A roll call of the human heart

An Ash Weds Sermon for inside a women's prison

The Gap

There was a period of time in 1996 when I tried really hard seem as normal as possible. Pretend I didn’t have my past. Pretend my heart wasn’t just a little bit dark. Pretend I could small talk. It was when my ex-husband and I were newlyweds and he was a seminary intern in a small church in Oregon and I was new to this whole Lutheran thing and I just really didn’t want to screw it up for him in his new church.

So, you know,

I covered all my tattoos AND I took out my tongue ring (did I mention, it was 1996?)

and… I even wore clothes from The Gap.

But it didn’t matter.

The Truth

Because the truth – even if I wasn’t acknowledging it or making it public – the truth about who I really am was still there. The truth I was trying to hide was holding strong. All the chinos and cardigans in the world couldn’t cover it. Because the fact was, that no matter how normal I tried to look, it was as if, in this almost animalistic way, the nice church people didn’t buy it. It was like they could smell it on me….like, *sniff sniff* this one isn’t from our pack.

Which was true. But that’s the thing about the truth, as you know.

The truth will totally ignore our desire for it to just go away. It will hover around us, buzzing annoyingly in our ear. Often the truth will show up uninvited and often disguised as something else. The truth about ourselves and our lives, if ignored, will just repackage itself as anxiety, and wake us up at 2a. Or show up as pain or discomfort in our bodies.

And this tenuous relationship I have with the truth is exactly why I love Ash Wednesday so much.

Because Ash wednesday allows us to begin Lent with a simple truth. An indisputable truth we try and ignore – a universal truth that gnaws at us. On Ash Wednesday we finally face the truth that is always tapping at the window and to which we usually respond by just turning up the music.

Death

And that truth is….you will die.

And I will die.

Even as we live and breathe there is still death in us. If you are not in your grave you are one day closer to it. So on Ash Wednesday, on this one night, we blurt out the truth: that we are dust and to dust we shall return.

And I don't have to tell you - nothing reorients the heart like death.

So it is no surprise how on Ash Wednesday we read in the prophet Joel.

Yet even now, says the Lord,

  return to me with all your heart.

Which I take to mean, You mortal, you who will die, you belong, heart and soul, to God.

This is Lent to me. Not competitive piety or trying desperately to make up for the fact that you are a terrible human being. Lent is about spiritual exfoliation. Lent is about returning to God with all our heart.

But it ain’t easy having a human heart is it?

Over the past few days I’ve been thinking about your hearts, my dear women. I’ve been wondering what this past year has meant for your hearts. Has your heart been broken by a divorce, or by a friend who betrayed you or by a ruling you weren’t hoping for? Has this year been one in which yet again you have not opened that heart – another year in which it felt safer to just keep it in cold storage? Or maybe has your own heart grown to include new grandchildren or a new friendship or a newfound love of your own precious self?

Or did it feel like your own heart went unseen this year?

Then my hope, my friends, is that maybe you can take even a small moment to soak in our passage from Joel,

Yet even now, says the Lord,

  return to me with all your heart

I love that part -All of your heart.

All of your heart. All of it.

I mean, I get that when we say someone does something “wholeheartedly” we usually mean they do it without reservation, but as much as we love an opportunity to prove ourselves, let’s assume just for a moment that this passage is not yet another test of how committed you are to your discipleship….

The Whole Thing

Because maybe returning to God with all your heart can also mean that God receives and welcomes all of your heart – the parts you deem good and the parts you deem bad. See, I believe that the heart of God is the origin of the universe – like God’s love couldn't be contained and overflowed the heavens in an absolute explosion which we now call the big bang.

God’s own heart is the source of life – so this God to whom we return our own hearts, is both our source – that from which we came – and our destination – that to which we return after death.

So if we need not fear the truth that we will die – then we also need not fear the truth about our own hearts.

Which means, we don't have to pretend anything.

Roll Call

So here’s a little thing I am awkwardly calling “A roll call of the human heart on the occasion of our acknowledgement of our mortality and our hope in God’s mercy”

Yet even now, says the Lord,

  return to me with all your heart

We can return to God with the hidden parts of our human hearts. The parts that have grown cold toward others. The part of our hearts that we can never express. The love we never got over, the desire we couldn’t name. The parts we keep only for ourselves. The piece of our heart that, despite all logic, will always belong to the person who hurt us the most.

God receives also those parts of our heart that are still young – that have yet to ache. Hearts that are pure and filled with play. Hearts that love without cynicism. Hearts that seek to put band-aids on their broken dolls. The part of our hearts that have known only love.

Yet even now, says the Lord,

  return to me with all your heart

And God welcomes back the piece of our hearts that, despite how many people love us, will always, always feel alone. The space in our hearts that no amount of attention or money or sex can ever fill.

And we can also return to God the spaces of our hearts that burn for justice. The heart that feels for the suffering of the neighbor, for the plight of overly policed, for those who need human love and concern and protection the most.

And also welcomed back to God are the parts of our hearts that are dark and cold, like a root cellar. Nothing gets into these parts and nothing gets out. Like a horror movie of disinterest and self-protection.

And returned into God’s own heart now and at the hour of our death are the pieces of our hearts that beat so strong and have been loved so well. The parts that give and receive love without hesitation, for which no pre-existing condition disqualifies, which stretch and stretch and even when we think they could not get any bigger, do.

And God receives also hearts that have been broken. Abandoned. Hurt. Betrayed. Disregarded. Undervalued. Abused. Overlooked. Shattered. By lovers, and spouses and children and churches and friends and the criminal so-called justice system and this heartless world.

And to God we can hand back the healed hearts and the tough parts that won’t take no for an answer and the parts we have given to every shepherd shaped wolf out there.

Yet even now, says the Lord,

  return to me with all your heart

Because the entirety of our human heart is welcomed by God.

You need not pretend to have hearts that are not really yours. You need not pretend to be more or less than what you are. You need not dress your heart up in clothes from The Gap if it is not the truth in you because as the Psalmist says, God delights – not in the façade in you, not in the self-improvement project in you, not in the I’m giving up everything pleasurable for Lent because I am such a good Christian in you – no. God delights in the truth in you.

Because we have a God who never tires of forgiving, who never tires of loving her children, who will never despise our broken, contrite hearts.

And my broken and softened, and healed, and yet still wild heart wants and gets to go back to her God again and again. Let’s maybe go together.

Amen.

Ash Wednesday

So the day comes around again

and we find ourselves

surprised

again

by the truth

that we are mortal

The stuff of dust and ashes.

Our egos and esteem are held up

to the brutal mirror of the finite:

Know that you will end.

The world will continue without you.

And it’s only with our vision so narrowed

that we are again

able to see

all that lies beyond us:

Know that you are not God.

Know that all the things that make heaven and earth

reach way beyond you.

Live today with faith in your humanness

and let that lead you to life.

Welcome to Lent.

(Author unknown…if you know who wrote this let me know!)