Ashes of Repentance

Ash Wednesday ought to be one of the most confusing days in the church year.  The ritual act of the imposition of ashes seems to be in direct conflict with Jesus’ injunction to “beware of practicing your piety before others,” and that it is better to “do in secret” the kind of religious practices that “hypocrites” take care to make sure that others see.  Furthermore, the words that accompany the imposition of ashes - “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” - seem to suggest that the real message of the day is a memento mori: a reminder of our mortality, of the inevitability of death.  But even if the reminder of death is one meaning of the ashes, I am pretty sure it is not their primary meaning.  Plus, all this ritual amounts to horribly old-fashioned symbolism in a modern society that claims to prefer plain speaking to multivalent symbols, and the certainty of science to the mystery of religion.  So, why, aren’t more of you confused?  Why doesn’t that confusion keep you away?  And why, why on earth do so many of you come to church on Ash Wednesday in search of ashes?

Long after much religious symbolism has lost its meaning in modern society, ashes still seem to have something to say.  Ashes have proven to be a profoundly powerful symbol, able to convey complex meaning that is compelling to us, no matter how confusing our message may be.  But what is it that those ashes are saying to us and to the world?  If the most important meaning of the ashes is not a reminder of our mortality, what, then, could it be?

Ashes have long been a part of the symbolic language of sin and repentance.  And for many people, ashes may be the last remaining phrase of that language.  Ashes (sometimes accompanied by sack cloth) have long been meant to signify one’s desire to repent.  

Repentance doesn’t really poll well these days.  One focus group after another will tell you that they are not interested in it.  Because repentance is often perceived to be the subject of pulpit-borne harangues that are intended to induce blame, shame, and guilt.  That’s why the pulpit is so much higher that your seats - to give me a better chance of hitting my targets when I hurl accusations of blame, shame, and guilt.  But ashes put the lie to such tactics, especially because you have come here willingly to seek out ashes.

The ashes of Ash Wednesday are not an accusation, or an indictment -although they might amount to a confession.  Because repentance is not some horrible admission of blame, shame, or guilt; repentance is the expression of a desire for transformation, the desire to turn away from sin and do better, the desire to be good.

Over the centuries, the Christian call to repent - to turn away from anything that was selfish, harmful, or unholy; to do better; to be good - morphed into a call to accept blame, to feel ashamed and guilty about all kinds of things.  This development served a purpose for those who sought power and control in the church, but it has not served very well the spiritual interests of most of the people who might be called to repent, who might need to find forgiveness, but who resent having been made objects of scorn rather than objects of love.  

Forgiveness was very near the center of Jesus’ ministry.  When Jesus called people to repent it was so that they could gain the freedom that comes with forgiveness.  Ask the paralyzed man whom Jesus made to walk again (Mt 9:2).  Ask the sinful woman who anointed Jesus’ feet (Lk 7:48).  Ask the woman caught in adultery (Jn 8:11).  Ask Peter how many times Jesus told him to forgive someone who sins against him (Mt 18:22).  Ask the disciples at the Last Supper what purpose there is in sharing the cup of Christ’s blood. (Mt 26:28).  Ask the penitent thief on the cross beside Jesus (Lk 23:43).  Ask anyone who heard it when, with his dying breaths, Jesus pronounced forgiveness from the Cross, “for they know not what they do” (Lk 23:34).  Forgiveness is a substantial part of the burden of Jesus’ life and Jesus’ death; it was then, and it is now.  And forgiveness is the fruit of repentance.

