CLiffhanger

Kids will wear you out. Kids will test your patience. You tell them what to do, and what not to do, and they’ll proceed to do what they want to do; to test the boundaries—checking the limits of your authority. They see the line, they acknowledge the line, they even operate within the confines of the line—up to a point. But then they’ll come right up to the very edge of that line, flirting with disaster and disobedience.

Part of this is simply a normal stretching of kids’ independence, their awkward way of spreading their wings and testing the wind currents before a solo flight. Some of it is calculated disobedience, done on purpose, a “you’re not the boss of me” kind of thing. Wickedness. But for the most part, it’s just kids having fun and running up against the borders of proscribed behavior. Kinda like sledding on a hillside that ends at a cliff. It’s fun to go closer and closer to the edge, but sooner or later you either gotta pull up or take a plunge into the abyss.

Lent is about pulling up.

Because, as human beings, we test the boundaries of our relationship with God. All the time. We dance dangerously close to the brink of the cliff and dare fate to push us over. Again for a variety of reasons. Some of us are just expressing our independence, our free will, as they say. A few are purposely defying God, crossing line after line in the sand, testing God’s reaction, daring God to forgive them.

But most of us here, I figure, fall into that third category. We are unaware of the danger we face. We figure, “A little slide won’t hurt anyone.” And so we head down off the mountaintop, just having fun, just taking it easy, just having some “me” time—gradually picking up speed, and getting closer and closer to that line God provided for our own safety, for our own good, we slide recklessly on until that cliff edge comes unexpectedly into view and races closer and closer and closer—the momentum of our journey down and the slipperiness of the slope combining to make the situation suddenly dire and life threatening. Without intent to sin, we find ourselves careening down a path towards it. Unawares.

And that is why God, who provided the boundaries in the first place—knowing full well that we, like children, would test them—also provides a season in which to step away from the abyss, to turn away from the line, to pull up and live. To return to him and start over once again.

Our first reading tonight describes that “pulling up” in ritualistic detail. Blow the trumpet in Zion, it says, blow it as a warning—you’re near the edge, step back! Return to the Lord, your God, who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. Gather the children, grab grandpa and grandma, grieve for your broken relationship with God, weep with regret and relief at the same time. Then put down what you’re doing, leave behind what distracts and take along what focuses you in on God. Dedicate yourselves again to what is holy—and do it from deep in your hearts—not in some mechanical, external, rubber stamp sort of way. Be authentic in your repentance!

Authenticity. That is also what Jesus is getting at with all his talk of secrecy. Broadcasting your valiant acts of uber-repentance makes them just another sin, another vain attempt to justify oneself. Which can’t be done. So, you know what? Don’t do that! Repent humbly. Don’t roll in the ashes. Just mark your foreheads. Don’t try to outLent each other. It’s just plain vanity!

But, you know, I don’t think anyone here is really guilty of being like the hypocrites in Jesus’ lesson. We don’t trumpet our giving out so others will praise us. We don’t pray with grandiose gestures and eloquent words, trying to attract an adoring audience. And we don’t fast at all, unless we have to for blood work—and then don’t we let the entire world know that we haven’t had a bite for over eight whole hours! No, we’re not like those hypocrites.

We’re the other hypocrites. The hypocrites that call people hypocrites for garishly advertising their repentance, while not giving, not praying, and not fasting ourselves. Not in public, not in secret—not at all! And it may not be skipping those particular acts, it may be you avoid others. Like confession, like reading and studying the scriptures, like forgiving others, like any of the other spiritual disciplines.

We’ve been sliding. And the cliff awaits. The time for testing the limits has passed and we are now in danger. In danger of what, you ask? In danger of wasting time that could be spent in relationship with God. Wasting it pushing on the boundaries, sticking a toe over the line, trying to prove that we don’t really need God.

Kids will wear you out and test your patience, and unfortunately, sometimes kids and parents have such a hard time negotiating the boundaries that it becomes the sum total of their relationship. A broken relationship that often remains so for many years, until they can let go of their anger and reconcile. And then what do they invariably say? “Think of the time we wasted being at odds with one another. Think of what we could have done with that time together!”

In the same way, we need to pull up, and take a hard look at how we relate to God. Do we relate to God as creator, or rulemaker? Because the one who puts limits on our lives, also freely gives us unlimited life. Do we relate to God as loving Father, or strict disciplinarian? Because the one who draws the line beyond which we may not pass, is the same one who waits beyond that line with open arms. We need not waste another second apart from God—for even in our sins, now is the acceptable time, now is the day of salvation!

As this season of the church year begins therefore, let us take time to do the work of Lent. Stopping, reflecting, and changing direction. Stepping back from the line, the cliff, the boundary, to renew our relationship with our heavenly Father, who in Christ Jesus has reconciled us to himself. AMEN