This Lent Remember to Forget...

Below is my monthly contribution to Bread for the Day.

"Has his steadfast love ceased forever? Are his promises at an end for all time?

Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has he in anger shut up his compassion?”

- Psalm 77

Remember.
Remember...that you are dust and to dust you shall return. (note to self...remember this. it seems important.)
Remember...the person God has made you to be. (not to self...figure out exactly what this means.)
Remember...to call Norma, Sara, and Sara with an H. (I know you hate making phone calls, but you can't put this off anymore. just do it. it's not that bad.)
Remember...to send an email reminder to students about this weekend's vocational event.
Remember...to actually get this YouTube channel off the ground.
Remember...to buy more toothpaste.
Remember...to forget.

Forget.
Forget...what the world has taught you about what success looks like.
Forget...that power is a force to be exerted over others.
Forget...the idea that all you have is not enough.
Forget...about taking Friday off this week.
Forget...the idea that this was going to be the semester where I stay ahead of the game. 

There is much to remember and much to forget. For us…and for God. Today the psalmist pleads with God to remember. To remember to be gracious and compassionate. The psalmist points back to what God has done in the past; leading the people, time and again, through the wilderness, through uncertainty and fear. Today the psalmist tells God to remember that this is what God does. God remembers. God remembers to be gracious, to be compassionate, to...forget. 

Anytime we speak of God remembering, my mind always goes to Jeremiah when God promises to forget the people's sins. Not to set them aside or disregard them, but God promises to forget them altogether. It is one of the mysteries of the faith that ultimately our hope is tied up in God's promise to remember...to forget. 

The season of Lent is a season of self-examination. It is a time set aside to consider what's important to us. What should we remember and what should we forget? Who is it, exactly, that God has made us to be? These are difficult questions, but we are not alone in wrestling with them. With the whole people of God we will remember and forget over the next forty days. May we begin this journey boldly, held by the promise that holds us all along our paths. Held by the promise of the God who always remembers to forget. 

peace,

z

Why we'll administer ashes on campus today...

Yesterday a friend and colleague published a pretty compelling blog post arguing against the increasingly popular Ashes to Go movement where clergy people administer ashes to passersby on street corners and bus stations in a momentary exchange.

While I've offered ashes publicly each year that I've been doing this whole ordained pastor thing, the questions Tim raises have haunted me. I've wondered whether we were cheapening the ritual. Tim's right, the repentant Lenten movement does take time. It takes time to move from death into life. Truly, it is essential that we hear that we are dust and to dust we shall return; that our confession is also communal. 

Yet, it is the communal nature of our Ash Wednesday confession of brokenness and hope that will lead me (and my Episcopal colleague) onto campus later today. 

I suspect that my context and Tim's have some significant differences. Perhaps one of those differences is that my identity as a religious official does not lend me much credibility when I step onto campus. When I position myself to distribute ashes the masses will not rush to receive the sign of the cross. There will be very few members of the campus community for whom this opportunity will bring the relief of conveniently fulfilling one's religious obligations. 

Truth be told, very few people will stop at all. Last year in two hours on a street corner, I recall only around ten students who wished to receive the sign of the cross. Some passersby will observe me with curiosity, some disdain, some complete obliviousness. 

It's a weird experience for me, but I suspect it's an uncomfortable experience for students as well. Last year, with traffic slow on my corner of campus I began walking through academic buildings during class changes. I wore a black cassock, which made me feel like one of Harry Potter's death eaters floating through a sea of students who looked at me like I was more likely connected to Draco Malfoy than to Jesus Christ. Like most of our public theological acts on campus this act has a high degree of weirdness and a low degree of participation.

That's why I think it's important to offer ashes on campus to thousands of students, faculty, and staff who aren't particularly interested. It is my hope that today we might be the ashen cross on the forehead of our community. That we might be that smudge that surprises us with each look in the mirror. It's my hope that our presence might be just the kind of awkward and awakening proclamation that will help pull our community and world into the hope that is found only in death. 

peace,
z