Ash Wednesday 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on January 11, 2024 (Ash Wednesday)

Well, this is romantic. Spending Valentine’s Day together; talking about death. And of course, you can’t spell Valentine without “lent.” 

This Ash Wednesday/Valentine’s Day mashup is a pretty rare occurrence. The last time it happened was in 2018, the day of the Parkland school shooting. Which I know hit close to home for many of you. I’ll never forget that heartbreaking image of a mother with a cross of ashes on her forehead crying out in agony; an image that was beamed all over the world. Painfully poignant on a day we repent of our propensity for violence, our indifference to suffering, our blindness to injustice and cruelty.

And the time before that was in 1945, a year when the destruction of World War II was still fresh, even as the euphoria of victory celebrations would soon spill out into the streets. And here we are  again gathered on a day stereotypically set aside to both receive chocolate and to give up chocolate. Which is all rather confusing.

But, regardless of the date upon which it falls, Ash Wednesday has always been a day of paradox. We hear Jesus warn us about practicing our piety before others, and then we put ashes on our foreheads and practice our piety before others. We confess our sinfulness and the utter depravity of the human condition, and then we are assured of divine forgiveness. We proclaim our own mortality by being reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return, and then we proclaim our share in Christ’s immortality through the Eucharist.

This is a day of paradox, a day that points to a paradoxical faith. A faith where out of despair there is hope, out of grief there is joy, out of death there is life. A faith where we can be, as Paul writes, sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything; as dying and yet alive.

Today we begin our journey into the depths of this paradox as we enter the wilderness of Lent. A journey that will take us to the cross, and the depths of despair; a journey that will culminate in the empty tomb, and the heights of exultation.

And into this paradox we hear Jesus speak about the interplay between exterior actions and interior motivations. This is the gospel passage we hear every year on Ash Wednesday and it helps frame our own entrance into the season of Lent, this time of reflection and repentance.

Jesus holds up three pillars of the spiritual life — alms giving, prayer, and fasting. In Jesus’ day, these were the primary external ways you could tell someone was religious. They gave money to the poor, they prayed regularly, and they fasted at the appointed times. These are all things you could do quietly and without notice, but they are also things that could be done with a bit of fanfare. You could prove your great religiosity and bring honor upon yourself if you approached the alms basin when you knew people were looking; you could pray in public places where people would see you and comment upon your great piety; you could try to look as miserable as possible when you fasted so everyone knew just how devoted you were to your spiritual disciplines. Public alms giving, praying, and fasting were the ancient version of keeping up with the Joneses.

Now I know this seems a little out-of-synch with our own context. Most of us aren’t going to stand up in the middle of Renato’s on Worth Avenue and make a great show of saying grace before dinner to impress family, friend, and stranger. But maybe we like having a fancy car and pulling up in front of the restaurant. Maybe we like whipping out our platinum card when the bill comes, making a great gesture of our generosity. We make shows of ourselves in different ways but the principle is the same.

And, just as on Valentine’s Day, it all gets back to the heart. For Jesus, it’s not about the heart-shaped box of chocolates but the interior work of the heart. It’s about the motivations that drive us. Do our actions honor God or do they draw attention to ourselves? Are they humble manifestations of service or are they intended to puff us up?

When there is integration between our actions and our motivations, our faith is in harmony. When there is a disconnect between what we do and what we feel, well, Jesus has a word for that: hypocrisy.

Now, we’re all hypocrites to some degree. To be human is to have mixed motives. But Jesus is warning us against the temptation of seeking validation from others. Of measuring our self-worth by what others think. None of that matters when we are being true to God. And Lent is a time to examine our motivations and the motives of our hearts. It is an opportunity to recalibrate and rethink and retool our inner most heart’s desires. It is a chance to open our hearts and renew our faith. It is a season to bring our actions and motivations into greater harmony.

And this is where Lent’s invitation to self-examination and repentance can bring our lives into greater harmony and bring us even closer in our relationship with God. You don’t need to prove your self-worth to God. You already have God’s approval. You are already affirmed and validated and deemed worthy. God sees your hypocrisy and still loves you. God sees your strivings and still encourages you. Lent is a season to allow God into your heart and in turn, to give your heart over to God.

The ashes you will soon receive are not outward marks of piety but inward signs of your own mortality. They are a reminder of what matters. That life is short and that our primary calling is to love God and love neighbor with all our heart and all our mind and all our soul. That God has marked you for both death and eternal life. That you are dust and to dust you shall return, and that you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.

This is a day of paradox; but ultimately, whether or not it falls on Valentine’s Day, this is a day of love. Of deep, abiding, and unabashed divine love. I bid you welcome into this holy season.

Ash Wednesday 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on February 22, 2023 (Ash Wednesday)

I’m not a big fan of makeup mirrors. The only time I ever see myself in one is when I accidentally, and horrifyingly, glance over at one in a hotel bathroom. Now, I realize some of you are used to this view, but I’m not. And so it’s always rather jarring when I look up and come face-to-face with that magnified, hyper close-up image staring back at me. It’s shocking to see all of those blemishes in high definition, and I quickly avert my eyes.

In a sense, Ash Wednesday is a makeup mirror kind of day. Our entrance into the season of Lent compels us to take stock of our lives and gaze deeply into the intentions of our hearts. We can’t just take a superficial glance in the mirror, as we might check our hair in the hall mirror on our way out the door. Today requires a deeper look. 

