Sermon for Ash Wednesday, "Liminal Lent: Jesus," Matthew 4:1-11

Sermon 2/26/2020

Matthew 4:1-11

Liminal Lent: Jesus

Our worship theme this year is Liminal Lent. I’m guessing liminal isn’t a word you use very often. I don’t either. But as some of you know, I’m part of our District Leadership Team, a group that works with our District Superintendent Mike Weeden to help resource local congregations to live out their mission in their communities. Mike regularly has us reading books together, part of our learning process so that we in turn can be better teachers and leaders. And the next book we’re discussing together is How to Lead When You Don’t Know Where You’re Going by Susan Beaumont. Great title, isn’t it? I feel like a lot of ministry is leading when we don’t know where we’re going! The subtitle of the book is: Leading in a Liminal Season. 

Liminal means “threshold.” Think about the doorway into a room. As you step over the threshold, you are in an in-between space, not fully in the room you’re leaving, and not fully in the room you are entering. You’re in both places at once, and not in either place fully. That’s liminal space. The in-between. Not either this or that. Not black or white, but the blurry border. Think of the feeling of being at the top of the ferris wheel, or that moment on a roller coaster after the first steep incline but before you plunge down. You aren’t climbing up anymore, or yet heading back toward the ground. There’s the moment, that hesitation. It’s a liminal space.  

Think about airports or train stations. They’re liminal places. Other than for employees, these places are mostly liminal places. They’re full of people, but they’re not the destination for anyone. Everyone is going to and from, but they’re not staying at the airport, at the train station. It’s a liminal space. (6) Think about the weirdness of the week between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day. A week between Christmas celebrations and the start of a new year. Lots of people are on vacation. Anything productive people want to do usually gets pushed off until after the first of the year. Kids don’t have school. The rhythm of the world is just a little different for that week. It’s liminal time, threshold time, in-between time. Or think of something as simple as twilight. It’s not quite daytime, and not yet dark enough to be night. It’s the blurry threshold between day and night, a liminal time. Or think about the long season of life called adolescence. Young people are no longer children, and yet we can’t say they are adults either. They can’t be totally independent, and yet they no longer should be entirely dependent on adults around them. Young people are in liminal space, on the threshold, for years. And so it is a season where there is such vulnerability, such pain and intense emotion, such possibility, such challenge, because they’re in a prolonged state of liminal space.

Our focus this Lent is about finding God when we’re in these in-between places. We don’t always like being in liminal space. It’s uncomfortable, not knowing whether we’re here or there, ending or beginning. Hanging out in a time of transition is hard. But it is also a time, liminal time, when it might be easier for us to hear what God’s trying to tell us. And so, this Lent, we’re focusing on being in this liminal space. 

In her book Beaumont writes: “All significant transitional experiences … follow a predictable three-part process. Something comes to an end. There is an in-between season marked by disorientation, disidentification, and disengagement. Finally, and often after a very long and painful struggle, something new emerges.” (2)  A liminal period, she says, is “a disorienting period of non-structure or anti-structure that opens new possibilities no longer based on old status or power hierarchies. New identities are explored and new possibilities are considered.” (3) 

We don’t always like being in liminal space. It can be very stressful. Beaumont says, “The natural human response is to resist liminality and to strive backward to the old familiar territory or forward to the unknown identity. The ambiguity and disorientation are at times so heightened that the very work required to move forward becomes impossible to engage.” (3) Still, Richard Rohr writes, “All transformation takes place here [in liminal space]. We have to allow ourselves to be drawn out of ‘business as usual’ and remain patiently on the ‘threshold’ ... where we are betwixt and between the familiar and the completely unknown. There alone is our old world left behind, while we are not yet sure of the new existence. That’s a good space where genuine newness can begin. Get there often and stay as long as you can by whatever means possible. It’s the realm where God can best get at us because our false certitudes are finally out of the way. This is the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed. If we don’t encounter liminal space in our lives, we start idealizing normalcy. The threshold is God’s waiting room. Here we are taught openness and patience as we come to expect an appointment with the divine Doctor.” (As quoted by Beaumont, 4-5, emphasis mine.) 

We’re in a liminal space in the life of our church, aren’t we? We’re in a season of pastoral transition. I’m still here, but we know that my time is limited! I’m in a liminal season - I know where I’m going, but I’m not there yet! We’re in a liminal season as a denomination, as we await another General Conference and the possibility of new denominational configurations. Even the church universal is in a liminal season as culture changes rapidly and the church seeks to find its place. And Lent itself is a liminal season - this is a time of preparation, of repentance, of growth as we long for and anticipate the joy of Easter. We’re always Easter people, and yet it also isn’t Easter yet. 

