Mattthew 6: 1–6, 16–21
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable
to you, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen.
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Today is a day for beginning again, for getting back to the basics of
who we were created to be. So today we come back to the Father
who made us, focusing on the fragile elements he used in the
process. And our psalm this morning, Psalm 103, tells us that he
made us out of dust – the same dust he used to grow the
stars. That’s where we get the iron in our blood, the
calcium in our bones, the chlorine in our skin – from
stardust. And you have to wonder, knowing that – at
times — our lives are difficult and strenuous, why he used such
fragile material, something that one breath, one puff of air could
blow away. Why didn’t he use something stronger, something
impermeable, invincible?
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He made us fragile, I think, because he never meant for us to stand
alone – without his help, without the support of a family, a
community around us. He made us fragile so we would stay close
to him and lean on him whenever we needed more strength. For he
never meant for us to do life all by ourselves. He himself
planned to accompany us through all that life would throw our
way. And he sent others to us who could guide us through those
darker valleys he knew we would encounter.
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Now, for some of us, this plan has worked well. We did grow up
in loving homes. We were in church from our earliest
years. So we learned from God’s Word. We learned from
kindly instructors in the Body of Christ. But for others that
loving, faithful community just wasn’t there – and they had
to learn to find God in things God had shaped – the fresh beauty
of a flower, the majesty of mountains, the peace of rhythmic ocean
waves. Throughout Creation, there simply isn’t a blade of
grass that doesn’t communicate something of God. Or he
will speak to us through history – the dignity of Jewish believers
in concentration camps, the witness of black slaves who forgave their
former owners. Our loving God has helped us find him in all
kinds of ways.
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But sometimes, we forget to listen. Or we don’t listen closely
enough to catch what he is saying. And it isn’t long before
we notice our need. We need his strength, his support, his
guidance. Most of all, we need his love. In fact, we need
him in more ways than we know how to say. So the Church has
devised a way to help us all come back to him, help us all receive
from him what we most need. That’s what we are doing here
this morning, this Ash Wednesday morning. But we do it in a
paradoxical way.
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First, on Ash Wednesday we allow the priest to inscribe a cross on our
foreheads in dust and ash – the same fragile elements from which
we were created – to remind us of our own fragility, the
shortness of our days. “Remember you are dust,” the
priest says, “and to dust you will return.” Well,
sure. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” But
then, over the next forty days, the same period of time Jesus spent
fasting in the wilderness listening to God, the Church asks us to
fast from something. It might be television. It might be
coffee or chocolate or beer. It might be some bad habit we
have – like slowly turning into a couch potato. But if it
is something we hold dear, something we have felt supported by, it
will cost us something. So, after we have let go of it, as a gift
to God, the Church asks us to give the money we have saved — by
foregoing that self–indulgence, that luxury – to the poor.
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It makes sense to me, but it’s at this point I’ve heard
some people balk. “Haven’t we lost enough, over these
last two years of the pandemic?” they ask. “I’m
coming here looking for help from God, looking for support. And
he’s asking me to sacrifice? How fair is that?”
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What they don’t yet realize is that sacrifice can be a pathway
to God, a sure pathway. When we decide to let go of something in
our lives, be it a small thing or a large one, giving it to God
instead of hoarding it for ourselves, we begin to make room for more
of God. We show God, by our actions, that we really do want more
of him. And actions, as they say, speak louder than words.
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In 1956 a young evangelist named Jim Elliot went with his wife Elizabeth
and infant daughter to minister to the Auca Indians in the rainforests
of Ecuador. These indigenous people had never heard the Good News
of Jesus Christ, and Jim and the rest of his team believed they could
reach them with God’s love. Even so, they knew it
wouldn’t be an easy mission. The Auca were highly suspicious
of strangers and were fierce warriors too. After praying about it,
Jim and the other four men finally decided to go ahead with the
plan. But the night before they left, Jim wrote in his
journal, “He is no fool who gives to God what he cannot
keep — to gain something he cannot lose.” The next
day all five men were ambushed, shot and killed with poison–tipped
arrows.
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Most likely, our own sacrifices will not cost us so much. But God
will value our gifts, all the same.
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I bid you a holy Lent.
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Amen.
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