February 13, 2013 – Ash Wednesday
© 2013 Evan D. Garner
I love Lent. (Cue the
groans from our organist.) I love purple hangings. I love the Penitential
Order. I love fasting and kneeling and generally feeling miserable. I celebrate
the Agnus Dei, and I savor every word
of the Prayer of Humble Access. I’d recite the Great Litany every day if I
could convince anyone to say it along with me. I enjoy hearing lessons about
Jesus’ suffering, and I take delight in hearing sermons about how wretched I
am. Some people like Christmas music, but I think the hymns for Lent are the
best ones we have.
Part of why I love Lent
is the pageantry of penitence—the rigmarole of enacting our collective
contrition. But it’s more than that. I also love the theology of Lent. I feel
refreshed by a realistic look at my own brokenness—my own mortality. I feel a
strong desire to confront the fullness of my sin and to bring to God my
failings in search of forgiveness. Some of you—many of you—probably feel the
exact opposite. I have heard our bishop, Kee Sloan, preach several Lenten
sermons in which he says rather plainly, “I don’t like Lent.” And I can
understand that. It does drain a little joy out of our spirit to hear over and
over and over what “miserable offenders” we are. But I don’t think I like
hearing how bad I am because I have masochistic tendencies. For me, the call to
repentance and the message of forgiveness always go hand-in-hand.
A few weeks ago, in
preparation for today, a priest and friend of mine posed a question on Twitter:
“We’re thinking about not having Eucharist on Ash Wednesday…thoughts?” I jumped
at the chance to respond, but, after I read what I wrote, I was surprised at
what I had said. I tweeted, “I’ve always wondered why it’s a fast day yet we
feast on Jesus. But I think the collect for [Ash Wednesday] implies a ‘yes’ to
[Eucharist].” I was surprised because, not all that long ago, when I was in
seminary, I asked the same question. Isn’t Ash Wednesday supposed to be a day
of penitence and fasting? Why would we celebrate the Pascal Mystery—a profound statement
of our forgiveness—when we’re supposed to be wallowing in our sin? And the best
answer I could come up with is found in the collect for today: God “hate[s]
nothing [he] has made.”
I’ve always imagined
that, when it comes to forgiveness, God works the same way I do. When someone
hurts me, I am usually willing to forgive that person if he or she offers a convincing
apology. That’s exactly what I teach my children when I say, “Tell him you’re
sorry and, this time, say it like you mean it.” We offer forgiveness to those
who show us repentance, and our willingness to forgive usually reflects the
degree to which we believe the offending person is sorry. The more someone is sorry,
the more he or she is forgiven. But I don’t think that’s how God works.
With God, there is always
forgiveness. He hates nothing he has made. That means that God does not withhold
his mercy from us until we’ve proven that we’ve earned it, but, still, as my
love of Lent might suggest, I believe that repentance has an important place in
our faith. That’s because I believe that our ability to accept God’s forgiveness
depends upon our willingness to repent. Yes, you are forgiven. And, yes, that
doesn’t change. But your ability to know and believe in that forgiveness depends
on whether you will come to God and seek it.
Isaiah saw this
phenomenon at work among God’s people. They were well-practiced in the mechanics
of repentance, but they didn’t know what it meant to be forgiven by God: “Why
do we fast, but you do not see?” they asked God. “Why humble ourselves, but you
do not notice?” They were going through all of the motions, but they weren’t
receiving from God what they wanted. Why did God’s forgiveness elude them? Because, as Isaiah wrote, “You serve your own
interest on your fast day.”
Repentance isn’t about
going through the motions. It’s not about trying to convince God to forgive us.
It’s about seeking a right relationship with him. We can’t know what it means
to be forgiven until we recognize how amazing the gift of forgiveness really
is. God doesn’t care whether we stand or kneel. God doesn’t care whether we say
we’re sorry like we mean it. Repentance isn’t about “bow[ing] down…like a
bulrush and [lying] in sackcloth and ashes.” We do all of that so that we might
internalize God’s forgiveness and live as his redeemed people—and that’s what
God really wants. So what does real fasting look like? What does it mean to
live a forgiven life? According to Isaiah it involves loosing of the bonds of
injustice and letting the oppressed go free, sharing bread with the hungry and
bringing the homeless into your house.
That doesn’t mean that
God is waiting for us to reach out to those in need before he will offer us
forgiveness. It means that, if the nature of God’s mercy and forgiveness were
real to us, we would show it in our lives—not just on our knees. Repentance and
forgiveness go hand-in-hand. They always accompany one another, but not as a
cause and effect. Our repentance doesn’t cause God to forgive us. The
relationship between the two is circular. Knowledge of our forgiveness leads to
our repentance, and our repentance leads to knowledge of our forgiveness, and
standing in the middle of it all—keeping that circular motion going—is the “God
of all mercy,” who offers “perfect remission and forgiveness.”
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