March 5 ~ Remember That You Are Dust,and to Dust You Shall Return

March 5, 2025

Ash Wednesday

Joel 2:1-2,12-17

Psalm 51:1-17 

Matthew 6:1-6,16-21  

The context of this sermon is

100% written by a human

Bronnie Ware used to care for people every day as they faced their mortality. She was a palliative care nurse in Australia. People came into her life in the last six weeks or less of their lives. Like the compassionate palliative nurses I meet during my own pastoral visits, she held their hands, and monitored their pains, and made space for their families. For me, to be present with people at the very end – in those most truly, honest human moments - has always been a privilege as a pastor.

A few years ago, Bronnie began asking her patients for their final words of wisdom, and she began to hear their regrets. Five regrets, in particular, came up over and over. When I read those five regrets she published in her book, I recognized each one of them. For I too have heard them. When you hear them, they may also sound familiar. Maybe because they echo a regret that already dwells in your soul.

These are the five:

I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.

I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

I wish that I had let myself be happier.

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, the time of reflection and contemplation in our journey of faith. These next 40 days are meant to bring clarity and resolution to the time we have left. This is why we begin on this quiet evening with a reminder of our mortality: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Who will you be when that moment comes?

Lent is our chance to consider this question, in partnership with God. To reflect on the regrets we may want to avoid at the end of our lives. You probably already know what they are or will be. So what stops us from changing our paths now?

A few years ago, a trio of American researchers set up an experiment. They asked 19,000 people, from the ages of 18 to 68, to predict how much they had changed in the previous decade, and then to predict how much they would change in the future. They were surprised by the result: both young and old all believed that they had changed significantly over the last ten years. But also everyone also believed that they would change little in the future. They saw the future only in terms of where and who they were today. The researchers called this “the end-of-history illusion.”

The consequence of this belief is probably obvious. We may think we know everything we need to know and stop being curious. We may assume the grief or sadness or stress we feel today will be with us, in the same way, forever. We may think we cannot change our personalities or habits. And when it comes to those regrets, this end-of-history illusion may convince us there is no way to fix them.

Now, consider the words that shape Ash Wednesday: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” On the one hand, we might say – that is extremely depressing; best to put it out of our minds”. Or we might say: “Great news, we are not dust yet. Our history is not at an end.”

In fact, our gospel is constantly reminding us that we can and do change, we can correct mistakes, and we can become better versions of ourselves. If it weren’t true, Jesus would presumably spend all his time teaching and learning from children. But the disciples were breadwinners. Mary and Martha were running a household. The taxpayer, we can assume, was not particularly young. Neither was the widow at the well.

And yet, Jesus approached each of them with lessons, and he himself learned from them as well; because human beings are meant to grow and change.

Perhaps the greatest risk of buying into the “end-of-history illusion” is that we base our decisions today on a fixed future. So we don’t take risks to change. We lose hope that broken relationships can be repaired. We believe that what we regret today will still be a regret when we take our last breath.

And yet, I can tell you that this is indeed an illusion. All the time, I see families that take the step to break away from a dysfunctional pattern; a system passed on to them by the generations before. All the time, I see couples that change the way they communicate and come to value one another in a new way. I see workaholics who decide to invest more in their families and friends. I see people who learn to get better at expressing their feelings more honestly.

I see people who choose to be happy.

It is not easy. It does not happen in a day. It takes reflection, intention, and mindfulness. But we have a guide in God and the gospel; and we have a time that is set aside to try – the next 40 days

Now, not every regret, sadly, can be corrected directly – the other person may refuse to participate, your parents may be gone from this earth. But there are very few regrets that cannot be, in some way, remedied. We can change by forgiving ourselves or others, by not repeating the same behaviour with our children, by choosing to say today the loving and kind things we wish we had said earlier. We can indeed change our futures. Our history does not end today.

Let this be our challenge for the next 40 days. To think intentionally about what story we want to tell at the end of days when we look back on our lives; what story, even that we want to tell about this day and this week, when we fall asleep each night. And then to set about writing that story into our lives right now. Set your priorities. Connect with the people you love. Be true to yourself.

From dust we came, and dust we shall become. This, we cannot change. But we are not dust yet.

Amen

The Top Five Regrets of the Dying - A Life Transformed by the Dearly Departing is a 2011 book by Bronnie Ware

The 'end of history illusion' (EOHI; Quoidbach, Gilbert, & Wilson, 2013)

March 2 ~ Be at the Centre of the Change You Wish to See

Click the graphic above to watch a recording of the service.