These days, people often struggle with symbolic religious language, which can easily be mistaken for mere superstition.  Almost intuitively, though, many people see that the ashes of Ash Wednesday are neither mere superstition, nor are they really meant to instill in us blame, shame, or guilt.  The ashes are meant to call us to transformation, to appeal to our desire to do better, to ignite our desire to be good.  And so, no matter how much blame, shame, and guilt the church has sometimes tried to attach to the imposition of ashes, ordinary people have never stopped seeing those ashes for what they are: a symbolic gesture of the desire to be forgiven, to be transformed, to do better, to be good.  This is so much more than a reminder that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

When, in a religious context, we yield to our desire to be forgiven, to be transformed, to do better, to be good, we may find ourselves inviting God to have a good look at what’s deep within us, as we try to have a good, hard look at ourselves, too.  I encourage you to spend time this Lent having a good look inside your own self, and being honest about what you see there. 

It should not surprise us that God already knows the secrets of our hearts.  God already knows what in us needs to be transformed and forgiven, where in life we need to do better, what in us is already good, and how we can and should grow in goodness.  Yes, God knows the secrets of our hearts, but we do not know the secrets of God’s heart.  God remains a mystery to us, so profoundly mysterious that often we cannot see how God is at work in the world or in our lives.  

But the ashes of Ash Wednesday reveal something more than the reminder that we are dust; and something more than the desire to be transformed, to do better, to be good.  The ashes are also a reminder of God’s desire to pardon and absolve us of our sins, to bestow on us the transforming gift of forgiveness, to help us to do better, and to make us good, even though we might be nothing but dust, and to dust we shall return.  The ashes reveal to us one of the great secrets of God’s heart.  For it was God’s breath that was breathed into the dust in the first place; it was God’s breath that gave life to the dust.  And God did not give us life so we could be forever reminded of our blame, shame, and guilt.  

God gave us life because God is love, and God loves us.  God delights to to transform our lives, in which we have suffered much.  God rejoices to forgive us.  God’s desire is to help us to do better.  God’s will for us is that we should be good, even and especially on Ash Wednesday.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Ash Wednesday 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The World Rolls Back

There’s a poem by the 20th century Scottish poet Edwin Muir, called “The Transfiguration” that offers  us an image of the three disciples, Peter, James, and John, accompanied by Jesus, after they have been with together on the mountaintop where Jesus was transfigured, and shone with dazzling white light.  The disciples have witnessed this amazing sight, they have seen the figures of Moses and Elijah talking with Jesus.  They have gone within the cloud, where they were terrified to be so near the totality of the Divine Presence.  They have heard the voice announce, “This is my Son, my chosen, listen to him.”  They did not know what to do.  They did not know what to say.

Muir, the poet, imagines the four of them (Peter, James, John, and Jesus) coming down from Mount Tabor together after this astonishing experience, and the disciples discovering that for a moment everything in the world is changed.  This is how he pictures it:

And when we went into the town, he with us, 
The lurkers under doorways, murderers, 
With rags tied round their feet for silence, came 
Out of themselves to us and were with us, 
And those who hide within the labyrinth 
Of their own loneliness and greatness came, 
And those entangled in their own devices, 
The silent and the garrulous liars, all 
Stepped out of their dungeons and were free. 

They all stepped out of the dungeons of their misery and were free!  Muir imagined that the effect of the Transfiguration had transformed the whole world, if only for a moment.  

But quickly the moment passes.  The poet goes on:

If it had lasted but another moment 
It might have held for ever! But the world 
Rolled back into its place, and we are here, 
And all that radiant kingdom lies forlorn, 
As if it had never stirred;

“The world rolled back into its place, and we are here, and all that radiant kingdom lies forlorn, as if it had never stirred.”

If ever there was a mountaintop moment, as I believe there was, when the fullness of Christ’s being was revealed to three young men, beneath a cloud so thick that it could hide the visitation of the Lord of the Universe - a being, it has to be said, inextricably linked (and eternally, we must suppose) to the Jewish law and the Jewish prophets - a moment so bright that the One who made the light shone with light coursing through him, and around him, and within him, a moment so transformative that even the cruelest of men, the loneliest of souls, the most twisted and deceitful of us all, might have stepped our of their dungeons and been made free; if ever there was such a sublime moment, then, oh, can we ever be sure that when the moment was over, the world rolled right back into its place, and the light was hidden again deep within the cloud, and the dungeons claimed their prisoners again, and we are here, and all that radiant kingdom, with all its hope, and all its promise of light, and peace, and life now lies forlorn, as if it had never stirred.  Yes, the world rolled back into its place, and we are here.

