I invite you to turn to Hymn 325 and to sing the first stanza a capella with me. Then mark that page and we’ll return to it throughout our meditation together this morning.

I want Jesus to walk with me, all along my pilgrim journey,
Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.

Our Lenten journey brings us face to face with the age-old question, “Why does evil happen?” and our all-too-human-and-feeble responses to that question.  I want Jesus to walk with me, but will he stay by my side if I screw up?

Some folks report some breaking news to Jesus in today’s Gospel text. Jesus is told that while some devout Galileans were in the temple praying, worshipping and humbly offering their sacrifices, they had been slain – murdered in cold blood right there in the temple - by the order of Pontius Pilate. Good people doing good – struck down, wiped out.

Upon hearing the news, Jesus asks those who have brought him this news a rhetorical question: “Do you think this suffering came upon them because they were ‘worse sinners’ in the eyes of God?”

Before they can offer him any glib answers, Jesus brings up another recent tragedy, this time an architectural disaster. A wall tower had fallen in Siloam, a pool-side district in the southeast corner of Jerusalem, and 18 people were killed by the falling debris.  “Were they worse offenders than all the rest of the residents of Jerusalem?” Jesus asks.

Jesus’ rhetorical question in both cases reflect common human misbeliefs about God: a God of meticulous recordkeeping who measures out degrees of sin and punishes accordingly, a God of retribution who causes really bad things to happen to people who do bad things; a “getting even” God who walks away from us when we wander away from him.

We might ask the same questions today with our own set of current events in our own Jerusalem world:

Were those 600-800 people wiped out in the earthquake in Chili worse sinners than all the other Chileans who survived, that such a thing should happen to them?

Don’t you suppose that loved ones of those who died or any of the wounded are wondering, “What have I done (or what did they do, or what did our family do) to deserve this? Is God angry with me? Is God angry with us?”

Or are we to assume that because that the city of Port au Prince in Haiti was devastated in January by an earthquake killing hundreds of thousands that they were worse sinners than the rest of us in the same hemisphere who have not endured such widespread devastation? That hideously-false prophet, quack TV evangelist, and total crock by the name of Pat Robertson thinks so, having blamed the Haitians for having made a pact with the devil and thus having brought the earthquake upon themselves.

What shall we say to April and Judd Larson, beloved parents of Ben Larson, or to Ben’s wife of 3 years, Renee, of Ben’s instant burial in the rubble of the Haitian orphanage where Ben and Renee were working to spread the good news of Jesus and his love?

What kind of a God do we worship and believe in?  The kind whose good graces may turn away from us in one moment of human failing? Or, whose grace is doled-out whilly-nilly on some but not on others, as reflected in that misguided motto: “There but for the grace of God go I?”  Rubbish.

What a steaming pile of pious theological manure that statement is!

How could God — would God ever — leave anyone in such a spot? I have the grace, and you don’t. You got the grace, but I missed out on it.

Where is God when we need God?

Even Jesus — from the cross — cried out into what seemed like God’s glaring absence, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Yet evenso, take not to whom that prayer is addressed.

As we keep some Lenten silence for the next few moments, let us sit quietly with Jesus and ask our tough questions, be they theologically rhetorical or humanly desperate.

God, where are you in all my struggle, pain and sadness?

Silence

In my trials, Lord, walk with me; when my heart is almost breaking, Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.

This past week I sat with a friend whose husband died suddenly of heart failure at the age of 55 on Monday night, at home, while getting ready for bed.  As we planned the funeral service, and read scripture, and reminded ourselves of the promises of God’s Word, my friend asked me through eyes swollen and brimming with tears, “Are you going to say something about how unfair this is? Will you talk how out of order this is? Will you say something about how not right this is?”

Martin Luther once said, “In adversity, the soul thinks God is angry. Therefore words of comfort can never be spoken enough.”

In other words, we immediately “go there” in our heads when we are faced with tragedy, illness, loss, or hardship: Is God angry with me? A death occurs, a catastrophic illness befalls us or a loved one, unemployment persists, a relationship crumbles. Does God think I am deserving of this? Have I done something to force God’s wrathful hand?

Jesus says to that way of thinking in today’s Gospel text, “No, I tell you” and then adds “but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.” In other words, “No — God doesn’t work that way; No — God doesn’t categorize us into “better” sinners and “worse” sinners; No — God doesn’t do the ‘divine retribution thing’ AND YES! Yes — God allows you to make an about face and reorient yourself away from your wayward ways; Yes — God permits U–turns. And Yes — God invites you to return over and over again to God and always–always–always takes you back.