March 2, 2025

Transfiguration of Our Lord

Exodus 34:29-35

Psalm 99

2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2

Luke 9:28-43a  

The context of this sermon is

100% written by a human

We are living through a time of stressful, and anxiety-inducing change. Much of it we cannot do anything about - at least not directly. But we can make changes in ourselves, and in our communities. And that is the very theme of Lent: to enter into a deeper conversation about faith, about our values and purpose, and emerge on Easter Sunday, changed.

Change is central to Transfiguration Sunday, and the theme of our readings.

First, we find the disciples enjoying their time on the mountain away from the crowds. They witness the transfiguration of Jesus, and they are suddenly nervous about what that means. They want things to stay the same. What’s more, they want to stay on the mountain as a way to keep things the same, to preserve their relationship with Jesus. “Can’t we just hang out here?” they ask. “Do we need to move ahead?”

Secondly, we have Jesus, in a rare moment of anger, frustrated with the crowd. “How long,” he rails, “do I need to deal with you people? How many times do I need to show you the way to change, before you actually listen?” Jesus is angered by the lack of change he sees happening.

And thirdly, we hear the request of a worried father, seeking change for his son, the healing of his condition. He wants to make this change happen – he needs it to – so he comes to Jesus with his request, and it is granted.

Change we resist. A lack of change that frustrates us. Change we seek.

What can we learn from each of these stories?

Let us consider the times in our lives when we have resisted change that deep down, we know needs to happen, or is going to happen anyway. Perhaps we needed to make a move, or change out of a crappy job, or leave the safety of our parents’ home. In this case, we can see that the disciples achieve nothing by trying to talk Jesus into staying up the mountain. They might have said instead: “We are afraid of what happens next. We are not sure we can handle it. How can we move forward in the most helpful way?” Sometimes our resistance to change, prevents us from exploring what is really at the root of that resistance, and from making an intentional plan to change it.

Then we have our frustration around change we want to happen but doesn’t. In that case what happens? We tend to blame the person or group or circumstance that is not changing. Even Jesus, in that moment, makes that mistake – losing it with the crowd. And yet the crowd could not change on their own – they needed to be lovingly guided and taught to change – which is, of course, what Jesus does in his ministry. He doesn’t make it about the ones not changing – he focuses on his role to foster that change and be an example of that change himself. Aside from that jarring moment in our gospel, he makes the story about his relationship with the people. How often do we do the opposite – look for others to change, become frustrated when they do not, without seeing the role we play in preventing change, or the way we can foster it?

And then we have the father seeking healing for his son. He wants this change to happen. But he does not sit at his son’s bedside and hope for it. He does not just wish for it to happen. He makes it happen. He finds Jesus, and he asks for his help. He makes the step toward change. He pursues it. Do we always do this? Do we see the change we want to happen and run towards it? Or do we, too often, wait for it come to us?

In the gospel, Jesus is our star dynamic character. The baby who becomes a teacher who is transfigured and named as the Son of God. The dynamic nature of Jesus spreads like a contagion, and all around him, other characters – the disciples, members of the crowd, the people who receive his healing, even the ones to whom he gives a hard time - they also become dynamic. Jesus changes, and this changes those around him.

That is the fourth example of change we receive: when we choose to accept it, when we make ourselves the centre of the change we want to see, when we pursue the change we desire, we affect the world around us. The truth that Jesus knew is this: change comes to us all, whether we like it or not. If it did not, we would be the static character who never moves anywhere, who never accomplishes anything. Come down from the mountain: Be honest and wise about the change that must happen. Focus your frustration: Be compassionate and take responsibility for the change we want that isn’t happening. And take action: pursue the change we want to happen. These coming 40 days offer us an opportunity. This Season of Lent intentionally creates space for positive change to happen in our lives. May we all be dynamic characters in our own gospel stories.

Amen.

Feb 23 ~ Forgiveness is a Gift We Give Unto Ourselves

Click the graphic above to watch a recording of the service.

February 23, 2025

Genesis 45:3-11, 15  

Psalm 37:1-11, 39-40  

1 Corinthians 15:35-38, 42-50  

Luke 6:27-38  

The context of this sermon is

100% written by a human

I have been betrayed by someone I loved. It gutted me. It was unexpected and shocking, not least because this person was someone I trusted, who knew my secrets and was supposed to have my back. I know many of you have had a similar experience – that deep wound of being wronged by a person important to you. You know – as I do – what happens to that wound. It festers. It turns an angry red. It heals – but only partway – and leaves a scar of bitterness.