…

The news last week that Paul Farmer had died was a blow.  An apostle to the poor, motivated by the Gospel, he believed that decent medical care should be a basic human right, and he set out to make it so with a vigor and a forcefulness that was inspired and inspiring.  If you don’t know about him, you should.  He was a kind of saint, and we are the worse without him.  Paul Farmer was 62 when he died.  His death, too soon, coming only months after Desmond Tutu’s death, makes me feel as if we are losing the great lights of our time.  It makes me feel as if whenever the light starts to break through and really shine, before long, the world rolls back into its place, and we are here, and the light fades, as if it had never stirred.

Then, war in Ukraine.  The lurkers under doorways, the murderers didn’t even bother to tie rags around their feet for silence.  They barged right in as if it was their right.  Those entangled in their own devices, the silent and the garrulous liars have not bothered to stop lying.  

And the world just rolls back into its place, and we are here, watching from afar: the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air.  But there’s nothing to sing about: only terror and tears.

…

Edwin Muir’s life spanned both world wars; he was a bit too young to fight in the first, and perhaps too old for the second.  But he saw it all.  He must have wondered about God’s purposes, God’s power.  And although the world rolled back into its place, in his poem about the Transfiguration, God’s purposes did not come to and end.  The poem ends looking toward the future.  It goes like this:

                        In our own time, 
Some say, or at a time when time is ripe. 
Then he will come, Christ the uncrucified, 
Christ the discrucified, his death undone, 
His agony unmade, his cross dismantled— 
Glad to be so—and the tormented wood 
Will cure its hurt and grow into a tree 
In a green springing corner of young Eden, 
And Judas damned take his long journey backward 
From darkness into light and be a child 
Beside his mother’s knee, and the betrayal 
Be quite undone and never more be done.

Thank God that Muir could see from Mount Tabor all the way to Eden.  We need people who can see all that distance, and who can remind us, when we don’t know what to do, when we don’t know what to say, that Christ will come: Christ the uncrucified, Christ the discrucified, his death undone, Christ will come again.  We need to be reminded that even Judas, damned, can take his long journey backward from darkness into light.  And if there’s hope for him, there’s hope for anyone.  There’s so much betrayal, so many pieces of silver changing hands, so many swords and staves and clubs drawn to beat each other to a pulp.  Thank God for the reminder that it would be a good thing if Christ would come again, at a time when time is ripe; that he will come - uncrucified, discrucified, his death undone.  Thank God for the insight that by the power of the transfigured Lord, even the most sinister betrayal can be quite undone, and never more be done.  This is our hope, when light breaks through!

And light does break through!  But the world keeps rolling back into its place, and we are here.  We don’t know what to do; we don’t know what to say.  Dammit, how the world keeps rolling back into its place!

Peter and James and John, surrounded by the light, hidden by the cloud, could not see, from the top of Mount Tabor, could not see all the way to Eden.  They did not know what to do; did not know what to say.  But with help, we can see all the way from Tabor, somewhere in the distance, a vision of the cross dismantled: the tormented wood cures its hurt, and grows into a tree in a green-springing corner of young Eden.

We hear about that mountaintop transfiguration, but the world rolled back into its place, and we are here; and we don’t know what to do; we don’t know what to say.  Here’s where we might start:

Give thanks for the lights of the world in our generations that reflect the one, true light, and pray that God will send us new lights.

Pray for peace, and pray for the valiant people of Ukraine.

Pray for a time when time is ripe, that Christ will come again - uncrucified, discrucified, his death undone.  

