads with ash...the ash reminds us of the dust from which we are made, reminds us that none of us will get out of here alive….but the cross reminds us that death is never a disaster, because we are all marked with the sign of God’s love, and given a bridge across which we can walk to safety and happiness with God forever.  

If Lent is about spring time after a long winter, then it’s a time to celebrate what God has already done for us – and to try and co-operate with God in doing more and more. Here’s what he wants us to concentrate on- 

What I’m interested in seeing you do is:

sharing your food with the hungry,

inviting the homeless poor into your homes,

putting clothes on the shivering ill-clad,

being available to your own families.

Do this and the lights will turn on,

In other words, Lent isn’t about giving things up for no good reason – but it is very much about seeing what we can do to make a difference, to support one another – and anyone else who might need it. We, you and I, are invited to live in ways that show the people around us that they are loved by God – and that means trying to share that love with everyone.

Yup. Everyone.

Yes, even that one person whom you’re thinking “Not THEM. God can’t mean THEM!!”

And if that sounds scarily hard, it’s because it really is. I need a lot more than 40 days to even get started on that – because there are so many people I struggle to like let alone love.

So maybe Lent is mostly about learning how to practice love – and asking God to help with the project….which will probably mean that we need to spend more time trying to talk to God too….I know I can’t do that kind of love on my own. 

But does that mean that we don’t need to give up anything at all?

Speaking through Isaiah, God seems to have very strong views on this...He doesn’t want us to fast for its own sake, for sure. There’s no point in giving up smoking if all that does it make you realise how much you want a cigarette…and while giving up cake might make me “lighter” in terms of kilos if all I do is dream about the carrot cake from the Cathedral cafe that I shall have once Lent is over, then I’m actually more burdened than ever. It’s not lightening the load, for sure. 

But  there’s something to be said for giving up things that are getting to be too important to us.

If I REALLY can’t get through a bad day without some chocolate – maybe I’m looking in the wrong place for help.

You see, I think that above all Lent is a time for us to try and get closer to God...to learn again how important it is to put God first in our lives. Ahead of chocolate...And gin...And the next cigarette. Even (and this one is really really hard) ahead of our friends and our family….

Putting GOD first. Not the Church, not for a second. But God...and his way of living that depends on loving him with all that is in us, and loving other people too.

That’s the point of any Lent project. The things we might do as part of “Love life, live Lent”

The things we might try to read or to think about.

The things we give up and the things we take on.

The whole point is to help us to get closer to God, to learn again what it means to be living as part of God’s family. 

So in the end, there are 3 ways to travel through Lent – and in a perfect world we’d work on all 3 of them.

There’s spending more time WITH God – trying to pray.

There’s fasting – giving up those things which are a bit too important...things that get in the way of putting God first.

And there’s practising kindness in whatever way we can. 

Lent is an invitation to make God our priority, and  to walk in the light of his love day by day.

That’s going to take me a lot more than the 40 days leading up to Easter, but I’m glad that every year I get a chance to remember that this is what it’s all about, and to try and make it real again.

 

On doing my best

It 's true, we cannot reach Christ's fortieth day;
Yet to go part of that religious way,
                       Is better than to rest:
We cannot reach our Savior's purity;
Yet are bid, Be holy ev'n as he.
                       In both let 's do our best.

If like me you are an inveterate Maker of Resolutions, tempted to use Lent as 

another opportunity to tackle that raft of New Year intentions 

that somehow never quite got off the ground, 

it's all too easy to press an overwhelm button as Lent begins.

After all, if I start looking hard at myself, in a kind of penitential way, 

then there's just so much that needs fixing

...and I want to manage it all before tea-time.

A very wise priest, after hearing my Confession, once told me that I was not 

on any account to make self improvement my next Grand Project - 

but I'm afraid it's a lesson I'm slow to learn.

This can make Lent somewhat discouraging.

I want to use every second of those forty days to Build a Better Kathryn, 

which means that by bedtime on Ash Wednesday

I'm frequently exhausted, bad-tempered and in sore need

 of the gin, wine or chocolate (one particularly dreadful year it was

all three, PLUS fiction) that I've rashly determined to go without until Easter.

