His words were uttered in a commanding tone. It was clear that he was displeased. And to his displeasure he added a twist, as he said to his young son, “I said shovel all the snow off all the walks. What part of ‘all’ do you not understand?” And if, as a twelve-year-old who had soon grown tired of pushing a measly ten or so inches of partly cloudy off the steps, the porches, the driveway, and the sidewalks, I was not motivated to finish all of the work for the 50-cent reward that was promised … if that was not enough motivation, then the anger in my father’s voice and the implications of his question were quite sufficient. “What part of ‘all’ do you not understand?”
There can be no mistaking the “allness” of “all”, can there? All means all; it means everything, the whole, without omission. There can be no mistaking its meaning. And yet in our immaturity we persist in hoping that “all” somehow excludes this corner or that; that “all” means something other than totally my responsibility.
And so when the Bible says, “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God,” our peculiar method of interpreting that is to hedge on the allness of all. All, but some more than others. All, but not too much for me. All, yes, but not anything that really matters. I have not killed anyone, I have not stolen my neighbor’s possessions, I have not cursed or dishonored my parents. All, but not really all all. We hedge our bets on the allness of all.
But there it is, in bold letters, from the pen of the apostle, “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God.” All have sinned; the allness of all.
Pastor Joel suggested an intriguing theme for tonight. I can see he’s been reading nursery rhymes again. We have no children’s sermon this evening, but he’s been in the kiddie lit, for I recognized the theme, "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down." I think the rhyme goes something like this, "Ring around the rosey, a pocketful of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down." Or, the inerrant version, which I learned as a child, making sneezing sounds, "A-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down." However you sing it, we did all fall down. It was the way the game was played, and when we did our "ashes" or our "atishoos" we collapsed giggling, on the ground. We all fell down. Ashes, ashes, we all fell down.
One explanation of this little nursery ditty is that it refers to the plague that hit London with such ferocity in the 17th Century. Perhaps it refers to the fact that the disease was so contagious that if you were in a group where someone sneezed, likely before long all in the group would fall down and die. I don’t know about that; but I do know that there is a contagion more powerful than the plague; that there is a disease more virulent than AIDS and more deadly than H1N1. There is a sickness that infects us all, and from which all will die. It’s called sin. As in all have sinned. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. We are of a fallen race.
Our problem, however, brothers and sisters, is that nobody wants to hear that and nobody wants to acknowledge how deep that goes. The word "sin" we have relegated to the lurid reports of prominent people and their sexual shenanigans, or we have learned to laugh at its dropping off the lips of fundamentalist preachers, capable of giving the word at least two syllables: "See-yun." We have trivialized the notion of sin; but that itself is a witness to precisely how deep that sin goes. We do not want to see the allness of sin. All have sinned; ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
David, the King of Israel, is our guide tonight as we consider what must be done with this awful truth. The 51st psalm is generally recognized as springing out of the king’s illicit affair with Bathsheba, compounded by David’s putting her husband in harm’s way to get rid of him. It was messy, seamy stuff, and it began to leak out. It was whispered around the streets of Jerusalem; did you hear? Do you know?
David had every reason to push his sin under the royal carpets, because the confidence of his people would be shaken if the truth were to come out. David had every reason to deny his sinful style of life, for there was already rebellion brewing in the heart of at least one of his sons. David needed to cover up this sin.
But he could not. He could not because Nathan the prophet saw through the sham and the shame and pronounced, "You are the man." You are the one who stole and plundered and killed. And David, once caught, issued no press releases, hid behind no attorneys, put out no excuses. David fell on his face and cried out, from the depths of his being, "Have mercy on me, O God. Have mercy on me."
Notice with me some things about David’s confession and repentance. Notice what it meant to him to confess and ask for the mercy of God.
I
First, it meant that he acknowledged that his sin was real and not just someone else’s malice, nor just a figment of the imagination. "For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me." To put it bluntly, I did it. I am guilty. None of this, "when the truth comes out you’ll see that I am innocent" stuff. No paying anybody to take the rap, no attempts to bribe accusers. David stood up and took it; he acknowledged that his sin was HIS sin. All of it. All.