And whenever the world rolls back into its place, as it so often does, remember some green-springing corner of young Eden, and put our hope in the only One who can lead us on the long journey backward from darkness to light; and by whose light all this betrayal can be quite undone, and never more be done.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
27 February, 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

Edwin Muir

Overfishing

Is there a more frustrating episode from the Gospels for the church in 2022 than the miraculous draught of fish?

Simon Peter and the others hardly know Jesus at this point of the story.  They are tired after a long night’s work that has produced nothing.  Jesus shows up, while they are stowing their gear and getting ready to go home, and he gets into the boat.  This is presumptuous of him.  “Boys," he says, “put out a little from the shore.”  

Now, Jesus had just healed Peter’s mother-in-law, and various other people too, so the guys have reason to be willing to work with him.  They set out a little ways.  From the boat, Jesus speaks to whomever has gathered to hear.  Everyone is feeling good, but still, it’s past time to get home.  And when he’s finished teaching, Jesus tells them to set out into deeper water and “let down your nets for a catch.”

Now, this is what Simon and the guys had been doing all night.  They had just washed the nets and folded them, or rolled them, or whatever it is they do to put them away.  Peter can’t hide his reluctance, and St. Luke doesn’t try to keep it from us.  His response to Jesus is, essentially, “Are you kidding me?”  They’d had a long and frustrating night with no catch to speak of: nary a fish to bring home.  They would like it if Jesus regarded them with empathy and encouraged them to go home and rest.  They would appreciate it if he would reassure them that tomorrow is another day.  But he does neither.  He just looks at Peter with that look that says, “Do you want to make this harder than it has to be?”  And Peter and the boys point the boat toward deeper water.

You know what happens next.  Following a night of failure, as a result of their reluctant compliance with Jesus’ instructions, they catch more fish than they can handle, so many fish that their nets are breaking, so many fish that they call another boat over to help, and they fill both boats, so many fish that the boats begin to sink (I guess they have to throw some of the fish back into the lake), so many fish that Peter is freaked out and afraid to be in the presence of this person.  He has this profound moment of humility when he actually tells Jesus to “Go away!” because whatever is going on is too much for Peter to deal with, and he feels unworthy even to be in Jesus’ presence.

That’s the set-up here for you and me this morning.  And it’s frustrating for us, because, yes, we can relate, as the church, to the long night of fishing with nothing to show for it.  We can relate to the feeling that, Dude, we have just put our stuff away.  Now you show up and get in our boat and say, “Not so fast.”  And this does not feel cool to us.  Are you kidding me?  We can also relate to the reluctant acquiescence to set out into deep water.  And even the silent glare from Jesus that says to us, “Do you want to make this harder than it has to be?”

So, yeah, the set-up feels familiar to us.  But where is our miraculous draught of fish?

Vastly more churches might be asking that question this morning in frustration than will be calling up the neighboring parish to say, “Hey, we have so many newcomers we need your help.  Can you take some off our hands?  Maybe we need to throw a bunch back in the water?”  There is a disconnect, for the 21st century church, between the promise of the miraculous draught of fish -  which suggests to us that if we risk going deep we will be rewarded with growth - a disconnect between that promise and our lived experience, which is the decline of the church.

Ask your child to do a book report about commercial fishing (which is what Simon and the guys were doing), and she will surely include a section on overfishing.  Overfishing is when you take too many fish out of the water.  Take too many fish out every day, and eventually you won’t have any left.  They can’t keep up.  (They’re not rabbits!)  Overfishing happens when you assume an endless supply of fish, and you take the fish for granted.  Overfishing leaves the fisheries depleted and therefore impossible to yield good results after a while.  Sure, for a while it must feel great to bring such terrific reports to the shareholders: Look how many fish we caught!  And since fishing takes place underwater, you can’t see all the damage you are doing with the naked eye.  Though you could detect it if you bothered to check.  You’d know about it if you paid attention to the people who do ask about these things.  If you overfish, you alter the environment that produced so many fish in such a way that it becomes harder to catch fish.  The effect is a negative one for both the fish and the fishermen.