At this point one of two things might happen.

Either I might give myself a break, allow one lapse, 

and pick up the discipline in the morning, or I throw 

all my toys out of the pram, wailing that if I can't manage all of it

and more, then clearly I am doomed, DOOMED I tell you, 

and there's no point in trying at all. 

The thing is that I do really long to be holy,

but Herbert is right, of course. 

I'm never going to match Jesus, either in resisting temptation 

or in any other respect - after all he's JESUS - 

but that doesn't mean that the whole venture is pointless. 

It's always good to try to rebalance one's life

and seek a clearer focus on God. 

But it's a good idea to approach this with realism - 

and a measure of perseverance too. 

Which means that, if I miss a day or two of blogging

as we travel through Lent together, 

I'm not just going to abandon the whole project. 

Blogging my way to holiness sounds pretty unlikely, 

but it's a discipline that has helped me 

in the past - and it's the one I'm committed to this year...

so all I can do is my best.

Opposites yoked

"The humble soul, compos'd of love and fear"

One thing I'm pretty sure of is that George Herbert must have been a wonderful priest!
Not because of all the "Country Parson" things...the assiduous visiting, the mixing up of home-spun remedies for his humble flock, the self-conscious, impossible holiness. Aspects of life and ministry that have been used as weapons against all too many parish clergy...by others, and by themselves...a way of thinking that inspired Justin Lewis-Anthony to produce a book entitled "If you meet George Herbert on the road, kill him!"

No. I'm sure he was a wonderful priest because he struggled with all the inner contradictions that are part of life for, I'd hazard, absolutely everyone who has ever aspired to follow the way of Christ.....the contradictions St Paul summed up so wonderfully, admitting to the Romans:
"For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do."
We really are a bundle of contradictions - and at the heart of them is this pair of opposites, love and fear.

Who knows which came first, the situation or the teaching? 
The legacy of the Old Testament God, almighty, capricious, both wonderful beyond our imaginings and awe-ful...the God who sent floods and massacred Egyptian babies...the God who will show mercy to those to whom he will show mercy: that legacy remains a powerful one. Small wonder that this God inspired fear, calls forth sacrifices to appease him, - and even under the new Covenant the entangling of Church and Empire, the creation of an institution designed to keep the faithful quietly on their knees played into this culture. For centuries God was all about transcendence and to be God-fearing was only common-sense. 

But, at the same time, we know that "God is love" and that "perfect love drives out fear", that we are called to a wonder, love and praise that is un-shadowed by any fear, of the now or the hereafter. On a good day, that love predominates, but still and all a residual anxiety remains part of the reality for almost everyone I know,and that anxiety becomes in itself a ground of self-reproach. 
So, after all Herbert was right. Our souls swing from one extreme to the other, though the truth remains that we are made by Love and for love, as Teresa of Avila understood. I shall pray her words today.

My God, because you are so good, I love you with all my heart, and for your sake I love my neighbour as myself. If I love you, it is not just because of heaven which you promised; if I fear to offend you, it is not because hell threatens me. What draws me to you, O Lord, is yourself alone, it is the sight of you, nailed to the cross for me, your body bruised in the pains of death. Your love so holds my heart that, if there were no heaven, I would love you still. If there were no hell I would even still fear to offend you. I do not need your gifts to make me love you, for even if I should have no help of hope at all the things I do hope for, I would still love you with that very same love. Amen.

Finding a way through the wilderness - a basic premise for the coming season

So – back in January I made the usual heap of resolutions about returning to more regular blogging.

And then life happened, as it always tends to do, and like so many other good intentions, the urge to blog evaporated, leaving only a faint miasma of guilt behind. Except, of course, that isn’t entirely true.  I love writing, and find that I make more sense of my life, notice the good bits, disentangle the less-good, better when I write about it. And as an extrovert, blogging brings the added benefit of a potential response from someone, somewhere… So I know I’m rather the poorer when I don’t find time to write at all.