Prior to hearing the Gospel today and every Sunday during this Lenten season we sing words which remind us of how God is with us.  “We are turning, Lord, to hear you; you are merciful and kind — slow to anger, rich in blessing, and with love to us inclined.”  Those words are a paraphrase of a passage from the prophet Joel, words which we heard read on Ash Wednesday. “Return to the Lord your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing. Now there are some words that suffering souls long to hear. Now there’s a promise that fearful souls yearn to hear. Words that sorrowing souls crave to have spoken.  God is gracious, yes — merciful, yes — slow to anger, yes — abounds in steadfast love, yes — and relents from punishing, oh yes.  Words of absolution our ears long to hear. Isaiah echoes this promise in today’s first reading: “let them return to the Lord, that God may have mercy on them, and to our God, for God will abundantly pardon.”

As we keep another moment of Lenten silence, let us rest in the promise of the myriad ways in which God in Christ is gracious and merciful with us, slow to anger with us, abounding in steadfast love with us, and relents from punishing … “for as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

Silence

When I’m in trouble, Lord, walk with me; when my head is bowed in sorrow, Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.

A God who relents from punishing.  We’re not just whistling Dixie here. This is no steaming pile of pious theological manure.

Rather, it is the moral of the story Jesus tells about the fig tree that wouldn’t bear fruit and needed a good steaming pile of the real stuff to get it going again.  The owner of the vineyard wanted the fruitless fig tree cut down, but the gardener is gracious and merciful with the tree; the gardener is slow to anger about its lack of fruit; the gardener abounds in steadfast love for what that tree was and what it could be, and so the gardener asks for more time. The gardener who relents from punishing and fertilizes the fig tree with merciful manure is a picture of Jesus, whose ways with us are not our ways with each other, and whose thoughts of us are not the way we think about ourselves or one another.

And so it is that we continue our 40–day Lenten journey to a celebration of new life called Easter. As we journey amid life’s barren and fruitless moments, we yearn for the waters. While we thirst here in this Lenten wilderness, we long for the promised rivers in the desert. While we struggle with the seeming silence of God in our suffering, we crave the bread of his presence.

Today, here, now. In the desert. In the wilderness. In your struggle. With your questions. Amid your doubts. Under the cloud of what feels like God’s absence comes the Word you long to hear:

God is present with, not absent from you.

In Jesus’ death and resurrection, you have God’s Word that you are never alone, never abandoned, never forsaken, never punished. Only accompanied. Jesus walks with you. Weeps with you. Wonders why with you. Never keeps a distance, but goes the distance. With you. With you. With you.

The 40-day season of Lent gives us permission to lament, and not just because we maybe gave up dessert, carbs, or cocktails as our Lenten fast. But rather, because as we entered the season on Ash Wednesday, we were reminded once again of the truth about ourselves: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Sometimes we can face up to that fact, but most of the time we try like the dickens to ignore it, to deny it, or to escape it.

But now and then, we get in touch with our mortality, occasionally we own up to our brokenness, here and there we come face-to-face with our deep woundedness, and when we do, there is some languishing. We may discover that a lament begins to emerge. A dark and desolate night of the soul may ensue, and we find ourselves nearly inconsolable.

An old, old hymn invites us who find ourselves in such times to come, to gather it all up and to bring it all to God. Kindly take your hymnal now, and turn to Hymn 607. As Barbara introduces the melody, sit with the words for a moment, and we’ll quietly sing the first stanza. No need for robust Lutheran hymn-singing at this point. The person nearest you doesn’t even need to hear your voice. Perhaps you’d rather inwardly digest the words while others sing. Do as you like. Just keep the page marked, and we’ll return to again it in a few moments. No. 607.

Come, ye disconsolate, where’er ye languish;
Come to the mercy-seat, fervently kneel.
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish;
Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot heal.

Where is life causing you to languish? What wounds you presently? Over what does your heart anguish?

For Abram, it was doubt that God would make good on God’s promises. God had promised to give to Abram and his offspring all the land that his eyes could see, but at age 75 there was still no descendant, but only an adopted servant who was like a son. God promises, Abram doubts and protests, and God reassures.

“Do not be afraid, Abram. I am your shield.”

