A Holy Disruption - Genesis 9:8-17; Mark 1:9-15
A funny thing I’ve noticed over the years is that the first Sunday in Lent is a mysterious magnet for visitors to The Episcopal Church. I can’t count the number of times I’ve said to a total stranger, “we’re so glad to have you this morning - it’s not always like this!” Perhaps God enjoys watching us squirm as we try to explain (the “holy pretzel” procession at 10:30 and) the literal Litany of potential sins to a first timer. It’s like trying to describe your favorite TV show to someone who’s never watched it. “You just have to get through the first season then it’s so good, I promise!”
On top of the Great Litany, we also have Mark’s brief and jarring rendering of the baptism of Jesus and his time in the wilderness. Unlike the lengthier, more nuanced tellings in the other Gospels, for Mark, Jesus’ baptism is a radical act, dramatic and earth-shattering. And his temptation in the wilderness is not a battle of wits and willpower with the devil, it’s an apocalyptic struggle that Jesus manages to survive. The passage describes a holy disruption in the world. If we were to lean into Mark’s vision, we might call the season of Lent a holy disruption in our life of faith. Talk about a first impression of the Episcopal Church!
I could certainly use some disruption in my life. Mark’s apocalyptic stylings feel familiar to me these days. The rhetoric around the upcoming election becomes more and more vitriolic every day both online and in in-person conversation. And everywhere I turn I am inundated with stories and images of the children of God enacting horrific violence on other children of God in the Near East, not to mention the regular stories of gun violence much closer to home.
I find myself consuming more content about the horrors in Palestine than my brain and soul are able to process. I know that I don’t want to ignore what’s happening in that part of the world because that doesn’t feel like a faithful response. But I also know that if I consume too much social media about the crisis, I cease to function. I believe this is because when we scroll and scroll through impactful media without prayer or reflection or the company of others, we become so enmeshed in the horror we can actually forget who we are.
Lent is a holy disruption of our forgetting. We begin the season with a lesson from Genesis that’s all about remembering. The story of Noah’s Ark, the great flood, and the rainbow is one of our most well-known scriptural tales. It’s a story we write songs about and teach to young children. It’s a delightful mix of melodic tall tale and historical wisdom. But with all that fun and rosy treatment, the most important part of the story often remains under the radar.
This morning we heard God speak to Noah after the ark has made it safely to land and the people and animals on board have survived the waters of the flood. God says, “I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh.”
Did you hear it? God didn’t say “when you see the bow you will remember the covenant” God said “when I see the bow, I will remember it.” The rainbow is for God. God is promising to remember who God is and who we are and how much God loves us. God is promising to remember even when we forget. And, boy, have we forgotten ourselves and God a few times since then.
God uses a rainbow as a reminder, and we also use visual signs that help us to know who we are and to whom we belong. Every Sunday, we gather at this altar with strangers and friends and enemies to share the Eucharistic meal which reminds us that we are part of the body of Christ. The other sacraments serve a similar purpose. Baptism reminds us that we belong to God. Confession and the laying on of hands for healing remind us that we are broken, but made whole through the Cross. Matrimony reminds us that we are in holy relationships with other people. Ordination reminds us that we are called.
Of course even with all these sacraments, we still forget ourselves from time to time. Lent is a time to practice remembering. This is actually where the Great Litany (and its holy pretzel) come in. It was designed to help us remember who we are in the midst of chaos and pain in the world.
The Litany is one of the oldest sets of prayers we have. It was written by Thomas Cranmer himself and he meant to be recited by the assembly in times of communal distress, like when a neighboring nation invaded, when communicable disease took out a village, or when a storm decimated the land. These are conditions that befell Christians in Cranmer’s time, and they are familiar to us as well, even if the Great Litany is not. I remember the great comfort it brought me when I gathered with other middle schoolers to pray together in the wake of 9/11.
Although the regular recitation of the Litany has fallen out of fashion beyond the first Sunday of Lent, its words steadied me again today as I reflected on the death and destruction in the Holy Land. It reminded me that we are all plagued by sin and also redeemed and dearly loved by God. That’s who we are.
In addition to the Great Litany and other liturgical practices that help us remember ourselves in Lent, there are also personal Lenten practices of piety. This year, instead of giving something up for Lent, I’ve decided to read more. Every evening I’m picking up a book (or tablet, for e-books) and setting a timer for 30 minutes to just sit comfortably and read. I didn’t choose reading as a Lenten practice because I need to replace other, less healthy habits, or because I need to gain more knowledge about any particular topic. I’m reading during Lent because I love to read. Reading for pleasure has always been a core part of who I am, and I need that reminder this time of year.
So although today’s Gospel passage is a bit brusque and our service is a tad longer than usual thanks to our annual Great Litany of prayers; and even though the state of the world is complicated and messy and it can seem as though one more surprise might just do us in, I hope we can embrace the holy disruption of Lent this year. I hope we can be jolted out of our dissociative reverie and settle back into a habit of remembering who we are.
I hope you can remember that you are a friend, a partner, perhaps a a reader. I hope you can remember that you belong to an incredible community of faith here at Christ Church. I hope we can remember that we are fallible and imperfect human beings in desperate need of the love that God always remembers to show us. And I hope we can remember that we are part of the Body of Christ, and through Him we get to be the best and fullest and most authentic versions of ourselves that God loves so dearly and never, ever forgets. Amen.