Cue Lent – that golden opportunity to pick up once again the splendid resolutions that had vanished without trace.  As usual I’ve struggled with the process of choosing a discipline that I have a hope of sticking to (ENFPs are so very easily distracted), of not attempting to fix everything that I perceive to be wrong in my life by an utterly unrealistic raft of projects to “build a better Kathryn” which leave me exhausted by the end of Ash Wednesday. But it’s possible that I might have had an idea…

Long long ago I started a PhD on the poetry of George Herbert, - focussing on his use of music as metaphor for our relationship with God. The funding ran out very rapidly, so I never got beyond extending the work of my undergraduate dissertation, but the delight in his work remains.  “Who better to help me write something each day of Lent?”  I thought – so that is what I plan to try. I’m still ENFP so there may well be diversions along the way, but my aspiration is to work with lines from Herbert’s poems as I try once again to re-orientate myself, and return to “the God who will swiftly pardon”.

I started yesterday, Ash Wednesday, as I preached with his poem "Lent" - and I'll stay there for the next few days...so here it is in full, as your starter for the season. More on the poem later...

WElcome deare feast of Lent: who loves not thee, He loves not Temperance, or Authoritie, But is compos'd of passion. The Scriptures bid us fast; the Church sayes, now: Give to thy Mother, what thou wouldst allow To ev'ry Corporation. The humble soul compos'd of love and fear Begins at home, and layes the burden there, When doctrines disagree. He sayes, in things which use hath justly got, I am a scandall to the Church, and not The Church is so to me. True Christians should be glad of an occasion To use their temperance, seeking no evasion, When good is seasonable; Unlesse Authoritie, which should increase The obligation in us, make it lesse, And Power it self disable. Besides the cleannesse of sweet abstinence, Quick thoughts and motions at a small expense, A face not fearing light: Whereas in fulnesse there are sluttish1 fumes, Sowre exhalations, and dishonest rheumes,2 Revenging the delight. Then those same pendant profits, which the spring And Easter intimate, enlarge the thing, And goodnesse of the deed. Neither ought other mens abuse of Lent Spoil the good use; lest by that argument We forfeit all our Creed. It 's true, we cannot reach Christ's fortieth day; Yet to go part of that religious way, Is better than to rest: We cannot reach our Savior's purity; Yet are bid, Be holy ev'n as he. In both let 's do our best. Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone, Is much more sure to meet with him, than one That travelleth by-ways: Perhaps my God, though he be far before, May turn, and take me by the hand, and more May strengthen my decays. Yet Lord instruct us to improve our fast By starving sin and taking such repast As may our faults control: That ev'ry man may revel at his door, Not in his parlor; banqueting the poor, And among those his soul.

 

Sermon for the Ash Wednesday Eucharist at Coventry Cathedral, 1st March 2017

Welcome, dear feast of Lent

That's what my long-time hero, the poet George Herbert wrote...but when I was a child I hated Lent with every fibre of my being. I hated the solemn feeling of Ash Wednesday. I hated the dark purple that surrounded me in church, the shrouded statues, the absence of flowers. I hated the thought that maybe, just maybe, I ought to be giving up sweets.

Dear feast? I really didn't think so.

Lent was all about dust and ashes and going without.

Not a feast at all

But then I grew up and began to learn the value of a new start, something that is pretty meaningless to children, for whom each moment of life is new.  I learned that having the slate wiped clean is really something to celebrate. 

That as we begin to turn over a new leaf, we really can rejoice.

Listen to Isaiah again: ⁶Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?⁷Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

That sounds pretty wonderful, doesn't it? An invitation to the kind of life my best self aspires to. Ideas for things we can actually do right here and now, which will make a difference in our city and in a world where people seem increasingly intent on building their lives on self-interest, on exclusion, suspicion, and fear.

Tangible evidence of hospitality offered, and reconciliation achieved with those who are different.

We can, you and I, choose to show our best sides, reach out towards the selves God has always called us to be…and when we do so, then we will shine like the dawn.

Lenten joy there, then.