And the reality is that it’s not always a pleasant view. We are sinful beings in need of repentance. That doesn’t necessarily make us bad people, it’s just a reality of the human condition. 

But one way we authentically look into the mirror, as the ash Wednesday liturgy starkly highlights, is by confessing our sins. We do this every Sunday, of course, as part of the General Confession. We look in the mirror and acknowledge those things we have done, and those things we have left undone. We say we’re sorry, we promise to do better, and we are absolved of our sins in the name of Jesus. And this cycle of confession, repentance, and the assurance of forgiveness should be, must be, a regular part of our spiritual lives. It both holds us accountable and reminds us of God’s loving mercy; of God’s joy for the one who repents and returns to the Lord. 

But today is a makeup mirror kind of day. And so we can’t just say the words and move on with the service which, if we’re honest, sometimes happens on Sunday mornings. As we prayed at the start of this service, we gather today to “lament our sins” and “acknowledge our wretchedness.” That’s hard language. But it does shake us out of the complacency of confession that often marks our words on Sunday morning. It helps to both pierce and open our hearts.

On Sundays one of the priests says, “Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor.” We usually leave at least a few moments of silence before launching into the confession. “Most merciful God…” But if you’re really struggling with something you’ve done or left undone, those few moments aren’t really enough space in which to fully reflect and repent. Before you know it, we’ve confessed, been absolved, moved on the Peace, and suddenly someone’s trying to shake your hand while you’re still trying to acknowledge your wretchedness.

Ash Wednesday spreads this out. In many ways it’s an extended version of that brief silence between the bidding of the confession and the confession itself. And I encourage you to embrace it. To spend the time to lament and acknowledge that which stands between you and God. That’s what sin is, after all. It’s that which separates you from the love of God.

And God wants to remove any barriers, anything that keeps you at a distance. God wants you within reach, not at arm’s length. Which is why confessing our sins, removing those obstacles, brings us into deeper relationship with the risen Christ. And it’s precisely why I don’t think you can talk about sin without talking about love. 

That may sound counterintuitive. But Lent in general, and Ash Wednesday in particular, isn’t merely a time set aside to feel bad about ourselves. We may all be “miserable offenders” with “no health in us” as the old confession from the 1928 Prayer Book put it. But that’s not our full identity. We are beloved children of God who, out of shame or fear, fall away and turn away and run away from God’s deep and abiding love for us. In a word, we are human. And God loves us anyway. Deeply and unconditionally.

In a few moments, you will be invited, in the name of the Church, into the observance of a “holy Lent.” And I think it’s helpful to reflect upon what this means. And to remember that, popular misconceptions aside, we are not invited to keep a miserable Lent or a guilt-ridden Lent or a gloomy Lent or even a wretched Lent, but a holy Lent. And holy simply means “set apart for God.” You, in all your imperfections, have been set apart for God. Because God loves you. And in the same way, we are invited to set apart some time for God. Through prayer, worship, reading, whatever your particular Lenten devotion may be. Whatever allows you to set apart some time to spend with God.

As you enter into this holy season, I invite you to acknowledge not just your sinfulness, but God’s loving grace. These ashes aren’t just a reminder of your own mortality, but a sign of God’s abundant and abiding love for you. Remember that you are dust, yes, but remember also that you are God’s beloved child. That Jesus rejoices at your presence this day; forgives you when you humbly repent of your sinfulness; and seeks after you in goodness and mercy all the days of your life. 

I look forward to walking into the wilderness of Lent with all of you this year. May we emerge emboldened in our faith, and be drawn ever nearer to the heart of Jesus.

Ash Wednesday 2022

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 2, 2022 (Ash Wednesday)

Return. Return to the Lord. Return to the Lord your God with all your heart. That’s the Lenten call. That’s the Lenten invitation. That’s the Lenten opportunity. To return and rededicate your life to the way of God, to the way of love.

And on Ash Wednesday, we’re reminded that the first step of return is repentance. To repent and return to the Lord is the call of this day. The word “repent” itself means a turning of the heart. So it’s an inward action, an action in direct opposition to the empty, outward displays of piety against which Jesus cautions. “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them.” His point being that faith is not about outward appearances or the image we project to the world, but the inward intentions of our hearts. Which takes contemplation and reflection and introspection.

And if we’re honest, we’re not great at repentance. For to repent is to look deeply into our souls and admit wrongdoing. We’re so much better at distracting ourselves and chasing shiny objects than we are at doing the hard, interior work of repentance. It’s much easier to give in to the external noise that is so pervasive in our lives — to go down internet rabbit holes or turn on the TV or talk about other people. Anything to avoid gazing into the mirror and taking a long, hard look at ourselves. At our complicity, at our self-centeredness, at our sinfulness. Repentance is hard work and, as with conflict, we prefer to avoid it. Afraid of what we might see or encounter in ourselves.

Which is why the Litany of Penitence we say after the imposition of ashes is so convicting. In it, we come face to face with our sinful and broken selves. We ask for mercy, we confess our utter depravity and we throw ourselves upon God’s abounding love and compassion. We repent and return to the Lord.

And if the first step of returning to the Lord is repentance, the first step of repentance is telling the truth. About ourselves and about our world.

