Burning palms, ashes of pain

Today begins Lent, and we begin again in the ashes. As we did last year, members of St. Paul's wrote reflections for each day of Lent, and the reflection for today was written by Doug Vest, who is retired priest from the Diocese of Los Angeles who now lives in Charlottesville.

We've posted all of the reflections on a special blog, and the daily reflection will appear at midnight each day. You can find the blog by clicking HERE. You can also get to it by clicking on the purple Lenten cross on the left.

The readings for Ash Wednesday are Joel 2:1-2,12-17, Isaiah 58:1-12, 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10, Matthew 6:1-6,16-21 and Psalm 103 or 103:8-14.

May you have a blessed Lent. My homily for today is below:

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Ash Wednesday 2011

The ashes are oily and grimy and they smell. 

The ashes came from palm fronds – the palms that we blessed and carried on Palm Sunday a year ago. We carried those palm fronds around this church and sang hymns and carried them into Holy Week. 

Then, many of you saved your palms, maybe in a dresser drawer, or on a mirror, or pinned to a bulletin board. 

The palms dried out, cracked, and turned pale. 

Then many of you brought your palms back here, and on Monday, they were burned.
When palm burns it makes a thick gray smoke that smells like a brush fire, no surprise because palms are a type of grass. 

Many years ago, when I was news reporter, I covered a few huge wild fires in Southern California of the sort that destroy entire neighborhoods, 300 homes at a time, and trap people, sometimes to their deaths. 

The fires spread because palm fronds catch fire and fly through the air like flaming arrows, carried by the intense Santa Ana winds.

In one such fire, in 1980, in San Bernardino, I was nearly trapped, unable to get anywhere, and my eyes froze shut from the smoke. I was rescued by a news photographer and taken to a hospital. Of course, not before he got a few more pictures. 

The smoke of burning palm smells like death to me, and it still brings a pit in my stomach.

The pain and tragedy of the world are in these ashes, and they are a reminder of how quickly life can burn away. 

As we descend into Lent on this Ash Wednesday, we are reminded again that life can be tenuous, that many people live on the edge of living, and that the pain of the world is not far from our doorstep – and for some of you, has crossed your doorstep. 

The ashes remind us again to put first things first. 

First things first are not power and prestige, or titles and prizes, or degrees and social status. 

First things first aren’t houses, cars, and toys. 

All of those things are fleeting, all of that disappears eventually in the ashes. 

First things first: the people we love, the people who love us, the relationships we hold dear.

First things first: our loving God who holds us, pick us up, and is with us even when we don’t see or notice – no matter what, no string attached. 

In a few minutes, we will have ashes smeared on our foreheads to remind us of our own death. We tell ourselves that “it is to dust that we shall return.”

What an odd thing to do. 

Why do we do this? To remind ourselves that we cannot get to the promise of new life without passing through the emptiness of the grave first, whether at the end of our mortal life on earth, or in all of the graves big and small we fall into in this life by our own doing, or through no fault of our own. 

We don’t get to Easter without being lifted from the ashes. 

Think of these ashes as a gift to the heart. 

If we can catch a glimpse of our mortality in the ashes today, maybe we will see more clearly those things that really matter. Maybe we will see that our own death does not separate us from each other. 

Maybe we will see first things first. 

Instead of only seeing only ashes today, maybe we will catch a glimpse of how we are ultimately bound together by the Christ who promises we will get out of whatever hole we are in. 

Traditionally Lent is a time of austerity, and we “give up” something for Lent. Often, we give up something trivial, like chocolate. 

But maybe we should give up something more important. Maybe we should give up that which gets in our way of seeing God and seeing each other. 

The crucial sentence in the words of Jesus is the last: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

See Lent as a gift to the heart. Look at Lent as a break, a forty-day Sabbath – a time of slowing down and being extra intentional about taking care of yourself. 

See Lent as a time for rest, and prayer, and being with the ones you love. 

See Lent as a time to take care of yourself: the health of your body, mind and spirit.
And see Lent as a time for shedding away that which gets in your way of seeing and touching God. 

Lent should not be an ordeal, but a true gift to the heart. And we can do this one-day at a time, starting here, together, now. 

Take time every day this Lent to look inside yourself. See again truly who you are, and whose you are, and who loves you unconditionally. Repent, a word that means “turn around,” and see what’s right in front of you. 

And then look outside yourself: Look for the Christ in everyone you meet and in everything you do – and look for the Christ in even in the ashes.

Liturgy is not intended to be admired; it is intended to send us forth into the world

Liturgics is one of those esoteric subjects not likely to enter the life of most college students. It is the study, theory and practice of worship, and while some find the topic fascinating, liturgics can be turgid and seem extraordinarily fussy -- unless it is in the hands of a gifted teacher.