We too live in fear. We too doubt the promise. We too are vulnerable and, like Abram of old, we seek a shield.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?” sings the psalmist with seeming confidence. “The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” Unshakeable, so it would seem. But only a few verses later, lament begins to creep in once again. “Hear my voice, O Lord, when I call; have mercy on me and answer me… hide not your face from me, turn not away from your servant in anger. Cast me not away — you have been my helper; forsake me not, O God of my salvation. Though my father and my mother forsake me, the Lord will take me in.”  In one breath, the psalmist sings of God’s light and salvation.  And in the next breath, laments his own sense of desolation.

God’s faithfulness and our doubt are a perfect match. They go hand-in-hand, never to part.

We turn to stanza two of Hymn 607, and quietly sing.

Joy of the desolate, light of the straying,
Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure;
Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
“Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot cure.”

There are times and seasons for everything in life, says the writer of Ecclesiastes in the Hebrew scriptures. “For everything there is a season,” she writes, “and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

And a time to lament that we are dust. And if there’s one thing dust does: it scatters.

The Gospel text from Luke reminds us this morning that Jesus, too, lamented. Like a mother hen trying to chase all her chicks into the safety of her wings, Jesus laments that Jerusalem chooses to scatter like dust, rather than to gather like as a beloved brood of chirping chicks at his breast.

“How often,” Jesus laments. With these two words, the wounded heart of Jesus is laid bare in anguish:  how often he would gather, but how often we scatter; how often he would draw near, but how often we distance ourselves; how often he would embrace, but how often we resist.

Jesus laments over us, “How often.” If we would but return, his wing awaits.

We turn to stanza three of Hymn 607, and quietly sing.

Here see the Bread of life; see waters flowing
forth from the throne of God, pure from above.
Come to the feast of love; come, ever knowing
earth has no sorrow but heav’n can remove.

We are called to follow Jesus, even in his lamenting. We all, like Jerusalem of old, wander from our mother.  As the church, we now become the wings of Jesus for all who seek shelter, shield, and sanctuary from the storms of life.

We may lament the storms, but we nevertheless trust the promise: that as we wait for the storm to pass, we most certainly wait in the wings — in the wings of God’s abundant grace, and Christ’s eternal embrace.

Amen.

Nothing quite says “Hurray! It’s Lent!” like the Great Litany with which we began worship this morning.  Subdued yet audible groans leaked from the mouths of choir members last Wednesday as they were reminded of the liturgical way in which we would be entering into the Lenten season today.  Visitors in previous years have been known to ask with wide eyes after worship, “Do you do that long thing every Sunday?” Even long-time members who forget from year-to-year about the litany have reportedly wondered, “What’s so ‘great’ about the Great Litany?”

As one worshipper from another tradition once told the pastor after having sung the litany in the congregation, “Well that about covers everything!”

Indeed, with the ashes of this past Wednesday smudged on our brows and with their accompanying reminder to “Remember that we are dust, and to dust we shall return,” we continue a more profound entry into this season of springtime in the church this morning, painfully aware of our deep human brokenness, poignantly aware of our forgetfulness of God, perplexfully aware of our proneness to wander and to get off-track and off-center.

With the backdrop of the gospel reading from St. Luke which tells the story of 40-day testing of Jesus in the wilderness, we enter into these 40 days of Lent having just named about every trial and test known to humankind: we have prayed for deliverance from all sin, all error, and all evil, from war, bloodshed, and violence, from corrupt and unjust government, sedition, treason, and from epidemic, drought, famine, fire and flood, earthquake (hello), lightening and storm.  We have prayed for justice and peace in all nations and that our own (might I add) partisan country might be preserved from discord and strife. Our prayer included women currently in childbirth (or perhaps nigh unto it), and all families — be they nuclear or other — currently in discord.  We have prayed for support, comfort and guidance for all orphans, widowers and widows. And we have even prayed for forgiveness for our enemies, our persecutors, and our slanderers — those who have said nasty things about us — and to reconcile US to THEM, and not the other way around.

It’s no wonder we bristle at this litany. We hate it. It is an affliction. It is time of trial in itself.  It is … a test. A test of our spiritual will.

We all go through seasons of testing, of trials, and of temptations. The old gospel hymn asks “Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere? We should never be discouraged; take it to the Lord in prayer. Can we find a friend so faithful who will all our sorrows share? Jesus knows our every weakness — take it to the Lord in prayer.”

Jesus knows our every weakness. He knows yours. And he most certainly knows mine.

