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“Gratitude for Our Human Limits”
The Reverend Canon Elizabeth Knowlton
Ash Wednesday
February 6, 2008
The Cathedral of St. Philip
12:15 pm
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
One of my favorite memories from college was staying up late arguing about politics. My fellow public service institute buddies would spend hours debating and defending our deeply held beliefs. Heaven help us during an election year. We became experts in delegate counts and had early computer simulation programs that allowed us to run countless scenarios. Our advisor encouraged us by being willing to host endless drop in political conversations in his office.
One of my favorite sparring partners was Michael Noonan. We disagreed about everything. A pizza was usually riding on every election. But underneath all of that was a deep respect for one another. After I moved away from Michigan, we lost touch. One day, sitting in my office cubicle at the Centers for Disease Control my phone rang. On the other end was Mike. He was coming to Atlanta on business and was hoping we could reconnect. Unfortunately, he was going to be in town on a weekend I was scheduled to be in Boston. We had a great conversation and I told him I’d try to meet him at the airport. We were going to cross paths for about forty five minutes, so I hoped we’d at least see each other in person before he boarded his return flight.
My trip to Boston was uneventful until my last night there. I arrived with my group to check-in to our hotel, and there was no reservation for us. After trying a number of other places, we finally gave up and decided to spend the night in the airport. We ended up trying to sleep near a very large and noisy metal sculpture. I can still hear it clanging in my memory. By the time we finally got back into Atlanta, I was tired and grumpy. I hadn’t showered and frankly wasn’t very excited about Michael seeing me for the first time in several years, looking like I had stood on my head for most of the night. So, I decided not to go. I was going to be in Michigan later in the year and thought I could touch base then.
A few months later I got a phone call I never would have expected. My advisor was on the line and had the news that Michael had been killed unexpectedly in a car wreck. We were both twenty three years old. I had never bumped up against my mortality in quite so vivid a way.
“Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”
On Ash Wednesday, we are invited to bump up against our mortality. It is frankly something we don’t usually go out of our way to confront. But, it can be a gift. Not so that we can become paralyzed with fear. Not so we have an opportunity to be morose and depressed. No, the invitation is to remember the very real limits of our humanity. And then, to find hope in what can result from that awareness. The awareness that can transform the many different decisions we make in the daily moments of our life.
But another limit of our humanity is our capacity to get distracted, even in our attempts to be more intentional. And it is a particular hazard of religious disciplines. There is a fine line between a practice and discipline that leads us closer to God, and one that becomes an end in itself. Are the ashes on our foreheads a witness or a subtle message of our superiority as we go back into the world? How do we know the difference?
It can seem ironic to hear these warnings from Matthew on the very day we are most visible in our piety. The very day we will leave with ashes on our forehead, is the day we are cautioned to not practice our piety too publicly or in a way that draws undo attention to ourselves. Maybe our secret prayers are heard in a different way by God. But it is not an invitation to be secretive about out attendance here at services today.
But the heart of the gospel today does seem to invite our intentionality. It is clearly not an invitation to abandon public worship and move solely into the realm of private piety. But it does contain a caution. It as if on the very threshold of our entering a period of limitation and new discipline, we need a reminder. Before we don the mantle of Lenten deprivation and practice, we need to remember who we are and why we are given this opportunity. “Remember you are dust.”
It is an invitation to be introspective. To wonder more about the countless seemingly unimportant decisions we make each day. The moment I decided to not go see Michael in the airport was only important in retrospect. It was made in a split second when I was tired and operating out of a place of vanity. And it was a very important lesson. Obviously if I had known it was my last chance to see him, it would not have caused me an instant of reflection to race as fast as I could down to terminal D. But we don’t always have that insight. So, it seems the gift of Lent is an opportunity to operate with a much deeper sense that we never know when our last opportunities are presenting themselves. That we should try to the extent possible to make the choices that will affirm the best in us and cause the least regret.
That is the point of Lenten disciplines or practices. They are tangible reminders of how we make the unimportant decisions. To decide to give up chocolate or use a new devotional book can seem like a rather simple task. It might even lead us to approach the edge of braggadocio if we get too caught up in competitive Lenten observance as we check in with one another. But it can also be an important still small voice. Instead of grabbing for the candy bag without thinking, I can remember that I need to pay more attention. If I find myself with an open wrapper in front of myself and a sense of guilt or regret, there is a new opportunity to ask for forgiveness for something that is easily forgivable. One of my favorite lines from a yoga instructor was, “don’t worry if you fall—falling is part of the practice.”
If I fail to read my new Lenten devotional book one day, I have a chance to catch up the next day. If I find myself overly burdened by my chosen discipline and can’t help but complain to my neighbor, I can gain new insight about my response to deprivation.
These are all important insights. Again, not to throw ourselves into despair, but to remind us of our real limits. To call on God instead of ourselves, and not be an island unto ourselves. “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Act with an awareness of this, and then notice what different decisions you make. Maybe you leave those dirty dishes in the sink and have a heart to heart conversation across the kitchen table. Maybe you say you are sorry a little faster and seek reconciliation in a relationship that is broken. Maybe you become more aware of all the things you do have in your denial of a single thing.
Our limits are a gift. A season to remind us of this is a wonderful preparation for the joy and awe that comes with the bonds of death are destroyed by Christ. The more we know our limits, the more we can rejoice in the one who has transcended them. I wish you a holy and grace-filled Lent.
Amen
Comments? Contact Beth Knowlton at: BKnowlton@stphilipscathedral.org