Sermon, February 25, 2004
Ash Wednesday
The Rev. Lowell E. Grisham
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
Fayetteville, Arkansas
I remember being confused as a child when a well-trained classmate who went to another church nailed me with a question this good Episcopalian wasn't prepared for. With fierce passion he challenged me, "If you were to die today, are you sure where you will spend eternity?" The look in his eye made me think he had some very serious doubts about my future.
"Well, yeah," I said. But even as the words came out of my mouth I could tell I hadn't said it with enough vigor to be convincing. I felt like trapped prey as a soul-hunter moved in for the kill.
"Do you know the day and hour when you were saved?" he shot back confidently.
"Ah, ha!" I thought. An escape! This one I was prepared for. Our Sunday School teacher had armed us for just such an occasion. "Yes!" I beamed. "I was saved two thousand years ago by the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I am being saved every day as I grow into the fullness of Christ's life in me. I trust God that I will be saved forever and ever."
Now the tide had turned. A look of confusion unsettled his scripted surety. It was obvious to me. His Sunday School teacher had not prepared him for this answer. I forget how the rest of the soul-battling chess match played out, but I recall that it felt like we dueled to a draw. He withdrew without my soul's scalp on his belt. I retreated with a temporary reprieve at least until he had visited with his Sunday School teacher for new armaments.
Unlike my friends who grew up haunted by the prospects of likely damnation, I grew up with a God whose love for me was even deeper than my parents'. The closest human equivalent was my grandfather's love. That was the closest thing I experienced to unqualified love. I could feel his delight in his beloved grandson. His delight in me gave me an unexpressible feeling of worth and security. Life could be pretty competitive on the playground or in the classroom -- it even could be bitter at home when I had forgotten a chore or picked a fight with my sister. But at grandad's all was well.
Except one time. I can't remember what I did. Maybe I've repressed that memory. But I remember the look of hurt in his eyes. It was a look of such disappointment. He seemed utterly surprised. I had acted in a way that was so out of character -- for he treated me as a person of great character -- he seemed simultaneously hurt and surprised. Like it never crossed his mind that I might do something wrong. Oh, he looked miserable. How he suffered. And he looked at me with such quizzical love, that my heart broke. I was so sorry. And I promised I would never do anything else like that again.
He reached out his arms, and I ran into his embrace. What I most fully felt was his relief. He was so glad. And my sense of catharsis was immediate and strong. I never wanted to hurt my granddad like that again. Never! He loved me too much. I didn't want to disappoint him.
My image of God has been deeply shaped by Granddad. I remember, years after he had died, when I faced the most profound experience of forgiveness I ever had to face -- when I needed to forgive someone for hurting me very deeply -- I imagined God in giant white robes looking a lot like my grandfather, and I buried my face in his lap and surrendered all my pain into his strong, healing, maternal care.
Back to my classmate's question. "If you were to die today...?" Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. I think if I were to face death today, something about my attention would be drawn toward my grandfather and the God that I have experienced in his image. If I have an expectation of eternal life, it would be something like entering the open arms of that incredible love. The words that form around that are words like blessing, gratitude, reunion, security, and, of course, love. Amazing love.
Remembering all of that reminds me of something else. It reminds me of how I want to live today whether I die or not. I want to be more like Granddad. I want be the kind of person he saw me to be.
But I've defaced that heritage. Already, in so many ways, I've not lived up to his vision for me. And Ash Wednesday is one of those holy days when I'm invited to look at that. I'm invited to look at all of the ways I've brought so much hurt and disappointment to one who loves me so much. It is a day when I can feel the sorrow I have caused. I have grieved his Holy Spirit. I have surprised him with my selfishness and stupidity. I have made God suffer miserably -- hurt and disappointed God with my destructive ways.
But I know about this being saved stuff. I know who loves me. I know who has loved me since the beginning. And I embrace that 2000-year old story that has as it's point how much God loves us and how much hurt God will absorb from us and remain steadfastly loving. It is the most powerful thing in the universe. More powerful than death, and a lot more powerful than my trite badness.
So I can look into those hurt and loving divine eyes and say, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry." And I can feel the incredible divine relief as God's gladness envelopes me with forgiveness and delight. I can promise with child-like hope that I will never do that again, because I do not want to disappoint such love again.
And I can recommit myself to that process of growing up into the likeness of something wonderful, something worth living for. Having been saved 2000 years ago, I can embrace the wonder also of being saved day by day, being transformed by this love that is so encouraging, so inspiring and so forgiving. And on that last day, when I return to dust, I anticipate throwing myself into the welcoming lap and embrace of an ancient and familiar love. It is amazing, but I'm sure God loves me even better than my granddad.
Now that's not just my story. It's yours as well. Feel the grand-parent delight and love God has for you. Look at what disappointment and hurt you've brought to such love. Let your sorrow be your embrace. Make God glad! And be forgiven, loved and freed to be the incredible person God sees you as being. In God's home -- all is well, and all manner of things shall be well.