Beloved of God,

When there are seven kids in the family, you don’t each get your own bath water.  No, you share it.  At least that’s the way it was in my family in my younger years. Saturday night was “Bath Night” at the Kindem home, a once a week trip to the tub, a mandatory scrubbing away of the week’s accumulated dirt and grime—whether we needed it or not!

Armed with Dial soap and Prell shampoo into the tub we went.  And like the animals on the ARK, we often went in two-by-two.  First came the girls, Randi and Kari, who by mother’s design always got the clean water.  Then came toddling twins Mikal and Mark—the youngest at that time.  After that it was middle son Kristofer’s turn, and by now, often enough, you could hardly see the bottom of the tub.  And that was the litmus test, I guess.  If the bottom was visible, you added more hot water to the mix and slipped on in.  If the bottom wasn’t visible, (and that depended on which season of the year it was) then you could pull the plug and start fresh.  Which is what my older brother Peter and I did about half the time.

The reason for this washing ritual, of course, was that Sunday morning was coming, and Mom was making certain that the Kindem children were as clean and as presentable as she could make us for Sunday worship.

The Christian life begins with WASHING. But unlike that Saturday night family ritual, we who’ve been called into relationship with the Triune God through baptism are washed but once. Yet this single and singular washing, this GREAT BATH of the church, becomes the means God uses for working and wending his way into every nook and cranny of our lives.

“When anyone is in Christ,” writes St. Paul, “there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” As we all know, this is not as easy of a journey as it sounds.  The section of the letter from which these verses come, [2 Corinthians 4-6] has always spoken deeply to me.  It is here, at the beginning of chapter 4, that Paul says “Since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” And it is here that Paul suggests we carry the gospel treasure entrusted to us, in the “clay jars” of our lives.  Paul speaks profoundly of how our limitations as human beings, as many and as great as they are, are ultimately no match for God’s ambition to use these earthen vessels, in all our fragility and vulnerability, to carry the reconciling gospel to the world.

The season of Lent is a season for returning to this core conviction and the core identity that is given to us in baptism.  This is what repentance, that oft’ misunderstood New Testament word, is all about.  Not so much saying “I’m sorry—I messed up,” (though there’s nothing wrong with that, and these words need to be shared often within our lives as we practice the art of forgiveness.) But rather, “I’m ready to trust you Lord, to take myself out of the limelight, to re-orient my life according to your design.” That’s the journey we’re invited to take during these 40 days and herein lies the paradox.  For in this season we purposely and intentionally examine, on the one hand, the limits of our abilities to do what God asks us to do and the weakness of our wills, and on the other hand, the depth of Christ’s claim upon us in baptism and the boundless power of the Holy Spirit to amend and transform our lives.

The Lenten discipline of letting go—of a habit, a vice, a food craving, or some other element of our living which we would be better off without—coupled with the discipline of embracing a new habit, word, practice, or gesture which will deepen our commitment for wholeness—these are outward expressions of the Lenten paradox.  Letting go, embracing.  Turning from, turning toward.  Both partners are needed for Lenten dance, and God uses both to guide us on the journey and deepen our trust in him.

Washing, brushing, combing, and donning clean clothes—only to then receive dirty ashes on our foreheads—is an odd and yet a fitting emblem for crossing the threshold to the Lenten dance floor.  Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  These words that accompany the ashes are stark reminders that our lives are not our own.  We did not will ourselves into existence, neither will we choose when or how our lives will end.

It won’t be long before these ashes we wear are brushed aside; before we climb in the tub or hop in the shower and our foreheads become clean. Yet the cross will remain there, marking us invisibly and indelibly, and reminding us again to whom we belong.

Blessings on the journey,

Pastor Erik