Jesus knows our every weakness because Jesus has been there. For no sooner had he been baptized, no sooner than the Holy Spirit had descended upon him as he stood in the Jordan River praying and about to be dunked by the Baptizer John, no sooner had he heard the voice from heaven which declared “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased,” Jesus was led into the wilderness where for 40 days he was tempted — the Greek word peirasmos is perhaps better translated “tested”. But let’s be clear, since St. Luke is very clear: and since the words on the front of this morning’s bulletin are in such large print: “Jesus was led by the Spirit in the wilderness.”  But even the bulletin cover skips a phrase between the words “Jesus” and “was led” — very important words. Luke writes, “Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan, and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tested/tempted by the devil.”

None of this Flip Wilson “the devil made me do it” crap.  Jesus’ time in the wilderness is Holy Spirit-driven, it is baptismally-based, and it is Word-empowered, for in all three testings the devil plays second fiddle to the word of God which trumps Satan’s test every time. With the waters of his baptism barely drying on his skin, with the promise of the voice from heaven still ringing in his ears, and with a soul filled with the Holy Spirit, Jesus is led by that the same Holy Spirit into his 40-day time of testing.

As we are led by the Spirit to enter into these next 40 days of Lent, I can think of no more powerful words to pray continually than those from the Great Litany which include these petitions, “From all sin, from all error, from all evil; and from the cunning assaults of the devil: Good Lord, deliver us.” And in even more graphic words, we prayed: “To beat down Satan under our feet, to accompany your word with your Spirit and power; to raise up those who fall and to strengthen those who stand: we implore you to hear us, good Lord.”

None of the readings today or even the prayer of the day imply that we can face these tests if only we would have the spiritual strength and stamina to do so, if only we would but gird our loins and muster up our inner fortitude, if only we could just be good enough & spiritually-fit enough to endure the tests. No. Every word from scripture today reminds us it is God who is our source and our stronghold; it is God who is our refuge, our rock, and our rescuer; it is God who guards and guides our every step. God’s Spirit will see us through the wilderness ahead.

Every reference to God in the first reading is one of direct action toward God’s people: God gives them their land, God chooses the place for them, God hears their cries, God sees their affliction, their toil, and their oppression. God delivers and brings them into places filled with milk and honey. The people of Israel are only asked to acknowledge what God has done for them: to remember to return to God and to give thanks.

Psalm 91 reminds us that not only in the light of God but even in the shadow of God we will find shelter and strength.

And, even as the word of God was on the lips of Jesus as he met every test of the devil, so too St. Paul reminds us in the 2nd reading that the very same “word is near you, on your lips and in your heart,” and reminds us of the promise that God is not stingy in the least but rather is generous to all who call upon him, reminding us of the promise foretold by the prophet Joel: “I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh, and everyone who calls upon the name of the Lord will be saved.”

In a few moments, we will yet again find ourselves praying that ancient prayer taught by Jesus, a prayer which includes the petition “Save us from the time of trial.” It would be naïve of us to expect that by praying this prayer we would be spared all the difficulties and tests that come from being human, and perhaps a more honest way to pray would ask to be saved in the time of trial. If you would, take your red hymnal and turn to the very back, to page 1164 where you will find the Small Catechism of Martin Luther and his explanation of the sixth petition of the Lord’s Prayer.

In closing, like a good class of attentive confirmation students, I’d like to invite you to read outloud Luther’s explanation and take these words with you into the 40 days ahead, words which teach and tell the truth: we will be tested, there will be times of trial, we may well be attacked but God will keep us, the Spirit will lead us in our wilderness, and we will be brought safely through to the promised land.

Save us from the time of trial. What does this mean?  “It is true that God tempts no one, but we ask in this prayer that God would preserve and keep us, so that the devil, the world, and our flesh may not deceive us or mislead us into false belief, despair, and other great and shameful sins, and that, although we may be attacked by them, we may finally prevail and gain the victory.” 

We implore you to hear us, good Lord. 

This is a day for admitting the truth about ourselves and for claiming the truth about God.

The truth about ourselves is that we are rebels, and not in a way that is either admirable nor fashionable. With little to no effort whatsoever, and on a regular basis, we do what comes naturally for us as mortals: we go our own way, we “go it on our own,” we wander, we get off-track, we forget God.

The truth about God that is our repeating refrain on this night is this: God is gracious and merciful. God is slow to anger. God is abounding in steadfast love. And God relents from punishing. These are the assuring words of the prophet Joel from our first reading. The psalmist joins the prophet in singing of a God of steadfast love, a God of abundant mercy, a God who blots out trangresssions, washes thoroughly from iniquity, and cleanses from sin.

Not just any transgression. Not just any iniquity. Not just any sin. But ours, collectively. And yours and mine, individually.