But what of that liturgy of ashing that lies ahead of us…that forced reminder of things too often left unspoken?                                                                                                                                                              Where’s the joy in that?                                                                                                                                     Isn't it just stark and bleak, an unwelcome memento mori casting shadows on a spring  day?                                                                                                                                                                                    When we receive the ash on our foreheads, we do so with two thoughts.

One is, indeed, of our mortality...the dark side of the day

You are dust and to dust you shall return

That speaks of endings…of the reality that we are so eager to hide from…of the truth that one day we will simply not be here.

Thoughts we would maybe prefer to suppress.

But the other.....the other is our hope, the route home for us, the way of life and light that means that none of us need ever fear the end.

Turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ

The cross of ash, traced where the cross of baptismal oil first marked us as claimed for Christ…as we were commissioned to a life of discipline and discipleship…a cross shaped life for which self-denial and self-giving is the daily template.

We live a continuum from that one moment at the start of our journeys, to the other at its end…and as we travel we are asked, each and every one of us, to be faithful to the Christ who is faithful to us on each step of the way.

The Christ who does not condemn us, no matter what the evidence of our guilt.

Who speaks to us, as he did to the woman taken in adultery

“Nor do I condemn you”

Christ who knows the truth of who we are, accepts us as we are, but loves us too much to leave us that way.

“Go and sin no more”

Be changed by this encounter with grace, by this touch of love from the God who meets us, like a Father, when we've barely begun to make our journey home.

Turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ

As I have often observed, life as a cathedral canon is in some ways very different from that of a parish priest. In times past, I would spend Shrove Tuesday evening burning the previous years’ palm crosses to make the ash for the next day’s worship. It sounds straightforward, but as I discovered, it can be an irritating and messy business. Often, even if you’ve dried them in the oven, the palms just won’t catch, won’t burn.

Sometimes once they get going they smoke and smoulder so that your eyes start running, your hair and clothes smell, and you feel like a reject from a kipper factory.

But that's what getting rid of sin can be like.

Painful.

Irritating.

Messy.

A fresh start isn't always easy, whatever our intentions.

“Turn away from sin” sounds simple…but we seem to have some kind of internal magnet pulling us back to face the wrong way.

That’s why I, personally, value the practice of sacramental confession…which encourages us to look hard at those things what we struggle with, those recurring patterns of behaviour that seem to drag us down…which brings us to name them, not only to ourselves but, aloud, to the God who knows the secrets of our hearts and loves us nonetheless.

We name them. We look at the truth of who we are, we see what needs fixing, we measure the gap that exists between our current state and where God calls us to be.

And then, amazingly, we are reminded that Jesus has already dealt with that gap…and that God’s forgiveness is constantly available, transforming hearts, minds, lives.

Even ours. Even in the face of those things we’ve feared to name, even to ourselves.

We hear that forgiveness spoken directly to us. By name.

We find that we are, after all, reconciled to God despite everything.

Extraordinary.

Wonderful.
A moment to spring-clean hearts, minds and souls so that our light can break forth like the dawn.

I can’t deny that sometimes that process can feel difficult and painful – for it usually involves giving up things that are part of ourselves, things that we hold much closer than even the most stubborn addiction to chocolate...so it's important to keep Lent together, as a community. Together we can encourage and support one another – by word, by example, by prayer. Together we can, by the grace of God, begin again to form ourselves into a community which proclaims by deeds that are louder than words that God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself and has entrusted us with the ministry of reconciliation.  

You see, returning to that messy, tiresome business of burning the palms, I found that in the end, the warmth of a whole tinful smouldering together was enough. Finally they caught fire and the flames broke forth and sprang up and in a few moments those twisted crosses had disappeared and the residue.......well, that's what we use to remind us of both aspects of Lent.

Of our frailty and mortality......you are dust.

And of our hope in Christ......who is faithful to us.

Who accepts us as we are but loves us too much to leave us there,

who will lead us through our own wilderness times,

through the desert of repentance,

who will bring us safely home. 

Welcome, dear feast of Lent

May it be a blessing to us all