Fortunately, we know where we can turn for guidance, because the scriptures are full of stories of people who are in liminal seasons, and see what we can learn from them as we journey with Jesus to the cross. This Lent, we’ll be hearing about the liminal seasons of Adam and Eve, Noah, Joseph, and Ruth and Naomi. But before we hear their stories, we hear Jesus’ story. 

In our reading from Matthew, Jesus finds himself in a liminal space. He’s on the threshold, just about to start his public ministry. For 30 years, he lived in relative obscurity. We know almost nothing about the time between Jesus’ birth and the time he arrives at the river Jordan to be baptized by John. His baptism marks his intent to start preaching and teaching. But he doesn’t start doing that immediately. First, the Holy Spirit leads him into the wilderness where he’s tempted by the devil. The wilderness in the Bible almost always represents a liminal space, an in-between space for the people who find themselves there. Interestingly, what Jesus is tempted with? The devil tries to get Jesus to make certain what seems blurry. Jesus is hungry, fasting, and the devil wants Jesus to claim the certainty of food. Jesus knows he is God’s beloved Son, but the devil wants him to make certain, by throwing himself down from the pinnacle of the temple, to test that God’s angels will protect Jesus if he needs it. Jesus knows that his power will come by making himself vulnerable, weak, humble, but the devil wants Jesus to be certain of his power, promising him everything if he aligns himself with the devil. Jesus, though, is ok with being where he is and who he is. He’s in the wilderness, on the brink of something new but not yet starting. He’s God’s child. And he can stay right where he is, on the brink, until the Spirit who has led him to liminal time sends him forth to serve.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Today, we have an opportunity to intentionally claim this liminal season. In Lent, we have the opportunity to experience a different rhythm of life than the same old same old. We engage in spiritual disciplines, special practices during Lent to remind us we’re in sacred, liminal time. Resist the urge to turn back to the life as usual, and resist the urge to skip this journey with Jesus in favor of the joy of Easter. Rest in Lent for a while, on the threshold. Today, we are marked with ashes, signs that as Christians, our whole identity is in liminal space. We say that God’s reign has already arrived, and yet it’s also near, not yet fully unfolded on earth. Liminal. In Lent, instead of resisting the uncertainty, embrace this season of transition. God will meet you here, on the threshold. Amen. 

Sermon for Ash Wednesday, "In the Wilderness," Psalm 63:1-4, Isaiah 35

Sermon 2/14/18

Psalm 63:1-4, Isaiah 35

In the Wilderness

            In Jewish and Christian tradition, ashes as a symbol convey two primary meanings. First, they are a sign of repentance. When people realized that they had been turning away from God’s path, that they had been disobeying God, and wanted to recommit to God’s way, God’s path, and ask for God’s mercy and forgiveness, sackcloth – a rough fabric – and ashes were worn as signs of that repentance – turning away from sin and toward God. They’re signs of humility, reminders that God is God and we are not God.

            Second, ashes are a sign of our mortality. Although we claim the gift of eternal life with God, in this life, in this world, we live and we die. We are finite. We are not invincible. God creates us from the dust of the earth, and to dust these bodies one day return. This is a message we need to confront regularly. Sometimes we fail to treat our lives as the sacred but finite gifts that they are. We don’t treat others as though their time with us is precious and limited. We build up possessions and wealth in ways that suggest we believe that we will live forever, have our things forever. We spend our time on things that don’t matter to us, and put off doing what God is calling us to do, what we are dreaming of doing. We have a decided lack of urgency when it comes to nurturing our own faith and sharing faith with others. We give the impression that we believe that we have limitless time to get done whatever is on our heart’s to-do list. Ashes are a sign of our mortality, meant to be a wake-up call. We are dust, and to dust we return.

            And yet, perhaps you feel a bit like I do this Ash Wednesday. Like I don’t need to be reminded of our finiteness just now. We know it all too well. I have my own personal loss and grief on my heart. And I know we are all processing our grief and sadness over Retha’s death. And it isn’t just Retha. We’ve had a hard season as a congregation. A generation of loved ones, people who have shaped us individually, and shaped our church. Together they represent a season in our church and community heritage that we sometimes long for, a season when, with our somewhat rose-colored glasses, feels like a simpler time. And just today, I was reading news of the school shooting that happened in Florida. It isn’t yet certain how many died there today. My attention was caught by the headline photo – a woman, a mother perhaps, in tears outside the school, with ashes on her forehead. Just this morning, some pastor had reminded her of her mortality. We are plenty aware of our mortality, aren’t we? We’re feeling very finite jus now, I think. Very much like we are dust.

