Fasting From Frenzy

If you read my sermon from last night (aka the previous post) you will not be surprised by the content of this post about my Lenten discipline. 

Like many people do during the season of Lent, I am going to spend the next 40ish days fasting. I am going to be fasting from frenzy. I am going to resist the urge to get whipped into a panic about things that do not merit panic. I am not going to allow poor planning on the part of others to become an emergency on mine.

Oh, and I am going to read more. This likely will not come as a shock to you, unless you are shocked that I can possibly read more than I already do. February was a crazy month during which I told myself I'd have plenty of time to read and then spent approximately none of that time reading. In one respect, I am "behind schedule" on my reading (which sounds like participating in frenzy!) but in another, I am bummed out by how little time I've spent slowed down with my face in a book.

As Lent approaches each year, I often decide to read a book of devotions of some kind that I have, and then I suddenly realize halfway through Lent that I've completely stopped reading it. The truth is, I have time. I have always had time. I run out of time because I waste time. I neglect to dedicate time to important things, and somehow feel like I "don't have the energy to really give it what it deserves"—which is a bald-faced lie. I just lack discipline.

This year, I am diving into 40-Day Journey with Julian of Norwich, who was a rad weird lady that I want to get to know better. This little collection happens to have been compiled by Lisa Dahill, whom I had the pleasure of meeting at last year's Region 1&2 Lutheran Campus Minister's gathering. Fun!

Since we call these Lenten practices "disciplines" I am therefore going to be more "disciplined" about spending a very easy 10 minutes that I certainly do have (or however long it takes me to read my daily Julian of Norwich thinger).

Oh, and! I am going to take a technology sabbath in the evenings, skipping out on screens after 8pm. In part, I am going to do this so I stop reading work emails at 10pm like some kind of person with no work-life balance. Also, it is better for my sleep. I will probably occasionally watch movies that go past this time but I will wear my blue-light-reducing glasses when I do! Huzzah. Also, some nights I am still at work at 8pm so obviously this one is more of a "guideline" than a rule okay bye

Okay! So! I am going to spend Lent doing fewer, better things. I am going to resist the false narrative that I must do everything and do it now. I am going to be present—to myself, to Jonathan, and to God. I'm going to take a walk outside as many days as weather permits (what up, spring). I'm going to ride my bike places that I could drive to because I am not actually in any sort of hurry most days, and especially not during my fast from frenzy!

Cool. I'm excited about this. I want to get started! But like, getting started means doing nothing. Ahhhhhh

Quick and Dirty or Fasting and Dusty—A Sermon on Ash Wednesday

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but, you are dying. Every day, as you live, you also die. Cells are reproducing rapidly, and you’re sloughing off unneeded ones all the while. You inhale deep luscious oxygen, and exhale that which your body does not need, cannot use. In the moments after your every exhale, it could be that you never inhale again. Life and death are like that.

You and I, by most standards, are very young. We have our whole lives ahead of us. We are, God willing, going to live out our full, lengthy, natural lives in freedom and fullness. That is what God desires for us. To talk about our impending death, then, feels jarring. But for those who have lived a long, hard life, it can be a comfort to know that God awaits us beyond this life. And as the great sage Albus Dumbledore once said, “to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”

Most days, though, we don’t talk about such things. I don’t usually remind you of your mortality. But today is not most days. Today is Ash Wednesday. On Ash Wednesday, we mark the entrance of the season of Lent, in preparation for the holiest of days, Easter Sunday. We’ll spend the next six weeks praying, reflecting, fasting, reading, learning, growing, repenting.

We come to this holy season from many different places. Sure, we’re all sitting in the Ranstrom Chapel, but we got here by a variety of roads. Y’all grew up in different cities across the United States, in different religious communities or not-so-religious communities. Did you grow up in a family that marked the season of Lent at all? Did you grow up “giving up” stuff for Lent? Did you learn that that fast—and these six weeks—were for the experience of sadness, and self-flagellation, and shame? You may have. Or you may have learned that these six weeks were for getting rid of the garbage that got in the way of your closeness to God.

What do we routinely consume that is harmful? Sometimes we know it’s harmful—like eating food that’s bad for us—or its harm is a little sneakier—like only reading news articles that confirm our biases. Two years ago, I kept a holy Lent by fasting from white media. Like, I unfollowed white people on twitter and didn’t watch cable news and only read books or watched movies made by people of color. It was hard, because I am white and our world is targeted toward whiteness and so you have to go out of your way to get information that isn’t white. Last year, I committed for the whole year to only read books written by women, and during Lent I only read books written by women of color. I did these things and continue to critically assess my reading list and twitter timeline and podcast listening and information intake because it is harmful to me—and to my understanding of the body of Christ—to live in the falseness of a white world.

I read a blog post last night by Candice Benbow, a black woman theologian I started following on twitter during my aforementioned whiteness fast. The blog post is called “For Sisters With Nothing Left to Give Up For Lent.” She writes about entering into Lent from a state of exhaustion and emptiness, and not knowing what else there is to fast from. You may feel this way. You may feel overrun. You may feel overwhelmed by the onslaught of political news every day. You may feel paralyzed by the sheer number of directions from which danger is managing to come at you. You may feel overwhelmed by responsibilities at home and at work and at school and in your family, which would be enough to stress you out even the calmest of political realities. You may have recently suffered an awful loss. And so coming up with something in your life to “give up” seems like a joke.