There’s been a lot of talk these days and controversy over doing just that — over telling the truth. We see this when communities or groups seek to whitewash history or burn books. We seek to hide the hard facts that lead to uncomfortable truths. We see this when we choose what history to teach, based not on truth but on a narrative that better fits with the image we seek to convey. We see this in our country when we don’t want to face the ugly truths of Jim Crow and the lynching tree. When we don’t want to face the sometimes subtle but always soul-sucking ways in which people of color have been shut out of the American dream. 

In the same way, we often whitewash our own history. We ignore or cover up those things for which we need to repent. Those things for which we need to get down on our knees and rub ashes on our foreheads and truly and humbly say we’re sorry. Those things we have done and those things we have left undone. And when we fail to face them, we’re only fooling ourselves. We’re certainly not fooling God. The one to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. 

“Rend your hearts and not your garments,” cries the prophet Joel. Tear apart the ways in which we’ve been lying to ourselves and take a good, hard look at how we have acted towards others and towards ourselves. Being honest with ourselves does not always come naturally or easily. Because the picture we see is not always flattering. And while we may carefully curate our image on Facebook, God sees right into our hearts. The first part of repentance is telling the truth. And unless we’re telling the truth in our own hearts, to our own selves, we’re always going to leave a gap between our souls and God’s love for us.

The good news of this day is that when we’re honest with ourselves, as hard and as uncomfortable as that may be — the good news is that God still and always loves us. “Return to the Lord, your God,” says Joel, “for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing.” The God we return to in all our brokenness, the God to whom we repent is merciful and compassionate and abounding in steadfast love.

“Rend your hearts and not your garments.” And if it is the heart that symbolizes the core of our being, this is yet another call to strip away the external trappings of faith and focus on the inner life of Christ’s love. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of the essentials. Lent does that for us. Because Lent is about claiming and then pro-claiming God as the single most important priority of your life. Everything else is tangential; everything else is external to what really matters. The sooner we actualize this in our lives, the closer we come to that elusive peace of God that surpasses all understanding. And it all begins on this day; this day when we are called upon to repent and return to the Lord.

Ash Wednesday 2021

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on February 17, 2021 (Ash Wednesday)

Ten blocks from the parish I served as a young curate in downtown Baltimore was another Episcopal church. I used to drive by it every day on my way into the office, but I never really thought much about it. It was an old, historic church with an impressive gray stone façade but, like most places or things we see every day, it just sort of faded into the background. The church, as striking as it was, never really grabbed my attention. Except on Ash Wednesday. Because on Ash Wednesday they would always put out a large sign advertising their service times. This is a fairly standard practice for churches on special days, and at first glance their sign was pretty ordinary. 

At the top, in big letters, it read “Ash Wednesday Services.” Then it listed the service times. But what always made me take notice of the sign were the two words at the bottom: “No Imposition.” They were, of course, referring to the imposition of ashes. This was a congregation that took great pride in the simplicity and non-ceremonial nature of their worship. Incense at this parish was about as likely as snake-handling would be at St. John’s. In Episcopal-slang, they weren’t just low church, they were “snake belly low.” And they always proudly held their Ash Wednesday services without ashes. 

But as much as I couldn’t imagine Ash Wednesday without ashes, at least in a pre-pandemic world, that’s not what struck me about the sign. What caused me to take notice was the whole idea of starting Lent with “no imposition.” Because for me, that’s what Lent and the entire Christian faith is all about. It is an imposition. Not of ashes, but of faith in Jesus Christ. Our Lord demands certain things of us — like time and devotion and prayer. Not out of guilt or because we have to somehow earn God’s affection. Rather, faith is an imposition of love. The season of Lent gives us the perfect opportunity to reflect upon this interior, loving imposition, and reminds us of the responsibility we have to examine ourselves and our lives in the context of our faith.

To repent and return to the Lord is the invitation, the imposition, of this day. To “return to me with all your heart” says the Lord, in our reading from the prophet Joel. To return not to a vengeful or punishing God, but to one who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. This imposition of faith is like the yoke’s burden of discipleship which Jesus says is easy and light and overflowing with grace. That’s what we are being called to return to.

So here we are. An Ash Wednesday with no imposition of ashes, but with a full-on imposition of faith. And as much as I yearn for the fullness of future Ash Wednesday liturgies, with the choir, the Eucharist, all of you, and those gritty ashes made in the sign of the cross upon my forehead, I’m embracing this ash-less Ash Wednesday as an opportunity to begin this Lent by focusing not on the external signs of repentance and mortality, but on the interior nature of this penitential season. And I hope you’ll join me and one another for this seasonal journey of the soul.

It’s true, I never thought I’d experience an Ash Wednesday like the one offered by that church in Baltimore. And I hope this is the last time I ever do. But, as our bishop put it last week regarding the imposition of ashes in the midst of a pandemic, “Ashes should be a sign of our mortality, not an accelerant to our mortality.” So we will allow Jesus Christ to be imposed upon our hearts this year. We will continue, out of love, to stay physically apart, yet spiritually connected. And that is enough for this particular day, in this particular year.

