“I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the
observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance;
by prayer, fasting, and self-denia
l; and by reading and
meditating on God’s holy Word.” Did y’all happen to hear that exhortation on Ash Wednesday last week? How’s all the prayer, fasting and self-denial going for you?
On the face of it, Lent seems to be a season that’s all about what we do or don’t do; what we take on or give up. Which raises a question, as old as human religiosity, about how we get ourselves right with God. Do we get there by means of what we do, that is, by following the rules? Or do we get there by means of what God has done, which is to love us without regard to our efforts? In the law vs. grace debate, Lenten disciplines seem to be heavily weighted towards observing the law.
In like manner, today’s lessons—all of them—have a lot to say about what we do or don’t do. They all reference what the psalmist praises as the perfect law of the Lord, or what we might call in more contemporary terms, practices of faith. In contrast to belief—which is an arena in which Christians have been known to argue in in unseemly ways—faith practices are where Christians can (or at least ought to) agree. Do not steal, do not lie or defraud, do justice, love your neighbor, give to the hungry and thirsty and naked, visit those in prison. These behaviors are foundational ethical demands of both the Hebrew and Christian scriptures, and—as far as Jesus is concerned—they are non-negotiable.
Nevertheless, hearing lessons like these in the context of Lent could make even the most scrupulous law abider nervous. No matter how earnestly we practice our faith, can it ever measure up to the standard of the Gospel? And specifically in the gospel lesson proclaimed in our midst today—with the image of sorting sheep and goats hanging over our heads like a kind of prophetic sword of Damocles—we might be left wondering what wing of the bovidae family we’ll end up in.
Bear in mind that todays gospel comes from a time in Jesus’ ministry when the cross looms near at hand. So what we just heard him imparting is final lessons to his disciples, knowing that their behavior in the impending crisis will matter. But even as we take these ominous words seriously—as we must, in a season when the cross looms near to us as well—its important to remember that Matthew’s Jesus never asked his disciples to white knuckle their way into salvation. Notice, for example, that in the sermon on the mount, Jesus did not tell the his motley crew of listeners that they should become the salt of the earth or the light of the world; he told them that they are salt and light.
There’s a kind of parable that Alice Walker wrote in the wake of the World Trade Center bombings, which goes like this. “In the Babemba tribe of South Africa, when a person commits a crime against a neighbor they are taken to the center of the village. Every man, woman and child in the village forms a circle around them and begins to tell the accused, one at a time, about all the good things the person has done in their lifetime. The ceremony does not cease until everyone is exhausted of every positive comment he can muster about the person in question. Only then circle is broken, a celebration takes place, and the person is symbolically and literally welcomed back into the community.”
I don’t know if, in the fullness of time, my own faith practices will prove to more resemble those of a sheep or a goat. But I do know that the company I keep and the practices we affirm matter as I seek to grow into the person God made me to be. Which is why I will indeed pray, fast, and meditate on scripture in my Episcopal community, even as I trust in the grace of Jesus Christ when I fail to carry out all of my intentions.
So in the spirit of the Babemba, let me tell you the truth of who you are. This is your truth matter what you have done or left undone this Lent, or any other time. You are salt and light. You are people who love the statutes of the Lord and desire God’s judgment more than fine gold. You love our neighbors. You care for the hungry, the thirsty, the naked and the imprisoned. Blessed are you who do these things. And with every Holy Lent we observe, may your practices help you to become more true to your God-given selves.
