Sermon: You are here (Ash Wednesday)

 Full service HERE.

Ash Wednesday 2022

March 2, 2022

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I have a colleague who has hanging in her office a large poster of the whole galaxy. There is an arrow pointing to one tiny speck in particular, with the words, “You are here.” She feels it is important to have in her office, because it is a daily reminder that in God’s vast universe, we are but specks – beloved specks, but specks, nonetheless. 

You are here. This is the title of our Lenten series this year. As I’ve reflected upon those three words, I have realized how many different emotions they bring up. For example, if you’re trying to find your way in a large park or on a hiking trail, finding that map and locating the red dot with those words, “you are here,” can be a great relief, especially for someone prone to getting lost, like me! It grounds us, makes us feel found, and gives direction for where to go next. It calms the unsettled feelings. Often on these large maps, the spot is no longer a red dot, but rather an area worn away by thousands of people trying to find their way, and finding rootedness in placing their finger on that comforting spot, and from there finding their bearings. You are here.

The marked spot on my friend’s space poster brings up different feelings for me. Though there is some comfort in recognizing our speck-ness in a vast universe, and with it the fleeting existence that is so starkly articulated on Ash Wednesday with those words, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return” – well that sometimes makes me want to toss up my hands and say, “Then why bother? Who am I, anyway? I’m nobody, in the grand scheme of things!” It’s not a comfortable realization, when what so many of us want, is to be somebody! To matter!

But here’s something else I can feel coming up with those words, “You are here.” It is a recognition that this is my reality, our reality. You are here – in a world at war, in relationships that are strained, in the near constant battle of good and evil trying to win over your heart and the world, in a story you may not much like being in. You are here, in this broken world. To some extent, these words invite us to face and accept that reality and not ignore it. They invite us also to recognize where exactly we are in it – both how we may be participating in the brokenness, and also what our role might be in healing it. 

In all three cases, I think, these words remind us of our need to, as Joel implores us, “Return to the Lord your God.” You are here. Now, return to the Lord.

That is why we come here on this day, this Ash Wednesday. Lent is often a season where we take an inventory of our hearts and our relationship with God. It is when we locate ourselves on the map of faith, touch it with our finger and say, “I am here.” We do that especially through confession. Call me Lutheran, but the lengthy confession we engage in on this day is my favorite part of this service – not because I enjoy it, but because it puts words to so many things that my heart and I have tried to ignore. Like searching for an address on Google Maps, it zooms in on my location: “You are here.” Here, where our love for God and neighbor has not always been consistent. Here, where we have withheld forgiveness of others. Here, where pride, envy, hypocrisy and apathy have infected our lives. Here, in our negligence of prayer and worship, in our exploitation of other people, in our pollution of creation, in our self-indulgence. You are here. 

And then we come forward and in one, painfully direct yet confusing ritual, ashes remind us, “You’re gonna die,” and the tracing of our baptismal cross on our forehead reminds us, “You are beloved, you are forgiven, you are saved, you are mine.”

Is there any other day in the church year that is as honest and humbling as Ash Wednesday? Any other day when we identify more clearly: you, in all your sinfulness and belovedness, you are here? 

And so from here, from that worn spot on the map of our relationship with God, from here we offer these ancient pleas and prayers:

“Return to the Lord your God for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.”

“Create in me a clean heart, O God. Renew a right spirit within me.”

“Be reconciled to God.”

“Have mercy on us, O God.”

With our hearts stripped bare, we enter into this season – not shouting from a street corner, not posting on social media about our experience fasting, but with all the vulnerability and nakedness normally seen only in the privacy of our bedroom. Is that what Jesus meant when he told us to pray not as the hypocrites do on the streets and in the synagogue, but secretly in our rooms? I admit that bit always bothered me, because prayer is so powerful when it is done with others! It shouldn’t be kept secret! I don’t want us to do it only privately in our rooms! But now I can see the gift: for it is only in our spiritual bedroom where we feel safe enough to divulge our brokenness to a God who promises repeatedly to love us. It is only in that brave place of spiritual exposure – whether it is in your literal bedroom or kneeling here before the altar or some other place where you feel close to God – that we can risk being fully authentic and honest with God about the place we find ourselves in.

And from that worn spot – the spot on the map of our lives, the spot where God touched our brows – from that spot, we can once again orient ourselves toward an abundant life with God. At the end of Lent, we will celebrate resurrection. For the next six weeks, we will dwell in our need for it. But whether you are here, or there, or somewhere in between, we can trust that God is here… and here… and here… [point to self, table, font, cross, congregation] and wherever we are, hearing our prayers, loving us in our brokenness and confusion, and promising us life. 

Let us pray… God, Emmanuel, you are here – with us in our broken realities, with us on the worn maps of our lives, with us even in your vast universe. Thank you for dwelling with us in whatever place we find ourselves. Now direct us always toward you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.