Frankly, there are more than enough signs of our mortality these days. The global death toll over the past 11 months is a sign of our mortality. The daily ticker on our news sites highlighting the number of deaths in the United States is a sign of our mortality. The people we’ve known and lost to the coronavirus is a sign of our mortality. We don’t need ashes on our foreheads to remind us of the grief that swirls all around us. Everyone has been touched by this pandemic, some communities are harder hit than others, to be sure. But we are all affected by the pain, suffering, and grief that surrounds us. That’s what it means to be the Body of Christ.

Perhaps this year of fasting from such profound symbols and rites will make us look ever-more deeply inward. Perhaps foregoing the outward signs will allow us to focus upon our interior lives in renewed and life-giving ways. Therein lies the great opportunity of Lent. To rend our hearts and not our garments, as Joel puts it. To not practice our piety before others, as we hear from Jesus himself. But to attend with ever-greater intention to living in right relationship with God.

So, allow this imposition of faith upon your heart to guide you throughout this season. Let it be a symbol of the faith that you live out in your daily life. Let Jesus Christ impose the way of love upon you and those whom you encounter this holy season. And may God bless us all as we prepare for the coming resurrection of our Lord by accepting the imposition of the Christian faith, with joyful and expectant hearts.

Ash Wednesday 2020

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on February 26, 2020 (Ash Wednesday)

Welcome to Lent. I am especially delighted you’re here this afternoon because few things gladden my heart as much as gathering with those who exhibit a profound yearning to be in deeper relationship with Jesus Christ. And that’s what this day, this season, is all about. 

One way we do this, as the ash Wednesday liturgy starkly highlights, is by confessing our sins. We do this every Sunday, of course, as part of the General Confession. We look in the mirror and acknowledge those things we have done, and those things we have left undone. We say we’re sorry, we promise to do better, and we are absolved of our sins in the name of Jesus. And this cycle of confession, repentance, and the assurance of forgiveness should be, must be, a regular part of our spiritual lives. It both holds us accountable and reminds us of God’s loving mercy; of God’s joy for the one who repents and returns to the Lord. 

But today is a makeup mirror kind of day. Rather than a passing glance to check your hair in the hall mirror on the way out the door, today requires a deeper look. Now, and you may find this hard to believe, I don’t regularly use a makeup mirror. In fact, the only time I ever see myself in one is when I accidentally, and horrifyingly, glance over at one in a hotel bathroom. I realize some of you are used to this view, but I’m not. And so it’s always rather jarring when I look over and come face-to-face with that magnified, hyper close-up image staring back at me. I’m always shocked to see all those blemishes in high definition, and I quickly avert my eyes.

But in order to authentically take stock of our lives, we must face, rather than avoid, reality. We must gaze deeply into that makeup mirror. So deeply that it reveals the secret desires and intentions of our heart. And it’s not always a pleasant view! The reality is that we are sinful beings. We are here on this day, as we prayed at the start of this service, to “lament our sins” and “acknowledge our wretchedness.” That’s hard language. But it does shake us out of the complacency of confession that often marks our words on Sunday morning. It helps to both pierce and open our hearts.

On Sundays one of the priests says, “Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor.” Jack and I usually leave at least a few moments of silence before launching into the confession. “Most merciful God…” But if you’re really struggling with something you’ve done or left undone, those few moments aren’t really enough space in which to fully reflect and repent. Before you know it, we’ve confessed, been absolved, moved on the Peace, and suddenly someone’s trying to shake your hand while you’re still trying to acknowledge your wretchedness.

Ash Wednesday spreads this out. In many ways it’s an extended version of that brief silence between the bidding of the confession and the confession itself. And I encourage you to embrace it. To spend the time to lament and acknowledge that which stands between you and God. That’s what sin is, after all. It’s that which separates you from the love of God.

And God wants to remove any barriers, anything that keeps you at a distance. God wants you within reach, not at arm’s length. Which is why confessing our sins, removing those obstacles, brings us into deeper relationship with the risen Christ. And it’s precisely why I don’t think you can talk about sin without talking about love. 

That sounds counterintuitive, I know. But Lent in general, and Ash Wednesday in particular, isn’t merely a time set aside to feel bad about ourselves. We may all be “miserable offenders” with “no health in us” as the old confession from the 1928 Prayer Book put it. But that’s not our full identity. We are beloved children of God who, out of shame or fear, fall away and turn away and run away from God’s deep and abiding love for us. In a word, we are human. And God loves us anyway. Deeply and unconditionally.

In a few moments, you will be invited, in the name of the Church, into the observance of a “holy Lent.” And I think it’s helpful to reflect upon what this means. And to remember that, popular misconceptions aside, we are not invited to keep a miserable Lent or a guilt-ridden Lent or a gloomy Lent or even a wretched Lent, but a holy Lent. And holy simply means “set apart for God.” You, in all your imperfections, have been set apart for God. Because God loves you. And in the same way, we are invited to set apart some time for God. Through prayer, worship, reading, whatever your particular Lenten devotion may be. Whatever allows you to set apart some time to spend with God.

One of the ways I’ll be practicing what I preach this Lent is by spending some extended time reflecting on the words of Morning Prayer. I’ve been praying the daily office for years and so the words are very familiar. But I often hear them without really and deeply praying them. That’s the danger of liturgy. It anchors our lives, it is comforting, but sometimes the words become too familiar and we need to listen as if hearing them for the first time.