The Rev. Dr. Louis Weil was my liturgics professor at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific, and he brought life to the topic. He took liturgy out of the sacristy and brought it back to its original meaning: "the work of the people." In 1979, Louis wrote a ground-breaking book with Charles P. Price of the Virginia Theological Seminary, entitled Liturgy for Living, that remains the most readable (I believe) explanation of why liturgy matters.

Recently, Louis, who is retired, preached a sermon at St. Mark's Episcopal Church in Berkeley that is worth your time. He calls this his "anti-liturgy" sermon, and you will have to read this to know why. The readings were Isaiah 58:1-9a, (9b-12), 1 Corinthians 2:1-12, (13-16) and Matthew 5:13-20. I highly commend this to you:

By The Reverend Louis Weil

Before I moved to Berkeley in the 1980s, I taught at the Episcopal Seminary in Wisconsin. Our principal celebration of the Eucharist was on Thursday evenings: it was a community event, attended not only by the students and faculty, but also families and guests.

One Thursday evening, when I had been the preacher, the Dean commented afterwards that I had preached “my annual anti-liturgy sermon.”

Since I was the Professor of Liturgy, this seemed to be a strange remark – but in fact, he was correct. From time to time in class or in sermons I would speak about a danger which could develop in a community in which the liturgy played such an important role in our daily life, whether it be at a seminary or a parish.

The danger was (and is) that we can get so caught up in the preparation and celebration of the liturgy that it can become an end in itself, that there is a risk of losing a sense of its purpose, a risk of forgetting that the liturgy always points beyond itself, that it embodies priorities which lie outside of the ritual celebration itself.

When I became an Episcopalian during college, I can remember hearing on more than one occasion priests speaking about “our incomparable liturgy.” It is true that as Anglicans we have a rich heritage in our forms of liturgical prayer, in Book of Common Prayer. But what makes me very nervous in that phrase [“our incomparable liturgy”] is that it seems to stop at the liturgy itself, suggesting that we can bask in the beauty of its language and music as a kind of aesthetic experience. But our participation in the liturgy is not the same as listening to great music at a concert. The aesthetic aspect of the liturgy is always intended to serve its greater purpose, to build up – to nourish – the faith of those who have gathered to celebrate the liturgy. In other words, the liturgy is not intended to be admired; it goal is to send us forth to be the Body of Christ in the world.

In our celebrations of the liturgy, we often experience great beauty, for example in its music, and we see its capacity to awaken in us a sense of the Presence of the Holy. In that way, the liturgy can play a significant role in building up the Church in the life of faith, both in a parish community and also in our individual lives. But the work of the liturgy does not stop there. Its purpose points beyond itself.

At the heart of the liturgical action we see its purpose in reminding us: the entire Eucharistic rite is an act of remembrance, both in the proclamation of Scripture and also in the Eucharistic meal at which we hear each time, “Do this in remembrance of me.” We could say that the liturgy reminds us of what God has done, the whole history of salvation, of God’s mighty works from Creation to the present time. This is done through the reading of Scripture which places us who hear it today within the context of the ongoing work of God, and so also relates our individual lives to God’s Presence and grace.

As Christians, we find that Presence of God revealed with particular intensity in the Incarnation of our Lord, in whom we see the Presence of God revealed in a human life. At the center of every Eucharistic Prayer we hear: “remember.” And it is in the power of that remembrance that we go forth to continue our own journey of faith. That is the purpose of the liturgy which we must claim again and again. If the liturgy does not lead us beyond itself into our daily lives, its purpose has failed.

Today our first reading from the Prophet Isaiah shows that this problem has been around for a long time. The prophet quotes the worshipers of his time: “we are doing all of the outward observances: why does God not notice?” One can hear: “we attend the liturgy regularly, isn’t that enough?” And the prophet says, “No, it is not enough.” Isaiah reminds us that the fulfillment of the liturgy is found in what we do in our daily lives: fight against injustice; lift the burdens from those who suffer; help to free those who are oppressed; feed the hungry; give shelter to the homeless; clothe the naked.” This is what our first reading from Isaiah says: did we hear it merely as an item in our bulletin? --- or as an imperative to us in the living out of our faith.

Do this, the prophet says, and “your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly. … Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer.” Isaiah is reminding us and warning us of the danger if we stop at the liturgy itself and fail to move through it into the doing of the imperatives it sets before us. This is echoed for us in the Christian community in the words of Jesus in today’s Gospel reading from Matthew: as with Isaiah’s “your light shall break forth like the dawn,” Jesus says to his followers, “You are the light of the world. … Let your light shine.” That light shines in the lives of those who not only celebrate this act of faith, but seek daily to embody its meaning.

