Dear Friends,
My family teases me that I am far too casual about death and illness. When our girls were small, it was not unusual for the reporting of my day to include brief updates on the most recent hospitalization in the parish, a difficult death, a funeral that exposed every fault in a grieving family. Illnesses were described and symptoms analyzed. I didn’t realize how thoroughly my discourse was peppered with such fun facts until one evening when we had a grade school guest at the dinner table. As I delivered the nightly Death and Mayhem Report, my daughter’s friend turned to her and said, “Does your mother always talk about dead people at supper time?” My daughter simply nodded in embarrassed affirmation.
In spite of my seemingly cavalier attitude toward bodies and death (it’s a job hazard), Ash Wednesday is often a difficult liturgy for me. I love the solemnity, the honesty, the quiet of the texts and the hymns and the ritual. But the “ashing”—marking an ash cross on the forehead of the penitent—is sometimes fraught.
It is one thing to say “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” to a person who is strong and healthy, a person for whom “returning to dust” is more interesting concept that imminent reality. But etching that cross on the smooth skin of a toddler, or the papery forehead of an elder, on the feverish brow of one who is seriously ill, gives me pause. The ashes speak of death. To acknowledge mortality with a child whose life is only beginning or someone for whom this Ash Wednesday might be their last is often accompanied by a lump in my throat. And not easily discussed over dinner.
Our Ash Wednesday attention to the end of life is short-lived, however, as this First Sunday of Lent propels us from the grave to the wilderness. We always read about the Temptation of Jesus on this Sunday, this year from Luke’s gospel. (Luke 4.1-13) When the story opens, Jesus is weak and loopy from a 40-day wilderness fast; his guard was down and his thought process slowed. The devil takes advantage of Jesus’ weakened state, with encouragement to doubt. “If you are the Son of God . . . ,” the devil taunts twice. “If you worship me . . . ,” the devil promises.
As you know, anyone who begins a sentence with the conditional “if” is not to be trusted. “If you love me . . .” “If you trust me . . .” The devil is similarly an unreliable witness.
Did Jesus hesitate when confronted with the devil’s dangled doubt? Was he even momentarily tempted to see what lay behind the Devil’s Door #2? Would you be?
At confirmation class last Wednesday night we discussed the nature of faith and its antithesis. Many believe the antithesis of “faith” is “doubt,” but it is not so. “Certainty” is far more dangerous than doubt. After all, if everything in our lives, our world is neat and tidy, properly filed and labeled, what need do we have for faith? Jesus’ terse, biblical responses to the devil’s conditions speaks not of titillating doubt or arrogant certainty, but of but confident faith.
Please join us Sunday. Children gather for Children’s Music at 9:30 a.m., and move to Godly Play at 9:45 a.m. We launch our Lent Challenge with a Vitality Talk at 9:30 a.m. (coffee and donuts on the house), and with a Temple Talk during Worship at 10 a.m. Also, don’t forget that we turn clocks ahead an hour Saturday night as we begin Daylight Savings Time.
I promise not to subject you to my infamous Death and Mayhem Report, but I will dig into doubt with you—in a faith-full way. If only you will join us . . .
Pastor JoAnn Post
A Word from Pastor 