Many of you have heard me talk about my great-grandfather, Preston Epps, who was a Greek professor at UNC-Chapel Hill. Granddaddy was also a gifted singer. He loved Amazing Grace and had it played at his funeral. But there was one difference. He changed the words from “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me” to “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound to a believer’s ear.” My dad asked why Granddaddy had insisted on that change to the hymn, to which my great-grandmother replied, “Well, he just didn’t really think of himself as a wretch.”
In the Collect that we pray for Ash Wednesday, we ask that, “lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, we may obtain of the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness.” It does hit pretty hard, doesn’t it, the notion of our own wretchedness, that we are, in fact, wretches?
In the spirit of my great-grandfather, no, I do not believe we are wretches, nor do I believe that it is the Church’s job to tell people that they are. But by the same token, it is disingenuous to think that we are not capable of wretchedness, that any of us, myself included, have not sinned, have not missed the mark, and offended against the God who loves and forgives and calls us to do the same.
It seems at times that we Christians – especially in the mainline denominations– find ourselves caught between a binary: on the one hand you have churches that preach total depravity and the idea that we are all just miserable, horrible people who deserve nothing less than to spend eternity in the dungheap of Gehenna; and on the other hand you have folks who are slow to condemn any action at all for fear of offending someone or re-traumatizing them, preaching a Gospel that God only wishes for us to follow our bliss, regardless of the consequences. Binaries aren’t cool, and as usual, we humans forget that God doesn’t operate within them but instead is always calling us to find the Middle Way between such extremes.
This is what Ash Wednesday and Lent call us to consider. No, we are not horrible, miserable people and we shouldn’t fast to the point that it makes us physically ill. And also, we are flawed, we are broken, we do hurt one another and ourselves and we do disappoint God and need to own up to that, with one way being to fast in some form or fashion. It is perhaps better to think of the season of Lent as a both/and, not an either/or.
The prophet Isaiah, speaking in chapter 58 for God, calls out people who fast only for the purpose of being noticed by God – something Jesus later condemns in his own day. They follow the letter of their Law, but their heart isn’t in the right place. The fast God wants, the prophet declares, is one from injustice and oppression. The rending God asks for is of your heart, not your clothing. Modern audiences, though, have often heard these words and interpreted them to mean that Isaiah – and by extension God – doesn’t think fasting and rending one’s garments are needed or necessary, so let’s just forget them entirely; after all, it’s a fast of the heart, of the spirit. You can draw a line from this kind of thinking to the end point of there being merely a spiritual resurrection, rather than a real, bodily one.
But our God is one who uses real matter, real stuff like water, wine, wheat, and ash to get the point across because our God took on real human matter to show us how to be fully and authentically human ourselves. This is why some safe form of physical fasting is needed, because God did it in the form of Jesus. Actually speaking aloud to another physical human being – in a safe space in the presence of God, of course – is important to our spiritual health and to our relationship with God and one another. These actions – yes, physical actions, not just spiritual or mental exercises – redirect our motivations, help reconcile us to our neighbors, and most importantly, remind us that our total dependence is on God alone and that, oh yeah, God is God and we are not. They put us in our place, and honestly, that’s not really a bad thing.
A friend of mine is a Russian Orthodox priest in Kentucky, and his congregation developed a really good self-reflection to help them prepare for the period of confession that begins what they call Great Lent. This document asks the confessee: how have I turned away from God and my neighbor. What are the ways I have been self-centered, the addictions I’ve fallen to, the scapegoating and blaming I’ve participated in, the resentment and rage I’ve felt toward others, the lies I’ve told, the ugly truths I’ve hid from everyone, including God, the facades I’ve hid behind, the ways I’ve tried numbing my emotional and spiritual pain, the blame I’ve placed on others for my own actions, and the ways I’ve beaten myself up and participated in self-hatred. Such a practice is not about self-pity or loathing but conversion. This is the Christian journey; not so much getting into heaven later, but being converted day after day so that heaven can be a present reality. As the medieval Coptic Saint Isaias of Scetis put it, “The voice of God calls to us until the day we die, saying be converted today!” Not to a specific religion or denomination, but to a right relationship with God and our neighbor. That’s a voice that is a sweet sound to a believer’s ear, right there.
The ashes we take up remind us that we will die, every single one of us. And too often humanity tries desperately to ward off that inevitability. In death we are all reconciled to God – that is what Jesus did in his own death and resurrection – but by taking up the ashes and remembering our own deaths, we remember St Isias’ words and the call from God to be converted every day until all that is left of this mortal existence is the dust.
How will you spend this season acknowledging the ways you’ve missed the mark – dare I say, wretchedness – and your utter dependence upon God? One of the best manners of doing this that I know is the Jesus Prayer, a practice that can be traced back to the desert fathers and mothers of the 5th century. It’s simple but powerful: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. I’ve used it often and intend to incorporate it into my daily Lenten prayers and invite you to do the same. You may find, as I have, that when you admit acknowledge your own sinfulness, the burden of having it all figured out is lifted, and you are able more and more to let God be God, so that you can do what God put you here to do: to love God and love your neighbor. And that, in the end, is what Lent is all about.
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