The man with a fist full of quarters

BERKELEY, CA. -- I arrived Sunday night at San Francisco International Airport after a tedious day of highways, airports and airplanes, and very thankful that my flight to California was uneventful, thankful that there were no weather complications and thankful that my body and bag had arrived intact.

I boarded the BART train at SFO like I have so many times before, and then buried my nose in my Blackberry, catching up on the emails that had chased my across the continent while I was in the air. The train was mostly empty except for me and a few other weary air travelers.

We rode on past San Bruno and Daly City and into the Mission district of San Francisco, making stops along the way, picking up more passengers. As we cruised along, I tippy-tapped my e-mail replies on my Blackberry, oblivious to anything and anyone else around me.

Just then, an old man in the aisle walked up, leaned over and put his face a few inches from mine. He was gray, his face wrinkled, his clothes disheveled, and he held a fist full of quarters. I was startled. He asked me for money, shaking his open hand with the quarters he already had. I mumbled "sorry," and buried my nose back in my Blackberry. The the-old-man-with-quarters moved on to the person in the next seat and then onto the next car. He didn't waste much time.

A few minutes later, a BART Police officer came striding through our car, probably looking for the the-old-man-with-quarters. For a moment I thought to say "he went that-a-way," but I said

nothing.

I've encountered many street people and panhandlers over the years. They don't scare me but I am not usually taken by surprise either. I almost never give money, but I almost always do more than just mumble "sorry." My gift can be a smile, a hello, or asking "what's your name?" A few street people I've gotten to know.

But the the-old-man-with-quarters caught me up short in my own shell; I had slipped all too quickly into the familiarity of my surroundings.

Maybe I notice more in Charlottesville, Virginia, because it is still so unfamiliar to me. There is a street person who is a regular on our corner in Charlottesville. Call him "Joe" (I know his real name). He is heavy-set, he has bad eye sight, usually smells and has drinking issues. He is a musician and he is a survivor. He is always polite, he knows a lot of things and talks a lot. "Joe" came to church on Sunday to our smaller 8 am service. I was happy to see him, happy he is surviving the grinding winter.

After the 8 am service, and after chatting with "Joe," I left the church and drove two hours to Dulles airport to catch my flight and quietly congratulated myself that "Joe" feels comfortable enough to come to my church once in awhile.

So why did the-old-man-with-quarters on the BART train startle me? I could chalk it up to jet lag and travel fatigue, and that would be partly right. But it is more than that. The truth is that I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings, to the people riding with me in a BART train. They were as connected to me as anyone in an email on my Blackberry, truthfully more so in that moment.

My sin wasn't in my declining to give the-old-man-with-quarters any money -- I rarely do with any street people. My sin was in not engaging the-old-man-with-quarters as a human being. I even resented him for invading my train ("he went that-a-way"). Today I ask God's forgiveness for that.

I also ask forgiveness that we still have old destitute disheveled men who feel they have to get onto trains looking for quarters.

The San Francisco Bay Area is an opulent place, full of dazzling wealth, amazing restaurants, rich intellectual and cultural life, and it is breathtakingly beautiful. I am from here. I was born and grew up here; the water of the Bay flows in my veins and in my heart. I know its history and I am part of its history. My dad's ashes are scattered at the Golden Gate. I know this place better than anywhere else on earth.

But do I really? Noticing those on the fringes is still a challenge for me especially in the places I know best. Doing something about what I see is an even greater challenge. It is for all of us no matter where we are.

Riding along, I noticed an advertisement on the BART train for Riedel wine glasses with a caption that Riedel has the correct "messenger" for every grape variety. The City has so much wealth that people can buy a different shaped glass for every variety of wine in their collection.

Yet we still have the poor on our streets, not enough beds in our treatment centers, and we resent them for asking for a quarter. I would guess that the old-men-with-quarters are not particular about the "messenger" that brings them sustenance, wine or otherwise.

What kind of messengers are we? What kind of messenger am I? Leading a life of faith is not just about tending to my own interior spiritual development; it is about being the hands and feet of Christ in our own hurting world. We are the messengers. The good news is that this is not a challenge for us as isolated individuals but for the entire community of faith. We are called to do this together and there is great strength in that.

The prophet Isaiah 58:1-12 had something to say about this in Monday's Daily Office readings, and I leave you with this:

"Is 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?

Is 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?

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator shall go before you,
the glory of the Lord shall be your rearguard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am."

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I am in the Bay Area this week at a meeting at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific and then attending to personal and family affairs. Please keep my mother, who is ailing, in your prayers. I may not post here as frequently as I usually do, but please check back here from time to time.

Blessings to all.

James+