            It seems fitting then that our theme for this Lent is “In the Wilderness.” I don’t know what images come to mind when you hear the world wilderness, but I can tell you that until I became a pastor and was preparing sermons, I thought of a wilderness as like a forest-y type place. Indeed, we use the word wilderness in this way. I went to “wilderness” camp at Camp Aldersgate when I was in elementary school, and it meant we were out in the woods in tents instead of in cabins. But in the scripture, when we hear about the wilderness, we’re not talking about the woods. We’re talking about the desert. We’re talking about desolate terrain, rocky, barren places, place with little water or vegetation. We’re talking about terrain that can be dangerous, isolated. It’s a place where you are vulnerable, at risk.

            The Bible is full of stories of people who end up in the wilderness, for one reason or another, from Genesis to Revelation, and this Lent, we’ll be reading some wilderness stories, thinking about these figures of faith who spent time in the wilderness, and seeing what we can learn from their journeys there. Jesus spent time in the wilderness too, as we’ll talk about on Sunday, and it is his 40 day time in the wilderness that particularly gives shape to our Lenten season of 40 days. But tonight, we are thinking about our own experiences in the wilderness. When have you felt like you were in a barren land in your life? When have you felt like you were spiritually parched and dry? When have you felt vulnerable and at risk, exposed? When have you felt like you were off the beaten path, lost? Maybe you are even feeling that way right now.

            This Lent, we are listening for God’s message to people who in the wilderness. We’re listening for God’s message to people who are well aware that they are dust. We’re listening for God’s message to us when we feel faint with thirst. Our reading from Psalm 63 is a Psalm attributed to King David, said to be written when he was in the wilderness of Judah. David was on the run, being pursued by his own son Absalom who wished to succeed David as King. David was literally and figuratively experiencing a wilderness time, and he knew whether Absalom was successful in taking power from him or not, David was closer to the end of his reign and life than the beginning. From this context, we read, “O God you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

            In Lent, we seek to attune our hearts to the reality that we are in wilderness, we’re parched, we’re dust, and we’re longing with a thirst that only drawing close to God can quench. God is the water of life for our souls that have become a desert place, a wilderness place. Thankfully, this very God whom we long for is the one who has the power to bring life to the desert, and bring hope in the wilderness. In our reading from Isaiah 35, we hear these hopeful words: “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing … For the waters shall break forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool and the thirsty ground springs of water … A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way.” In the desert, life. In the wilderness, a holy highway for God’s people. God brings crocuses to bloom where it seems no life could survive. Where there is only dust, God brings a spring of water.

            We are dust, and to dust we return. That is the stark reality that we face on Ash Wednesday. But just as real is God’s promise to bring life from the wilderness. Tonight, as we receive ashes, this sign of repentance, a sign that we are turning our hearts back to God, a sign that we are mortals, dust, we’ll hear a song called Beautiful Things sung by Mark Gungor. Listen to some of the word: “All this pain. I wonder if I’ll ever find my way. I wonder if my life could really change at all. All this earth. Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all? You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of the dust. All around, Hope is springing up from this old ground. Out of chaos life is being found in You. You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of the dust. You make me new, You are making me new. You make me new, You are making me new.”

            Maybe we are in the wilderness. But have you heard about what God can do in wilderness? Maybe we are dust. But have you seen what God can make from dust? This Ash Wednesday, may we be reminded that we are dust. May we turn to God with all our hearts. And may we remember that God promises that in due season the wilderness will be glad and the desert shall rejoice and blossom. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Sermon for Ash Wednesday (non-lectionary)

(Sermon 2/25/09, Mark 8:27-38)

Who Do You Say that I Am?