But one of the canticles I say every week speaks to the nature of sin and repentance in a beautiful way and I’m going to invite you into a section of it. Feel free to close your eyes if that helps. 

“In your great goodness, Lord, you have promised forgiveness to sinners, that they may repent of their sin and be saved. And now, O Lord, I bend the knee of my heart, and make my appeal, sure of your gracious goodness. I have sinned, O Lord, I have sinned, and I know my wickedness only too well. Therefore I make this prayer to you: Forgive me, Lord, forgive me. Do not let me perish in my sin, nor condemn me to the depths of the earth. For you, O Lord, are the God of those who repent, and in me you will show forth your goodness. Unworthy as I am, you will save me, in accordance with your great mercy, and I will praise you without ceasing all the days of my life.” 

As you enter into this holy season, I invite you to “bend the knee of your heart.” To acknowledge not just your sinfulness, but God’s loving grace. These ashes aren’t just a reminder of your own mortality, but a sign of God’s abundant and abiding love for you. Remember that you are dust, yes, but remember also that you are God’s beloved child. That Jesus rejoices at your presence this day; forgives you when you humbly repent of your sinfulness; and seeks after you in goodness and mercy all the days of your life. 

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Ash Wednesday 2018

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on February 14, 2018 (Ash Wednesday)

Well, this is romantic. Spending Valentine’s Day together; talking about death. The last time Ash Wednesday fell on February 14 was 1945. A year when the destruction of World War II was still fresh even as the euphoria of victory celebrations would soon spill into the streets. And here we are 73 years later again gathered on a day stereotypically set aside to both receive chocolate and to give up chocolate.

But, regardless of the date upon which it falls, Ash Wednesday has always been a day of paradox. We hear Jesus warn us about practicing our piety before others, and then we put ashes on our foreheads and practice our piety before others. We proclaim our own mortality by being reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return, and then we proclaim our share in Christ’s immortality through the Resurrection. We confess our sinfulness and the utter depravity of the human condition, and then we are assured of divine forgiveness.

This is a day of paradox, a day that points to a paradoxical faith. A faith where out of despair there is hope, out of grief there is joy, out of death there is life. A faith where we can be, as Paul writes, sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything; as dying and yet alive.

And we desperately need this paradoxical message of hope as we hear news coming out of Florida about yet another school shooting this afternoon. 17 dead was the last I heard, with images of a mother with a cross of ashes on her forehead crying out in agony being beamed all over the world. On a day we repent of our propensity for violence, our indifference to suffering, our blindness to injustice and cruelty.

Today we begin our journey into the depths of this paradox as we enter the wilderness of Lent. A journey that will take us to the cross, and the depths of despair; a journey that will culminate in the empty tomb, and the heights of exultation.

And into this paradox we hear Jesus speak about the interplay between exterior actions and interior motivations. This is the passage we hear every year on Ash Wednesday and it helps frame our own entrance into the season of Lent, this time of introspection and repentance.

Jesus holds up three pillars of the spiritual life — alms giving, prayer, and fasting. In Jesus’ day, these were the primary external ways you could tell someone was religious. They gave money to the poor, they prayed regularly, and they fasted at the appointed times. These are all things you could do quietly and without notice, but they are also things that can be done with a bit of fanfare. You could prove your great religiosity and bring honor upon yourself if you approached the alms basin when you knew people were looking; you could pray in public places where people would see you and comment upon your great piety; you could try to look as miserable as possible when you fasted so everyone knew just how devoted you were to your spiritual disciplines. Public alms giving, praying, and fasting were the ancient version of keeping up with the Joneses.

Now I know this seems a little out-of-synch with our own context. Most of us aren’t going to stand up in the middle of Legal Seafood and make a great show of saying grace before dinner to impress family, friend, and stranger. But maybe we like having a fancy car and pulling up in front of the restaurant. Maybe we like whipping out our platinum card when the bill comes, making a great gesture of our generosity. We make shows of ourselves in different ways but the principle is the same.

And just as on Valentine’s Day, it all gets back to the heart. For Jesus, it’s not about the heart-shaped box of chocolates but the interior work of the heart. It’s about the motivations that drive us. Do our actions honor God or do they draw attention to ourselves? Are they humble manifestations of service or are they intended to puff us up?

When there is integration between our actions and our motivations, our faith is in harmony. When there is a disconnect between what we do and what we feel, well, Jesus has a word for that: hypocrisy.

Now, we’re all hypocrites to some degree. To be human is to have mixed motives. When you put money into the tip jar at Starbucks, do you wait until the barista is looking so you “get credit” for your generosity? It’s only human to seek affirmation for a kind gesture, even if you insist that you don’t want any. There’s a reason alumni magazines and symphony programs list all their donors and there’s a reason we search for our names.

Jesus is warning us against the temptation of seeking validation from others. Of measuring our self-worth by what others think. None of that matters when we are being true to God. And Lent is a time to examine our motivations and the motives of our hearts. It is an opportunity to recalibrate and rethink and retool our inner most heart’s desires. It is a chance to open our hearts and renew our faith. It is a season to bring our actions and motivations into greater harmony.

