On Ash Wednesday, the preacher generally has two topics to consider – Sin and Death. And, in general, half of the preacher’s work is to make the case for the reality of either. In a world in which religion is on the decline, a category like “Sin” just doesn’t fit into most people’s worldview. Furthermore, we’ve been taught not to shame people or talk about their imperfections, so naming the fact that we are all flawed and broken is not generally accepted in polite company. In such sermons, the task becomes defining Sin and getting us to the point of recognizing that we are bound by Sin and need help from beyond ourselves to be freed from it.
But
it might seem that when it comes to death that the preacher’s job would be easier.
After all, we have funerals here fairly often and there are obituaries in the
newspaper daily. But that assumption does not account for the fact that we live
in a death-denying culture. Sure, intellectually, we know that none of us will
live forever, but we don’t live as if that were the case. So many people spend
their lives building things that will not last – wealth, reputation, awards. As
one ancient philosopher put it, “People are frugal in guarding their personal
property; but as soon as it comes to squandering time, they are most wasteful
of the one thing in which it is right to be stingy.” We focus on the wrong
things, and so we need help in remembering.
Studies
have shown that over the past three decades, there has been a significant
increase in the number of Americans who want physicians to do anything possible
to extend life, even in the face of an incurable disease. Yes, we all know that
death is inevitable, but we push it to the back of the closet and pretend that
we can just deal with it later. The comedian Woody Allen once joked, “It’s not
that I’m afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” As a joke,
it works because it plays on our deep-seated anxiety. But as a way of thinking
of death, it is a tragedy. The reality is that when we avoid death, we also
avoid life. And one of the problems with the modern world is that there is so
little life in the day-to-day. So though we focus on death and remember our mortal
nature with ashes, we do so not for the sake of being dead, but more fully
alive.
In
the 1400s, there was a writing called the Ars moriendi, which translates
to “the art of dying.” This text was very influential and helped to think about
what it meant to die as a Christian, a person of hope and expectation, in a
world full of famine, plague, and warfare. We would all do well to practice
this art. One author has said, “It is necessary to meditate early, and often,
on the art of dying in order to succeed later in doing it properly just once.”
I’m not sure that I can put it any better than that.
One
way that I’ve been working on practicing this holy art of dying is with an app
on my phone. Some will dismiss it as morbid or weird, which it might be, but I’ve
found it to be quite life-giving. The app is called WeCroak, and is based on a
piece of wisdom from the East: “To be a happy person, one must contemplate
death five times daily.” And so this app, once installed on your phone, will
send you 5 notifications a day at random times with a simple message: “Don’t
forget, you’re going to die.” If you then click that notification, you get a
quote about life and death. I highly recommend it.
At
the heart of the matter, what meditating on death helps us to do is to recognize
that death is a horizon, and a horizon is nothing but the limit of our
sight. It does not matter that when you stand on the beach and look towards the
horizon you cannot see the African or European continents – they are there. Yes,
when we bump up against the limits of our mortality, we have questions and
anxiety. This is normal and not-unchristian. What is not helpful though is to
run from our fears or give in to them. Abraham Lincoln said, “If I am killed, I
can die but once; but to live in constant dread of it is to die over and over
again.” In contemplating death, we start to see it no so much as a threat but
rather as a part of what it means to be a creature, a creature who is always
loved by God, both on this side of the grave and the other.
It
is in the assurance of our union with Jesus Christ, in both his death and his
rising, that we can have the confidence of St. Paul to even taunt death by
saying, “Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O Death, is your
victory? Where, O Death, is your sting.” Or as St. Francis put it in a poem
that we know as a hymn, “And even you, most gentle death, waiting to hush our
final death, O praise him! You lead back home the child of God, for
Christ our Lord that way has trod.” When we meditate on death, we come and see
that in death, life is changed, not ended, and that we are always alive in the
love of God.
But
our fear of death now prevents us from being fully alive and truly flourishing
in the abundance of life intended for us. This is where Lenten disciples can be
deployed. We do not give things up to improve ourselves or to show how much
willpower we have. No, we give up things that hold us back from the fullness of
life. If technology occupies too much of our time, we give it up to more fully
savor life. If certain foods or drinks are, perhaps, cutting into our lifespan,
we give them up to embrace the gift of life more fully. If certain practices or
hobbies prevent us from experiencing the holiness of life, we release ourselves
from their power.
Today,
we have ashes placed on our foreheads as signs of our morality. You might end
up with some dust on your lips and tongue, and that may well remind us of the
dryness of death. But we will also receive the bread of life and the cup of
salvation, which is a far sweeter and more enduring taste. And having
considered that we are dust, how much sweeter is that taste of God’s amazing
grace.
