Remember You are Dust.

Texts:

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17 

Psalm 51:1-17

2 Corinthians 5:20b—6:10

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Many people have negative impressions of Lent; there are visions of diet plans that masquerade as self-denial.  There are people who give up things they don’t eat or aren’t tempted by anyway.  There are people who will read their Bible more for six weeks and then leave the spiritual practice behind.  Lent is the Christian version, in some ways, of a New Year’s Resoultion.  When we change our practices for Lent, they tend to be things that would be good for us to do year-round, but somehow we don’t have the courage, strength, or stamina to keep it up.  Strangely, I think this is exactly what Lent reminds us of.  No matter whether we give up something or do not, no matter if we take on an additional spiritual practice or not, Lent is facing the reality that, even though we know what is good for us, we choose to do otherwise. 

It is to embrace the reminder that we are dust yet, at the same time, to embrace the reminder that God breathed into dust to create Adam.  We are invited during Lent to embrace a time of tension, a time in which we peer more deeply into ourselves and into the reality of what it is to be human, invited to become uncomfortable with what it is to be human that we can see the wonder of God and God’s love.  It is a time in which we tell the truth about ourselves, about our brokenness, and about our inability to depend on God because we would rather depend on ourselves.

The dust rails against its creator, telling ourselves we ought to simply be able to will ourselves to do what is good for us, that we ought to be able to keep all of the laws so that we can make ourselves righteous.  Rather than treating breath as a gift, we treat it as something to which we are entitled.  Rather than treating time as a gift, we treat it as the enemy.

The truth is that we spend most of our lives trying to run away from being human, to run away from being sinners, only to find we cannot run far enough and fast enough to get away from it.  No more running.  Let’s stop and sit, stop and pray, stop and breathe, stop and listen.  “¹Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. ²Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.  ³For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.  ⁴Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight, so that you are justified in your sentence and blameless when you pass judgment.”  “God, I am done running.” 

Lent is about asking to be made clean because we realize we cannot make ourselves clean: “¹⁰Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.  ¹¹Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me.”  These are the words we say when we cannot bear the person staring back at us in the mirror.  These words cannot come from a garden variety sinner, who still secretly keeps track of good deeds and bad deeds, hoping that if the good column is better than the bad, God will have no choice but to accept us.  These are the words of a person who understands what it is to be dust.

We ask for deliverance because we know the One who delivers us.  We ask for God to open our lips, for God is the One who inspires and enables our praise.  We ask God to accept our brokenness because we know the One who makes us whole.  We ask the impossible and we receive the unimaginable.

¹³Then I will teach transgressors your ways, and sinners will return to you.¹⁴Deliver me from bloodshed, O God, O God of my salvation, and my tongue will sing aloud of your deliverance.¹⁵O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise.¹⁶For you have no delight in sacrifice; if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased.¹⁷The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

Out of the brokenness, out of running the other way, out of sin, comes the proclamation.  We preach out of the least likely of places, namely, our brokenness.  It is when we are broken that we proclaim the one who makes us whole.  It is when we realize that we are dust that we realize God is the one who has breathed his Spirit into us and given us life.  The dust proclaims its Creator; the shards of clay confess their Redeemer.

This is what it is to be dust: it is to recognize we are easily shaken.  This is what it is to be broken: it is to recognize we cannot put ourselves back together.  This is what it is to be a sinner: it is to recognize we love ourselves more than we love God or each other.

This is what it is to be human: it is to recognize the One who breathes life into dust.  This is what it is to be holy: it is to recognize the One who knit us together.  This is what it is to be a saint: it is to recognize that it is not our love for God, but God's love for us, that brings our salvation.

During Lent, we behold the mystery of what it is to be human and what it is to belong to God.  We behold the mystery of faith that puts seemingly opposite things together: a God who is present even when we turn away, and a clean spirit with sin, and life with death.  We proclaim that we serve the Judge who was judged for our sakes, the sinless one who bore our sin, the one whose death and resurrection brought us the promise of everlasting life.