And this is where Lent’s invitation to self-examination and repentance can bring our lives into greater harmony and bring us even closer in our relationship with God. You don’t need to prove your self-worth to God. You already have God’s approval. You are already affirmed and validated and deemed worthy. God sees your hypocrisy and still loves you. God sees your strivings and still encourages you. Lent is a season to allow God into your heart and in turn, give your heart over to God.

The ashes you will soon receive are not outward marks of piety but inward signs of your own mortality. They are a reminder of what matters. That life is short and that our primary calling is to love God and love neighbor with all our heart and mind and soul. That God has marked you for both death and eternal life. That you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever and also that you are dust and to dust you shall return. This is a day of paradox; but ultimately, whether or not it falls on Valentine’s Day, this is a day of love.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Ash Wednesday 2017

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 1, 2017 (Ash Wednesday)

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” It’s not every day that someone overtly reminds you of your own mortality. We generally avoid the topic of death in polite company. We’re all aware of this in a general sense — that, along with paying taxes, as the saying goes, death is the one thing we can’t avoid in life. We just don’t tend to name this inevitability in everyday conversation.

Yet the words spoken by a priest when imposing ashes may as well be, “Remember that you are going to die.” It’s a stark reality that most people spend an entire lifetime trying to avoid. Which is why we live in such a death-denying culture. One full of euphemisms for death, like he “passed away” or “bought the farm” or “gave up the ghost.” It’s why we call them funeral “homes” — even though nobody actually lives there.

But the liturgy of Ash Wednesday cuts out the flowery prose and bids us to face the reality of the human condition. That we will return to dust; that we will die. We don’t know the day or the hour but we are reminded of the inevitability. “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

The purpose of this day on which we are invited into the observance of a holy Lent is not, however, a gathering simply meant to state the obvious. It’s not a wakeup call of fear and trembling but a wakeup call of love and compassion. Because you cannot fully live until you recognize and accept your own mortality. Easier said than done, of course, but critical to living a life of peace and joy.

So what does it mean to fully live? How do we do this? Well, our faith has some suggestions, and not surprisingly they are rather counter-cultural. None of them revolve around bungee jumping or roller coasters or thrill rides that make us want to scream, “I’ve never felt so alive!” The adrenaline rush is temporary; fun, perhaps, but unsustainable.

No, the recipe to fully live can be found in the ancient words of the prophet Isaiah. To fully live is “to loose the bonds of injustice, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke.” It is “to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; and to cover those who are naked.”

To fully live is to embrace justice and work to lift up the downtrodden in our midst. It is to live inter-connectedly with those who differ from us; it is to open our hearts and minds and souls to new possibilities; it is to live a life of compassion; it is to be generous; it is to forgive.

And so when we talk about dying, we are really talking about living. That’s the essence of the Christian faith. That’s the message of Jesus whose very life reminds us that we cannot encounter death without recognizing resurrection. That when we talk about death, we can’t help but talk about life. That when we talk about grief, we can’t help but talk about joy. Death and resurrection are inseparable; even on Ash Wednesday as we reflect upon our own mortality.

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” You know just a few days ago, 27 pilgrims from St. John’s were out in the African bush on safari. The last two days of our trip was spent at South Africa’s largest game preserve. And when you’re out among the wildest of beasts in God’s kingdom, the concept of mortality is a constant companion. There’s no euphemism involved when a hyena attacks and proceeds to eat a gazelle.

And yet there, too, is the fullness of life. And a reminder that you cannot live your life paralyzed by the inevitable end. The African bush reminds us that we are not called to live a life of cowardice and fear but of empowerment and joy. To revel in the gift of each day.

So as we enter into this season of introspection and penitence, do not be afraid. Do not allow the reality of the human condition to leave you paralyzed. Rise up; live your life in the warm glow of the resurrection; do a deep dive into Lent here at St. John’s. And most importantly, remember that you are dust; for in so doing, you will fully live as a beloved child of God.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 20, Year B)

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy Schenck on September 20, 2015 (Proper 20, Year B)

Who among us is the greatest Christian? Now this is really important so we’re going to spend a bit of time getting to the bottom of this. And just to be fair, I’ll disqualify myself. Not because I actually believe that I am holier than thou — it’s one of those employees-and-immediate-family- members-are-not-eligible-to-win things. I mean, I’m paid to be here. I’m also going to go on record as disqualifying any nuns. We have several Sisters of St. Margaret among us as we do most every Sunday and, sorry, but that’s just not fair. So they’re out.

But what should the criteria be? If we based it purely on church attendance, that might lead to some uncomfortable squirming in the pews. And, anyway, we don’t keep a giant ledger with attendance charts in the church office (as far as you know). What about average hours of prayer logged in a given month? Not bad, but we’d have to go on the honor system and I don’t want to invite prayer fraud into the equation. “Lead us not into temptation” and all that.

We need something more quantifiable. How about money? Maybe the greatest Christian here is the one who has given the most money to St. John’s over the past year. Sure, there’s the little problem of Jesus’ story about the widow’s mite; the passage where he praises the poor woman who gives only two coins but gives from her heart. But we do keep meticulous giving records.

I think you see where I’m going with this. The whole notion of competitive Christianity is absurd. You can’t win the life of faith as if it’s some sort of competition. There are no trophies or certificates of achievement handed out at the Annual Meeting. There’s no parish ranking system.

