Sermon

Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the

heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed to free, and that ye break every yoke?

It is to some extent because of passages like this that our churches have not been

particularly rigorous about the observation of Lent. In the Gospels, the Lord is portrayed

as challenging the practice of fasting for its own sake. The formal giving up of

something, apparently just for the sake of giving it up, does not seem to make much sense,

especially if it is done with the avowed intent of resuming our old ways as soon as Lent

is over. At best, it might serve as a kind of moral weight training regimen. The world is

not noticeably improved by lifting the weights and setting them down again, but we do

build up muscle that can be used in more constructive ways.

We do not, though, need to throw out the baby with the bath. If Lent is often used for the

kind of fast Isaiah criticized, that does not mean it must be totally disregarded. We

could try to use it for the kind of fast we believe the Lord has chosen. We could use it,

that is, as a time to accomplish something for our world that we have been avoiding or

postponing. It could be the time when we write the letter we have been postponing or send

the check to the cause we believe in, when we actually take some items to the Salvation

Army or Goodwill Industries, or when we answer a call for volunteers.

The advantage Lent offers for this kind of effort is that Lent is a defined period of

time. We are not signing on for life. Nothing says we cannot continue after Easter, but

nothing says we must. If we do not continue, that does not lessen the worth of what we

have done. If we decide we like it more than we expected, and do keep on with our effort,

so much the better.

Perhaps, though, we should face the fact that at least in this part of the world, not

everything is on our side at this time of year. About now, it is likely to seem as though

we have had enough of winter. Not too far from here, the first crocus tips are showing,

but we are well aware that there are still cold weeks ahead. For many, this is a time when

we just try to hang in there and meet our normal responsibilities with reasonable grace.

It may not seem "reasonable" to undertake something extra.

Helen Keller, though, offers us a thought to the contrary. I won't take the time to give

you the whole quotation, but basically she says that her remedy for depression is to do

something for someone else--". . . to make the light on others' eyes my sun, the music in

others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness." The tail end of winter

can be an open invitation to self-pity, and the surest way out of self-pity is

constructive activity.

Time after time, when people are asked late in life what they would do differently if they

had life to live over again, they come up with the same answer: "I would spend more time

with the people I care about." Often when someone dies, we find ourselves wishing we had

done more or said more, troubled that we were always a little too busy with something

else, always letting ourselves believe that there would be more time tomorrow or next week

or next month. Lent could be our time to break free of these pretenses for a while.

Whatever special course of action we choose, it would be good for us, I believe, to try to

make Lent a special time. There has been a huge risk in our past ignoring of it. The risk

has been that we wind up feeling superior to the unenlightened people who "keep a fast

that the Lord has not chosen," that we see ourselves as people who know better. This is

simply faith alone in one particular guise, equating knowledge with virtue. Perhaps we do

"know better"--that does not mean that we are better.

In fact, if we wind up thinking that we have no need of repentance, we are in real

trouble. It would be far better for us to join with the rest of the Christian world and

acknowledge our continuing need for self-discipline. It would be far better for us to be

able to see ourselves as in the same boat as the Catholic, as sharing the experience of

imperfection. Of course there are differences between us, differences in belief and in

practice, but we share a profound humanness. Our own efforts in times of difficulty could

be strengthened by the sense that others are with us in spirit.

Our doctrines are quite clear--"Repentance is the first thing of the church within us"

(True Christian Religion 510). Even more striking is the statement that "Anyone who is

leading a life of faith is performing repentance daily; for this involves reflecting on

our evils, acknowledging them, and asking the Lord for help . . ." (Arcana Coelestia

8391). Swedenborg is talking about a kind of daily taking stock, looking at the particular

ways in which we have fallen short.

It is important that this be done with a view to actual improvement. There is no virtue in

wallowing in guilt or self-blame. It is to be hoped that we can step far enough back from

ourselves to look at our words and deeds with some detachment, accepting our weaknesses as

matters of fact, as clear indications of our need for divine help. We are also told very

clearly, incidentally, that nothing much is going to happen if we ask for help without

making any effort to help ourselves. We need to learn the limits of our strength, and we

will not discover what those limits are unless we exert ourselves.

It may help to look at it this way. Each of us has particular gifts to bring to the human

community. That is how heaven works, by bringing together different gifts into a

harmonious whole. But if this is to happen, we must also have different needs. My gifts

must be needed by you, and yours by me. Anyone who was self-sufficient would have no need

of others and therefore no place in heaven. Our imperfections, so to speak, can be

wonderful bonds between us.

All of us, I suspect, could think of times when we hesitated to admit some fault because

we were afraid that people would reject us. All of us, I suspect, could also think of

times when we have moved past that hesitation, and have found to our surprise that people

came closer to us. We may not realize it, but by our reticence to admit weakness, we can

give the impression of thinking we have no faults.

Nothing is further from our intent. We ourselves know perfectly well how far from

perfection we are, and it is that huge distance we are trying to keep others from

discovering. One particular instance comes to mind of an individual who seemed especially

dogmatic, who seemed to feel that he had all the answers. In one quite tense situation, he

blurted out that he was struggling to make sense of things, and everyone's attitude toward

him changed. We know in theory that the people who seem most positive are often covering

up the most uncertainty, but we may not be aware of this in the course of an actual

conversation.

When I was in graduate school, the was one fellow student whom we all came to love dearly.

He had no qualms about admitting his ignorance. If a professor assumed that he knew

something and he did not, he would ask. The rest of us were more likely to pretend we

knew, and then look things up after class, which is probably what the professors expected.

It was probably what they themselves had done in their student days. There was little

question, though, that classes made more sense when we were able to follow what was being

presented, when we did not have to take cryptic notes and figure them out later.

Unquestionably too, the faculty had a great deal of respect for this student who was so

focused on learning that he did not care what kind of image he was presenting.

Sometimes it seems as though our culture has placed such a high value on self-sufficiency

that it is a sin to admit any kind of inadequacy. We would be far better off if we could

admit the obvious, namely that we need others and that they need us. We could then focus

the human side of our Lenten practice on two simple questions: "What do I need?" and "What

do others need from me?" For this period of time, we could resolve to ask for help in some

specific regard, and to offer help in some specific regard, trying especially to ask from

people who have shown a willingness to give, and to offer where we see a genuine need.

It does not have to be anything great. "Would you ask me next week whether I have balanced

my checkbook? I have trouble making myself sit down and do it." "Would you like to get out

of the house more, and is there something we could do together next week?" Within a

family, there are often little shifts in responsibility that can make a significant

difference--you help me with this and I'll help you with that.

As we engage more thoughtfully in asking for and offering help in our relationships with

each other, we begin to discover deeper needs. We cannot offer each other affection and

understanding unless we are receiving and accepting affection and understanding within

ourselves, from the Lord. We find obstacles to that reception within ourselves, obstacles

that we cannot budge with our own strength. This is where the vertical dimension of

repentance comes in--the admission of our specific needs. We are not turning to the Lord

as sinners expecting punishment, but as faulty creatures needing help and healing.

Of course we have needs. Of course other people do, too. Can we use Lent as a time when we

try facing this a little more squarely than we usually do? Then it may turn out to be not

just a kind of moral exercise, but a venture into a more rewarding way of living.

Amen.