Candice writes that “Some of us are being asked to give up things and activities during Lent that are literally keeping us alive during seasons of great loss and deep pain.” God does not desire your suffering. God desires your life, your abundant life. God desires your wholeness and your wellness. “Perhaps this Lenten season will not be about fasting,” Candice says, “but giving ourselves permission to be refueled in the pursuit of joy. Could it be possible that, instead of ‘dying to ourselves’, we find ways to live into the abundant life Jesus came to give?”

If you want to fast in this season, do it. I do not mean to suggest that you shouldn’t. I mean to tell you that you do not have to if you feel you cannot. You can give up eating meat in order to learn more about what the best foods are to feed your body. You can give up drinking alcohol in order to focus on the fullness of life without substances that cause you pain and regret. You can give up gossip in order to reflect on the ways that words hurt. You can give up swearing in order to cogitate about the plethora of other locutions in the vernacular that you might utilize. You cannot, I regret to inform you, give up homework or going to work for Lent.

In this Lenten season, I am going to be fasting. I am going to be fasting from frenzy. I am going to spend the next six weeks doing fewer, better things. I am going to resist the urge to get whipped into a panic about things that do not need to be panicked about. I am going to read more poetry and more scripture and pray more prayers because, the truth is, I have time. I have always had time. I run out of time because I waste time. During this season, I am going to resist the false narrative that I must do everything and do it now. I am going to be present—to myself, to you, and to God.

This is my new phone background, for at least the next 40 days.

That’s what this season is about. Returning to God. Wherever you’ve gotten away to, you can turn around and come back. Ash Wednesday is, in this way, about remembering that you are human. You are not a superhuman; you are not expected to do anything perfectly, or even correctly the first time. You are human. And you are beloved.

You are dust of the earth, dear ones! God our Creator breathed life into you! Jesus, our Redeemer, put on this flesh and liberated you! The Spirit moves in and among you! You, and all the beloved, are alive in the grace of God—and you will die in it.

This season of Lent can be a dreary one, if you so choose. Dwelling for 40 days in the muck of your sin is a righteous discipline. But telling the truth about who and whose you are is a radical act in this world. We live in a culture of lies and half-truths and "alternative facts" and miracle cures and self-help and self-loathing. We do that every day. That’s not a Lenten discipline.

For these six weeks, permit yourself to be fully human. Listen quietly to the voice of God. Make a joyful noise to the Lord! Fast and pray and give alms. Rejoice in the the truth of your salvation.

Amen.

#Blessed—An Audience-Participation-Required Sermon on the Beatitudes

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

It’s been quite a week in our nation, hasn’t it? Last week, the President signed several Executive Orders that sent vulnerable Americans—and incoming immigrants and refugees—into a state of panic. Many responded in protest. Are your social media feeds full of photos of people swarming airports, or folks urging you to call your representatives in Congress? Americans in opposition to the policies of the new administration have been deeply motivated to engage in our ongoing civic responsibilities. This is encouraging those of us interested in change.

In the last week or so, my social media feeds had more Bible verses strewn across them than any time I can remember. Leviticus 19 made the rounds: “When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” As we grapple with a new national policy of barring entry for refugees, immigrants from majority-Muslim nations—and the policies keep changing each day as they are challenged—we, as Christians, must make a decision. To whom do we pledge our allegiance? First and foremost, we pledge our allegiance to the Triune God. Somewhere down the line we pledge our allegiance to the republic. So when we see people in immigration detention centers—children, the elderly, separated families—to what wisdom do we turn? Quote unquote National Security? Or the Law of Moses?

As always, Jesus has words for us. Jesus has guidance, and Jesus has expectations. He lays those out for us in today’s lesson from the Gospel according to Matthew. Some weeks, I pick a pretty small piece of our scripture lessons to drive home the point I think the whole thing is pointing us toward. This week, you’d have to try pretty hard to skirt the issue.

These verses are what we call the Beatitudes, part of a larger Sermon on the Mount. Are you familiar with them?

Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Jesus was talking to people who did not believe this. He was talking to people who needed to be told that the poor, and the meek, and the brokenhearted were blessed—because when they looked around them, the opposite seemed truer. When you look around, who do you see? Who do we look past?

Emily Scott, a pastor at St. Lydia’s dinner church in Brooklyn, NY, recently posted on Facebook some updated beatitudes for our present day. She and members of her community wrote them on the protest signs they carried to the Women’s March on Washington:

Blessed are those who cry “Black Lives Matter”

Blessed are the indigenous, and their sovereign sacred lands.

Blessed are those with pre-existing conditions.

Tonight, I want to offer you a similar opportunity. You have already noticed the posters stuck on the wall, and the little post-it notes, and the pens. Another Pastor Emily that I know gave me this idea. It is written in the fifth chapter of the gospel according to Matthew and on those posters:

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Take a few moments to think about who, today, are these about. Who in your community, here? Who at UC Davis? Who in this city? Who in our state? Who in our country? Who in our world?