And yet this is precisely what the disciples were trying to do as they walked along that road to Capernaum with Jesus. Jesus doesn’t call them out on it during the journey, even though he’s absolutely aware of what’s going on. He bides his time and waits until they’re all gathered later that evening and asks them, “So, what were you arguing about on the way?” And…awkward silence. Until they sheepishly admit that they were arguing about which one of them was the greatest.

Just last week we heard Jesus rebuke Peter for setting his mind on human things rather than divine things. And here’s yet another clear example of the disciples just not getting it. They’re so focused on how their relationship with Jesus will benefit themselves that they fail to grasp the heart of his message, which is to look beyond themselves. They’re more concerned with how they’ll be perceived by others than actually serving others.

And you can’t really blame them. Well, you can, but think about the ways in which we judge our own self worth. We’re culturally rewarded for focusing on being the greatest, on winning, on being successful. Think about the ways we measure ourselves against one another. What’s your GPA? What’s your salary? How many bedrooms are in your house? What kind of car do you drive? How much do you give to your alma mater? What tax bracket are you in?

And lest you think clergy are above all this, you’ve never been to a clergy conference. ‘What’s your Average Sunday Attendance? How big is your operating budget? How many programs do you have? What’s the size of your endowment?’ It can quickly devolve into a not-so-glorified pissing contest. And you realize you’ve been feeding right into the mentality against which Jesus has warned us.

It’s also an oppressive way to live, all this competition; over time it beats you down because you can’t win everything, you can’t be the greatest at everything. I mean go to a football game and you’ll see fans of both teams holding up those “We’re Number 1” foam fingers. Yet both teams can’t, in fact, be number one. There will always be a number two. But they don’t sell foam fingers that proclaim “We’re Number 2!” at the concession stand.

The larger point here is that in Jesus’ realm it’s not about being successful but being faithful. So much of our energy and time and effort goes into pursuing perfection and self-promotion when we should really be pursuing peace and promoting harmony. Human wisdom, human ambition only gets you so far. The portion of James’ letter we heard this morning continues the theme. “For where there is envy and selfish ambition, there will also be disorder and wickedness of every kind. But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy.” Again, it’s about seeing things from the divine perspective, not the human one. “For what will it profit them,” Jesus says, “if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life.”

So here goes Jesus shaking up the entire order of things — something he does all the time. I mean, is there anything more counter-cultural than telling people that the “first shall be last and the last shall be first?” This isn’t just to make people who come in dead last in a road race feel better. Or to buck up those at end of the buffet line. Jesus is placing all of our notions of societal order and place and status and tossing them into one of those lottery machines that mixes up all the numbered balls.

Or maybe that’s a lousy analogy, because it’s too random; but time and again those who are most honored in God’s kingdom are the servants and those who are the least. We see this all the time in the gospels. Those who are the most blessed, those who get most of Jesus’ attention are not the ones with the fattest bank accounts or the biggest houses or the most followers on Twitter. The ones Jesus blesses and commends are the sick, the blind, the lame, children, outcasts, sinners, tax collectors, women, the elderly — in other words, those on the very margins of society.

If we’re able to see the world through Jesus’ eyes, from that divine perspective, it changes our entire outlook on what really matters. It puts into perspective our silly and ultimately hopeless strivings to be on top, to keep up with the Joneses, to be “successful” as it is defined by others. You’re already successful in God’s eyes. Being made in the image of God takes care of that. Which gives you the freedom to pursue faithfulness with reckless abandon. To spend time growing your relationship with Jesus and reaching out to those in any kind of need or trouble and being present for those who need your love. That’s what it means to focus on divine things. And in so doing, the urgent need for worldly success fades to black.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2015

Ash Wednesday 2015

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on February 18, 2015 (Ash Wednesday)

The evening of my very first Ash Wednesday as a priest, as I was driving back from Old St. Paul’s in downtown Baltimore to our little red brick rowhouse on Keswick Road, I remember having one predominant thought. It had been a long day with four very well attended services including a huge one at St. Paul’s School for Girls, a private school the parish had founded a few generations ago. Ash Wednesday is always a full day at major downtown churches as office workers come streaming in for services throughout the day.

At first my one thought didn’t seem particularly profound or theological in nature. It wasn’t a reflection on repentance or the sinful nature of humanity. My thought was this: “I have never in my life physically touched so many people in a single day.” And I probably still haven’t.

I think Ash Wednesday, even with lots of snow on the ground and in the middle of school vacation week, is still the one day in the year that I touch the most number of people. I’m not generally such a touchy feely kind of guy.

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” the priest says as the sign of the cross is traced with a thumb dipped in ashes. At some level it’s odd that the one day in the year that clergy physically touch the most people, the message to them is that they will one day die. That was also part of my thought process after that first Ash Wednesday. That I had just told a whole bunch of people, including hundreds of young students, that they would die and that their bodies would return to the dust from whence it came.

But the thing about the Christian faith is that you can’t talk about death without also, literally in the same breath, talking about Resurrection. Ashes aren’t just flung at you. They are very intentionally made into the sign of the cross. The cross, that implement of torture and death that has been transformed by Jesus into an instrument of Resurrection and life.

And Ash Wednesday is not the only time in your life when you have a cross traced upon your forehead. At your baptism the sign of the cross was also made as you were “sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.” Indelibly marked as Christ’s own. Not temporarily or for a limited time only but irrevocably and forever.