You see, we prefer to look for someone or something else to blame. We want someone else in the leaking boat with us. The Lord said to Adam, "Why did you eat this forbidden fruit?" and Adam said, "the woman" gave it to me, and then went even farther … "the woman you gave me, she gave me the fruit." It’s not really my fault, it’s her fault, and beyond that, it’s your fault, Lord, because you should not have put her there in the first place! So do we attempt to escape our singular responsibility for our actions.
But Ash Wednesday is a time to come to acknowledge that we do know our transgressions, and our sin is ever before us. Ash Wednesday is a day to stop blaming all those who shaped us or taught us or influenced us in the wrong direction. Ash Wednesday is a day to grow up and to take it, as David did; my sin, my transgression, my fault, my flaw, is before me. Lord, have mercy on me. Ashes, ashes, all fall down, and all includes me and all includes all that I have done. "I acknowledge my transgressions."
II
For David saw also that there was a divine dimension to our sinfulness. David saw that who we are and what we do is connected to that most basic and yet most subtle of all things, our relationship to God. Sin is not just breaking rules; sin is not just violating laws or bending commandments. Sin is that posture of pride that puts self on the pedestal and preens and prances. Sin is a denial of who God is. "Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight."
What we do is no private matter; it is not even just an interpersonal matter. It has a divine dimension. What we do and who we are is of concern to the one who made us. He knows and he cares, and, more than that, He is hurt when I try to usurp His place. Remember the comedian who used to introduce himself on "Saturday Night Live" with the phrase, "Hello, I’m Chevy Chase, and you’re not?" Silly, maybe, but God has to remind us over and over again that He is God and we are not. We did not make ourselves. Yet we persist in thinking that we can live behind closed doors and that no one will ever see, no one will be hurt.
But sin is our attempt to shut God out, pretending that it does not matter. No, David sings the truth for us, "Against you, against you, Lord, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight."
I’m sure most of us think of ourselves as very small fish in a tiny little pond, and that what we are about has very little consequence. But I tell you that in the economy of God there are no small fish, there are only His sons and daughters of infinite worth. And therefore His heart is broken when we let malice or hatred, prejudice or dissembling, or any such thing, take us over.
Ash Wednesday is a night to come out of the closets of our pretenses and to know that God cares. God cares profoundly. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. All.
III
And so tonight we join David in becoming truthful. We put the truth about ourselves right out there for us to see and for God to deal with. Tonight we leave behind all our posturing and posing and we humble ourselves, wearing the ashes, the smudge of sin. As Cain was sent out to wander with a mark upon him, so we also leave tonight with a mark on ourselves. To anyone who sees us it will signal our sinfulness. Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
But tonight with David we also plead for mercy, and more. Not only do we sing, as he did, "Have mercy on me, O God," but we also appeal to the Son of David, "By the blood of the Cross, redeem us."
Tonight with David we ask for the Lord to teach us a better way, "Teach me wisdom in my secret heart." But we do more; tonight we look beyond David a thousand years and see a greater than He, who will teach us of meekness and gentleness and self-control and a hundred other things that we must know if we are not to repeat our fallenness again and again.
Tonight with David we hope for cleansing, as he did, "Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." But we do more; tonight we remember that we are baptized and so clean and fresh and new. Tonight we remember that new every morning is His fresh mercy. Tonight we remember the one who took a towel and cleansed His disciples, declaring us clean, all clean. All.
Tonight, this Ash Wednesday night, we cry out with the King of Israel, "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." We cry out with David; but we have more. We have the assurance of that very Holy Spirit, the Advocate and Comforter, who will be with us forever.
Tonight, this Ash Wednesday night, we hear the ancient and awful truth once again … "ashes, ashes, we all fall down." But as we step forward in penitence and faith we also know, this side of Calvary, more powerfully than King David could ever know, "The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, you will not despise."
Ashes; yes. We all fall down. Ashes; but out of the ashes of shame Christ rose. Out of the misery of sin He brings us.
"Out of my bondage, sorrow, and night, Jesus I come, Jesus I come; Into Thy freedom, gladness, and light, Jesus I come to Thee. Out of my sickness into Thy health, Out of my want and into Thy wealth. Out of my sin and into Thyself, Jesus I come to Thee. Out of my shameful failure and loss, Jesus I come, Jesus I come. Into the glorious gain of Thy cross, Jesus I come to Thee. Out of earth’s sorrows into Thy balm, Out of life’s storms and into Thy calm, Out of distress to jubilant psalm, Jesus I come to Thee."