It seems counterintuitive to wonder whether the church’s problem is overfishing, since we are well familiar with the feeling that we have worked all night long but have caught nothing.  But this has not always been the case.  Overfishing was not what Simon Peter and the boys were doing on Lake Gennesaret.  But the church, over the centuries, found ways to overfish.

Allow me to suggest some instances of ecclesiastical overfishing.  The Crusades.  The Inquisition.  Forced conversions.  Church-run boarding schools for the assimilation of indigenous children… in Canada, and Australia, and here in the U.S., too.  The so-called Moral Majority and the general over-reach of the religious right in the last fifty years.  To name a few.

Now, the possibility that  the church has been overfishing is not the only challenge we face in our ministry.  But is it possible that overfishing by the church has altered the environment (that for a long time produced a great many fish) in such a way that it has now become harder to catch fish.  So much of this overfishing feels like it took place underwater; it was hard to notice while it was happening, perhaps.  But people are asking now, and it’s important to pay attention.  And if you look at big chunks of the church’s history, the church’s experience, you could conclude, from the vantage point of 21st century America, that at this point, the experience has had a negative effect on both the fish and the fishermen.

Now, remember that if we think that overfishing was a problem, that does not mean that fishing in general is bad, and that we will never catch fish again.  The whole point of recognizing that you are overfishing is to allow for the possibility that you can have a healthy draught of fish, maybe even a miraculous draught of fish from time to time.  But you have to accept responsibility for the damage that’s been done in the mean time.

So, what do you do if you are the church and you realize that you have been overfishing?  You care for the fish, and you care for the fisheries.  You do what you can to restore the environment that you have altered, so that it becomes hospitable again for fish.  And you make sure that you are treating the fish with the respect and dignity they deserve as fellow creatures of God’s making.

Overfishing is one more story, among many such stories, of our insistence on exploiting the abundant resources of this world to a degree that the environment simply cannot tolerate.  We do it to fish, and we do it to one another.  And it is not kind.  It is not loving.  It is not holy.

Jesus wants us to set out into deep water, and there he wants us to be able to catch miraculously large draughts of fish, by which I mean to say he wants us to bring many people into his church! - he can make it happen.  For the earth is the Lord’s, and all that therein is.

But when we have so polluted the water with our long history of exploitation, perhaps Jesus wants us to pay attention to what we are doing and what we have done.  Perhaps Jesus wants us to show that we are capable of caring for the fish and caring for the fisheries.  Perhaps Jesus wants us to show that we know that just because the earth is the Lord’s and all that therein is, it does not mean we can do whatever we want to whomever we want.  So, we care for the fish.  And we care for the fisheries.  This should not be a difficult prescription for God-fearing people.

And curiously, Simon Peter models a crucial attitude that we will need if we are to care for the fish and care for the fisheries, so we can joyfully cast our nets again. In his own unusual way, Simon Peter has this profound moment of humility, when he is afraid even to be in Jesus’ presence.  “Go away from me, Lord,” he says, “for I am a sinful man.”  But Jesus does not send him away.  He tells him not to be afraid.

Humility would go a long way to helping us learn to do what Jesus means for us to do in a healthy and respectful way: to catch people in the gentle net of his love, which is woven in such away that all are free to come and go, to hear the voice of their creator call, to respond when they are ready.  And this is one of the great challenges that faces the church as we stand here on the shore, having worked all night but caught so few fish: to live and work and minister with humility; to proclaim the Gospel of love with a humbleness of spirit that resembles the spirit of the God of love, who sent his Son into the world to be born in the humblest of circumstances, to work with the humblest of people, but who can still  send us home with a miraculous draught of fish!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
6 February 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Miraculous Draught of Fish by Jacapo Bassano