So, I read about Joseph, and I just don’t get him at all. His brothers didn’t bully him, they didn’t lie to him, and they didn’t sneak around his back. They were jealous and they tried to kill him. They left him for dead; they thought he was dead. And when they finally run into him again, they aren’t happy to see him alive. They are afraid for themselves. Now that he has power, they are afraid what he will do to them as an act of vengeance.

We go through life, all of us, suffering many cuts along the way. There are times when people disappoint us, intentionally or otherwise. At school, we navigate friend circles where some stay in and others are forced out, and as adults, that translates into workplaces where we tangle with colleagues who have their own interests at heart, just as we often do. We encounter bullies who appear to have no remorse. In the end, though, it is not the many small cuts of strangers that wound us; it is those we receive from the ones we invited into our lives, the ones we love most that do grievous harm.

And that is what makes Joseph’s act of forgiveness so remarkable – the harm was done by those who knew him best, those he trusted to have his back. And yet, he welcomes them lovingly as brothers. He offers them land and a place beside him. He releases them from their guilt: their act of violence, he says, was God’s plan. Don’t blame yourselves.

Could any of us forgive in such a pure and fulsome way? Rather, we might feel frustrated at the instructions in our gospel: to love our enemies, to turn the other cheek when we are slapped on the first one, to give our shirt to the robber who steals our coat. “Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you,” we are reminded. We know that one – we can try to meet that standard, we think. But we are not the robbers; we are the slappers. What of them? When the gospel says, you don’t get points for loving those who love you; go out and love those who hate and wrong you, we think, “Good luck with that.”

Of all the instructions of the gospel, forgiveness may indeed be the hardest. It is a wound we struggle to heal, pray as we do, try as we might. We want to forgive – we know it is the right thing to do – but we cannot. We might fake it for a while, but under the surface, the pain is there, and the wound keeps opening.

I wish I had a three-step-guide to forgiveness, for myself as much as anyone. Some of the advice I have read over the years is sound: talk it through with someone – including God; don’t hold it in, write a letter to the person who has grieved you as a way to get out your feelings; try to understand their side of what happened; see them as flawed, just as you are.

That might get you partway, but not all the way. Forgiveness ultimately is a choice; and you know when you have truly made it. You wake up and you feel lighter; you don’t feel angry; you can be benevolent and understanding even when the person commits the same offence. And not in a judgy and sanctimonious way – as our gospel also cautions – but in a loving way. I have experienced that as well – hopefully you all have – so we know the difference. It comes as a relief, a burden finally lifted, and we realize how heavy bitterness can truly be.

But, come on now, didn’t Joseph have the forgiveness advantage? He came out on top; he had all the power; forgiveness was his to offer and the brothers could accept his crumbs. Except, like so many stories in sacred text, the drama of the tale is meant to show us a universal truth: we all have the power of Joseph. We are loved by God, and through that love, we are granted the choice of forgiveness. By following the gospel, we are guided not only to heal others, but first to heal ourselves – of the wounds of bitterness and anger that we needlessly carry. The point that Joseph made when he saw it as God’s doing can be taken many ways: first, he recognized what he learned from this act of betrayal. Perhaps, he learned humility, and to consider how being favoured – as he was by his father – affects the lives and self-worth of others But, he is also saying to his brothers, “This isn’t about you; this is about God – my forgiveness is a choice between me and God, and how you respond to it is your choice, too.”

Here is what I do know about forgiveness: you cannot force it. You cannot push someone into it. You cannot decide for them that the time is right. Just as you cannot force the person whom you feel is at fault to ask for forgiveness themselves. Even when we forgive, it may not bring about the results with that other party that we wish to happen.

But it didn’t matter to Joseph how his brothers received his forgiveness; it has to be a gift freely given. Just as there is nothing in the gospel this morning that says, “Forgive your enemies and all will be well.” The gospel is about us, and only us – and the cost of judgement and bitterness on our souls and psyche.

If I have one piece of advice to give about forgiveness, searching for answers in the Bible, it is this: Forgiveness, to happen, must first be a selfish act. It cannot be about the other person. It is not about making things right or fixing the relationship. It can certainly not be about getting that long- awaited apology which may never come. We must forgive ourselves first. God helps us along the way: by forgiving us for, well, everything, and by giving us countless examples of it in scripture and showing us the unexpected fruits of forgiveness in the gospel. But we must realize, that like Joseph, it is our act alone, and the weight we are lifting can’t be placed on the other person. We can give it to God, who carries all things.

So, let us admire Joseph, for this great selfish act, between him and God. His brothers may have gotten lucky, but they are not the recipients. The truth of forgiveness, as the gospel depicts it, is that it is not ultimately a gift we give others. It is the gift we give ourselves so that we might walk more lightly, more freely, and more graciously in the world.

Amen.