But this day reminds us of the stark reality of our lives — that we will die. A time will come in the not too distant future when we will no longer be living, breathing partakers of this mortal life. We are all marked for death. And as much as we seek to deny it the rest of the year, on Ash Wednesday we cannot deny death — that message is literally in and on our faces as we come face-to-face with the fleeting nature of humanity. “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

The good news is that even on Ash Wednesday there is hope. The ashes are the start of our Lenten journey, but not its end. Because even as we begin this Lenten season there is hope. Through the promise of Christ’s resurrection, we will indeed rise out of the ashes. We will rise out of the ashes of Ash Wednesday and be drawn into the glorious light of Easter.

But not yet. Because in order to rise, we must first die. Just as at baptism we die to the old life of sin and death, before we experience the joy of Resurrection, we walk this Lenten path. We strip away all the clutter of our lives and return to the basics of our relationship with Jesus. It’s not easy, of course. It takes the hard work of self-examination leading to true repentance and amendment of life. But Ash Wednesday is the window into the season of Lent; a season that is not all doom and gloom but rather a wilderness experience of relationship with the living God who invites us into an ever-deepening encounter.

And so the ashes, this very tangible and visceral evidence of our own mortality, draw us into the impending death of Jesus Christ. But through these ashes we are also drawn into the impending resurrection of Jesus Christ. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, new life to new life. It’s all part of our inheritance as people of faith. These ashes mark us for death but they also mark us for resurrection. We are marked for death, yes, but also for new life in the risen Christ.

And it all begins with a physical touch. An incarnational moment that stands as an outward and visible sign of Jesus’ love for you. A love that transcends everything even, and most especially, death.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Ash Wednesday 2014

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 5, 2014 (Ash Wednesday)

In a world that loves to affirm and build up, Ash Wednesday puts us in our place. It reminds us that we are not the center of the universe. That there is something beyond what we can see on the surface of life. That we are not the permanent element on this earth. That our lives are fleeting. That we are flawed and broken members of the human race. And that we will die.

Ash Wednesday tears down the elaborate platforms we erect that give us a sense of control over our lives and the world around us. It is a day of leveling, reminding us that whoever we are, whatever we have done or failed to do, we are linked by our humanity; a humanity that is neither immortal nor indelible.

In the gospel passage from Matthew appointed for this day Jesus says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth where moth and rust consume…but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven.” What are these treasures Jesus is referring to? It could be money, sure. Many of us have an unhealthy, often miserly relationship with money and we all know, at least intellectually, that we can’t take it with us when we die. But our treasures are also the things around which we build our identities — the things we’re convinced define us. Academic degrees, awards, jobs, clothes, families, cars, houses, hobbies. Much of this is good stuff but it’s not who we really are.

Because when you strip everything else away, our sole identity in this life is as a child of God. That’s the essence of who we are and why we’re here. We add so many layers over the course of our lifetimes this is easy to forget. Lent allows us to strip away the layers and return to the natural beauty of our humanity. But just as, if you’ve ever tried stripping the paint off an old piece of furniture, it’s hard work. Many of the layers seem permanent and it takes much effort to get down to the wood. People often give up and move on to the next, easier project. But if you stick with it, if you endure the frustration and the hard work, the original beauty begins to shine forth and you’re both reminded of why you started the project in the first place and rewarded for your effort.

So how do you begin stripping away the layers? How do you return to your true identity as God’s beloved. The season of Lent offers us a unique opportunity for self-examination and repentance. A time to take stock of the layers we’ve built up that distance us from God and to return to the essence of what defines us, which is relationship with God in Christ.

When you engage in a Lenten discipline — not giving up chocolate or Fritos but something like setting aside time for daily prayer or spending 10 minutes a day reading Scripture or learning about and being inspired by saints — you begin to get back to your true identity. You start chipping away at the false assumption that we can do everything ourselves, that we don’t need any help, that we are fully in charge of our lives.

Ash Wednesday puts us in our place. It reminds us that this false sense of security only goes so far. In stark language it reminds us of our humanity — our sinfulness and wretchedness in the face of the divine. And nothing quite forces introspection like being reminded of our own mortality — something many of us spend a lifetime denying.

In a few moments, we will impose ashes with the words “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” That’s a sobering thought; a painful reminder that all of our strivings in this mortal life are ultimately for naught. Despite our worldly successes and triumphs, despite the deep emotions and connections we all experience, we are mere dust — meaningless, ephemeral dust.

But only outside the concept of the Resurrection. Because of Christ’s resurrection — toward which this entire Lenten season points — when we die we don’t just return to dust, we return to God.

And so Ash Wednesday also sounds a note of hope. For in the midst of our sinfulness, God’s forgiveness is absolute. In the midst of our brokenness, God’s abounding mercy is steadfast. In the midst of our turning away, God welcomes us back again and again and again.

As you receive ashes on your forehead in the sign of the cross remember also that the sign of the cross was made on your forehead when you were baptized with the words, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.” In other words, you have already been indelibly marked, not with the dust of ashes but with the glory of everlasting life in God’s eternal care.

Ash Wednesday does indeed put us in our place. But it’s a good place to be. A holy place to be. A hopeful place to be. And for that we can rejoice.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck