As Christians begin to observe Lent, the forty days before Easter, Father Richard highlights lamentation as an essential aspect of our faith:
Only one book in the Bible is named after an emotion: the book of Lamentations. Jeremiah is said to have written it to express grief over the people’s exile from Jerusalem when they were invaded by the Babylonians in 587 BCE. But the book reads more like an expression of universal sadness over the human situation, or what is often called “the tragic sense of life.” It’s notable for an almost entire lack of anecdotes or clear examples. Elsewhere in the prophetic writings, we read references to specific rulers, kingdoms, and moments in history. Not here. This is universal sadness. It is an invitation to universal solidarity.
The Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha expresses the devastation of grief and the longing for peace:
I wish I could wake up and find the electricity on all day long.
I wish I could hear the birds sing again, no shooting and no
buzzing drones.
I wish my desk would call me to hold my pen and write again,
or at least plow through a novel, revisit a poem, or read a play.
All around me are nothing
but silent walls
and people sobbing
without sound. [1]
Richard continues:
The prophets, and Jeremiah in particular, invite us into a divine sadness about reality itself, more than outrage at this or that event. The language then changes from anger at “sin” to pity over suffering and woundedness, yet still holds out for relief: “I will restore you to health and I will heal your wounds, says YHWH” (Jeremiah 30:17). Felt reality is invariably wept reality, and wept reality is soon compassion and kindness. Decisive and harsh judgments slip away in the tracks of tears.
As an example of this “slipping away,” my mind recalls the Roman church’s change in its official stance toward suicide, shifting from an emphasis on punishment to empathy for the person and family. I also think of Alcoholics Anonymous’ recognition that addiction isn’t a malicious moral failing but “a sickness to be cured.” Anger can’t make such switches. Tears can.
Has God changed, or have we just grown up enough to hear a grown-up God? Old Scripture passages of mercy and pity that once seemed sentimental or impossible begin to finally make sense—and we suddenly notice their frequency, although they were always there. “You had left in tears, but I brought you back. I guided you to springs of water by a smooth path” (Jeremiah 31:9, Jerusalem Bible). This process of transformation by way of tears is largely hidden and unconscious, characteristic of the work of the Spirit.
My belief is that tears, although they look like a mere emotive reaction, are much more: a deeply free action that many do not enjoy. They proceed from deep inside, where we are most truly ourselves. Tears reveal the depths at which and from which we care.
Ash Wednesday’s Bad Piety
We’re doing it all wrong — at least according to the prophets
| DIANA BUTLER BASS MAR 5 |
TODAY IS ASH WEDNESDAY
We come to the most reflective, and most discomforting, time of the Christian calendar: Lent.
This is the hard season. A time of repentance and repair.
The Ash Wednesday passage from the Hebrew scriptures is from Isaiah. Our Jewish friends read this same text for Yom Kippur, their holy day of repentance. The prophet’s vision of true piety is shared by Jews and Christians — and is central to faithful living.
Isaiah 58:1-12
Shout out, do not hold back!
Lift up your voice like a trumpet!
Announce to my people their rebellion,
to the house of Jacob their sins.
Yet day after day they seek me
and delight to know my ways,
as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness
and did not forsake the ordinance of their God;
they ask of me righteous judgments,
they delight to draw near to God.
“Why do we fast, but you do not see?
Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?”
Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day,
and oppress all your workers.
Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight
and to strike with a wicked fist.
Such fasting as you do today
will not make your voice heard on high.
Is such the fast that I choose,
a day to humble oneself?
Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush,
and to lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Will you call this a fast,
a day acceptable to the Lord?
Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator shall go before you,
the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am.
If you remove the yoke from among you,
the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
and your gloom be like the noonday.
The Lord will guide you continually,
and satisfy your needs in parched places,
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters never fail.
Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to live in.
On this Ash Wednesday, my heart is broken and every shred of hope I once had is gone.
I’m not well. My soul is sick. I see nothing but greed, destruction, lying, inhumanity, and evil all around.
If anyone tells me that I came from ash and will return to it, I may well laugh in their face. Or cry and never stop. I just hope I don’t hit the priest. Because — read the room, people — we’re standing in ash up to our knees.
This is a brutal Ash Wednesday.
There. I said it.
I’ve prayed so much in recent months that I can’t tell you how much I’ve prayed. Literally face on the ground sobbing prayer. I’ve taken cues from Anne Lamott’s famous dictum that there are three kinds of prayer — help, thanks, and wow — by occasionally yelling (I’m not kidding) “Help, help, help!” in a loud voice when we sit down for dinner.
Shouting help is really not bad, especially when compared with prostrate wailing. I’ve become an expert at the HELP prayer. On rare occasion, I’ve made it to “thanks.” But wow? Nope. None of that. One out of three isn’t bad, is it?
In short, the last thing I want or need right now is Lent. I’m nearly Lent-ed out already. I’ve been Lenting for months.
Honestly, I’ve got questions for God. Like: Why? Why is this happening? Why don’t you stop this? What kind of God would allow these amoral, corrupt men to purposefully hurt and destroy the good work, dignity, and lives of so many truly decent people?
I’m making a lot of noise down here praying and fasting — and you, God, don’t seem to be doing your part.
Enter Isaiah the Prophet on this Ash Wednesday.
Most historians and biblical scholars believe that this text was written after the Jews returned to Jerusalem from having been enslaved in exile for fifty years by the Babylonians, sometime around 540 BCE. They came home to, well, not much. A ravished homeland in ruins. There’s a lot of hard work ahead. Where is God in the midst of all this mess?
They probably think they are doing the right things — after all, they are praying and fasting. But God didn’t seem to be helping. God was silent:
Why do we fast, but you do not see?
Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?
I hear echoes of my own prayer: HELP DOWN HERE! WHY AREN’T YOU PAYING ATTENTION? WHAT HAVE WE GOT TO DO TO GET SOME ASSISTANCE? WHERE ARE YOU?
There’s a pretty surprising divine answer. God’s not the problem. Instead of blaming God, the prophet criticized them:
Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day,
and oppress all your workers.
Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight
and to strike with a wicked fist.
Such fasting as you do today
will not make your voice heard on high.
Is such the fast that I choose,
a day to humble oneself?
Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush,
and to lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Will you call this a fast,
a day acceptable to the Lord?
Ah, can I take it back? Maybe I’m sorry I asked? If all my praying, sobbing, self-humiliation, and wailing won’t work to change things, what will then?
God demands a different kind of fast.
Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Historian Amy Oden describes it thus, “The fasting acceptable to God is a daily fast from domination, blaming others, evil speech, self-satisfaction, entitlement and blindness to one’s privilege. The fast that God seeks calls for vigilance for justice and generosity day in and day out.”
A daily fast from domination?
Sounds nice. But maybe a bit vague. Overly theoretical. Perhaps a little too Walter Wink or Dom Crossan. Can we have some specifics, God?
If you remove the yoke from among you,
the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
and your gloom be like the noonday.
If…then. If…then. It’s like a to-do list.
Do these things. Then, I’ll give you strength. I’ll water your souls.
But: You have to do it. Your ruins will be rebuilt because you laid new foundations. You will be repairers of the breach. You will restore the streets.
God doesn’t say that God will do these things for us. We will do them. God says that we must. We must build, repair, and restore.
Hey, wait a minute. I’m a Protestant. We don’t believe in works. We believe in grace. We can’t be saved by what we do. We believe in letting go and letting God. That sort of thing.
But Isaiah says: “If…then.”
Up off the floor. Stop sitting around sniveling about sin. You are part of the solution. Get to work and do something about injustice. Overthrow the domination system. Stand up to evil. Feed the hungry. Care for the suffering. Don’t beg for a miracle or a magic fix. Just do it. Spiritual wellness and social justice are intimately entwined. Indeed, spiritual wellness depends on doing the work of justice.
If….then….
That’s the piety God wants. Thus says the prophet. That’s the acceptable fast.
Welcome to Lent. Let’s do this thing