Last week I spent a few days in the hospital. After a weekend of flu-like symptoms, I had become severely dehydrated and my body needed to have its fluid and nutrients and minerals restored. With IV ports in both arms and feeling like quite a drip myself, I watched as the magnesium and the potassium and the sodium flowed back into my body intravenously. As I laid there watching the multiple lines dripping life and health back into my bloodstream, it occurred to me that my body’s RESET buttons, if you will, were being engaged. I was being reset. I was being restored. I was returning to health. Drip by drip by drip.

Ash Wednesday is a day for acknowledging our susceptibility to sin and our ever-present — even daily — need to be “reset.” On this day we acknowledge that what comes most naturally for us is resistance to God, wandering off on our own, and losing the balance of our very center: the Savior from ourselves and of us all, Christ Jesus.

Ash Wednesday is a day for calling this spade a spade about ourselves: to lament our human condition, to come clean about our dust-driven mortality, and then to get reset: to be restored, and to return to God — with hearts made clean and spirits made new. But let’s be clear:

There is no need for groveling.

There is no need for begging.

There is no need to atone for ourselves.

God is the doer in these verses from Psalm 51; God is the active one: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing spirit.”

God, our Divine “Drip”, ever infuses new life into us. We need only receive the gift of a clean heart.

God, our Eternal Infusion, ever restores us to health and wholeness. We need only bring our brokenness.

God, our Merciful Medicine, ever strengthens us for our journey. We need only acknowledge our every ill and receive the touch of Jesus, into whose life and death we were baptized, whose promise over us trumps all our dust and ash, and whose very life flows through our veins.

“Return to the Lord your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing.”

With our hearts reset on this promise, our journey begins, continues, and will one day come to an end — in Jesus.

Amen.

Sookie Stackhouse can hear voices. Sookie is one of the two lead characters in the HBO racy vampire series “True Blood” and she has the uncanny ability to hear the thoughts of people as if they were speaking in an audible voice.  Sookie is a waitress in a backwater Louisiana small town bar, and her telepathic abilities often distract her as she hears the thoughts of customers who are attracted to her physical beauty, who are disgusted with the food served at Merlotte’s, or who are repulsed by her hospitality of vampires who — of course — are feared by most everyone and regarded at best as outcast citizens of the community.

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St. Francis of Assisi is attributed as having said, “Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.” So in the spirit of Holy Francis of old, let’s sing!

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When I was twelve years old, I attended middle school in a newly-built building which had very few interior walls.  This was the cool-and-groovy 1970’s, mind you, and rather than homerooms we had “families” and rather than classrooms, we had “areas” and the inner architecture of the building reflected this hip, new educational philosophy. If we weren’t sitting on fluorescent-colored bean-bag chairs on long shag carpet, we were sitting at round tables with other members of our “family” — aka classmates. In the sprawling wide-open classroom areas, there were only colorful 4-foot dividers which distinguished one “area” from another, and one “family” grouping from another. Gone were individual desks and enclosed classrooms, until (thank the good Lord) we commenced to high school where the educational world of rooms and classes and desks resumed.  It was a zany time and a grand experiment in education. And I understand that long since, walls have been constructed and class-rooms and desks are back. The old vogue didn’t last long.

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“Will that be for here, or to go?”

These are not unfamiliar words to many of us.

We step up to the counter, we place our order.

A burger, fries. Medium drink.

And we await the expected question:

“Will that be for here or to go?”
 
But it was not the question I wanted to hear just the other Sunday morning a week or two ago when I stopped by Krispy Kremes for a dozen donuts. A dozen! 12 of them.
“Will that be for here or to go?”

Really?!

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By the third Sunday in Advent, truthfully, scarcely any of us is really in the mood for what John the Baptist has to say with threats of doom and gloom, with cries for fruit-bearing repentance, and warnings of winnowing forks and unquenchable fire.

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I get a kick out church signs and often wish we utilized our location here on the Lincoln Freeway a bit more to have some fun with passersby. These signs can make you laugh as you appreciate their sharp wit, they can make you groan and shake your head and thank God that’s not your church, and sometimes they can give you pause and make you go “hmm.” Here’s one from St Cyril of Alexandria Catholic Church in Houston, TX: “Staying in bed and shouting ‘O God!’ does not constitute going to church.” Or try this one from Goodwood United Methodist Church (who probably would do well to consider a different name for their church): “Free Coffee. Everlasting Life. Yes, membership has its privileges.” Or this one from Donelson Baptist Church, “Forgive your enemies. It messes with their heads.” But I think my favorite one is “Looking for a sign from God? This is it!”

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