Today, Lent begins with this service of Ashes, as we pause to think about our own mortality, our own finite nature, and as we consider what it means to repent and turn back towards God. This year, we’ll use music from Jesus Christ Superstar at our 10am service to help us think about this Lenten journey, to help us think about how and why and if we are willing to follow Jesus on the path to the cross. You know already that Superstar is my favorite musical. I started going to see a local annual production of Superstar when I was in seventh grade, and since then, I have seen Superstar on stage in various settings about 30 times. I’ve worn out multiple cassette tapes and CDs from overuse. I could probably perform a one-woman version of the show all by myself. And when I wrote my senior religion paper in undergrad, Jesus Christ Superstar figured heavily into my project. So you know I love Superstar. But you don’t know why I love it. I’ll tell you more about it on Sunday when we focus in on Judas in particular. But the main thing is this: Jesus Christ Superstar makes me want to be part of the story. Watching and listening, I just want to be part of it. As a teenager, nothing drew me in to the gospel story quite like Superstar. I wanted to know what made each character tick – what motivated them and what did they see in Jesus, I wondered? I asked myself where I would be in the story. Would I be a disciple? Would I be on the sideline? Would I be one who wanted Jesus put to death? Superstar simply drew me in, and my fascination with the musical led me to a love of the season of Lent, a curiosity about the passion story, and a deeper faith. I hope, through the next several weeks, to convey some of that to you.

For me, the heart of the story of Superstar is an identity question in two parts. Who is Jesus? And who am I? Superstar focuses on the last week of Jesus’ life on earth, but it is less about the events and more about the people. Each song we will hear over the next weeks will give us an inside look at what the people closest to Jesus might have been thinking in the week leading up to the crucifixion. Why did some choose to become disciples? Why would some give up everything to follow him? Why would Judas betray Jesus? Why was Mary so devoted? Why did Peter’s faith waver? Why did the priests want him dead? Why did Pilate cede his authority? Why? These are the questions I wonder about when I read the scriptures, and for me, this music we’ll hear helps me discover, wonder, imagine. Tonight’s song is just a glimpse, as we see Mary and Judas both have vastly different reactions to who Jesus is and what Jesus is about.

Tonight we skip back in the gospel of Mark to the scene I mentioned on Sunday that happens just before the Transfiguration. Jesus has been travelling and teaching and healing, with his disciples accompanying him. And on their way to Caesarea Philippi, he asks them, “Who do people say that I am?” They answer “John the Baptist,” and “Elijah,” and “one of the prophets.” But Jesus asks them, “Who do you say that I am?” And Peter answers boldly, and for the first time, “You are the Messiah.” Then Jesus begins to tell them that the Son of Man will undergo suffering, rejection, and death, before a resurrection three days later. Peter, who has just made such a bold proclamation, rebukes Jesus for saying such things. Jesus responds, “Get behind me Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.” Peter could see who Jesus was – the Messiah. But he hadn’t yet learned what that meant – couldn’t see what being the Messiah would mean for Jesus – or perhaps, more accurately, couldn’t accept it.

Jesus calls the crowds together, along with the disciples, and makes things very clear: “If any want to become my followers, than let them deny themselves, and take up the cross, and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lost it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” Very simply, you can’t claim Jesus is the Messiah without knowing what that means, without consequences. For Jesus, it’s a simple if-then logic statement. If who Jesus is is the Messiah, then it follows that there will be a certain response from us. If we believe he is the Messiah, then we will deny ourselves, take up the cross, and follow him. And in reverse, if we aren’t denying ourselves, taking up the cross, and following Jesus, how can we claim him as the Messiah?

Who do you say that Jesus is? And what difference has that made in your life? Who are you? And how is who you are related to who Jesus is, or who you say he is? In the next weeks, we’ll look at Mary, and Peter, Judas and Simon, Pilate and the Priests. We’ll find out who they though they were. Did they change who they were because of who they thought Jesus was? Did who Jesus was change who they were? Some, we’ll see, try to make Jesus into who they wanted him to be. Some knew exactly who Jesus was, and feared him for it. Some were plagued by doubts and questions, and could never figure out who they were without understanding who Jesus was. Some knew who Jesus was, and learned how it had to change their lives, their very identities, knowing who Jesus was.

Who do you say that Jesus is? A prophet? A teacher? A healer? A miracle-worker? A work of fiction? A historical figure to admire? The Messiah? And who are you? A student? A skeptic? A believer? A questioner? An enemy? A child of God? A disciple? This Lent, this season, these forty days, the questions before us are the most important we can ask, about our very identity. Every day, we’re asked to define ourselves, to identify ourselves. We give proof in Driver’s Licenses and social security numbers and ID cards. We answer the question: I’m a mother. I’m a doctor. I’m his brother. I’m a banker. But this Lent, this season, these forty days, we only have one person to answer to. Jesus asks, “who do you say that I am?” And who do that make you?

Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” Jesus said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, and take up their cross and follow me.”

Amen.