Sin

Dying, We Live

Romans 6:1-11

“What then are we to say? Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin go on living in it? Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore, we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. “


Once upon a time, all humanity was trapped under the power of Sin. And by Sin, I mean a literal cosmic power that governs the entire world. This is Sin with a capital S. Sin is the chief power among the principalities and powers, and it has one goal: to work its way into our very bodies, making it impossible for us to live according to God’s ways.

Later in his letter to the Romans, Paul describes the predicament like this: I am of the flesh, sold into slavery under sin. I do not understand my own actions. … I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. … When I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand (Romans 7:14-21).

This is a problem. The power of Sin is so all-encompassing that we cannot break free from it by our own strength. Now, thankfully, there is a solution to this problem. Paul explains, “Whoever has died is freed from sin.” Easy, right? Not so much. Thanks to Sin’s buddy, Death, when humans die, they stay dead. Whatever freedom we might find on the other side of death is not a freedom we could live into. And so this was the story Sin was writing for the world. Humans live, they struggle, and they die. The end.

But then, a child was born. That child grew up, became a man, and lived – just like all of us – in a world under the power of Sin. He lived a life so full that if its fullness were written down, “the world itself could not contain the books that would be written” (John 21:24). In the end, his life was too much for a world where Sin reigns supreme. And so Sin did what it always does; it snuffed out life. It marshaled the full strength of the Roman imperial regime and put this man to death. But he did not stay dead. And remember: “Whoever has died is freed from sin.”

Christ’s resurrection changed everything. It made a way where there was no way. And Christ is the way. Through Christ, it became possible for us weak and finite humans to become recipients of eternal life – the kind of life that Sin could never conquer. But there’s still just one problem. Christ is risen – but we are not. We have not died. Sin and death still have dominion over us.

So how do we tap into what Christ has done for us? Do we just wait until we die and hope for the best? No, Paul says. We don’t have to wait at all. Freedom from Sin is not simply waiting for us on the other side of death; freedom is present to us right now. We can die right now, even while we are living. All we need is a little water.

As best we can tell, the earliest Christian communities practiced baptism by immersion – that is, your entire body would be submerged underwater, and then you would come back up. Going underneath the water and then coming back up was meant to physically reenact Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection.

But Paul does not view baptism as mere theater. He believes that when we are baptized, we are actually uniting with Christ, mystically participating in his death and resurrection through the power of the Holy Spirit. We really do die with Christ, and we really will rise again with Christ.

As a result, what is true for Christ becomes true for us. Remember: “Whoever has died is freed from sin.” Even though we live in a world governed by Sin, we are no longer governed by it. It no longer has the authority to write our story. That authority belongs to the risen Christ, who invites all who die with him to walk in newness of life. This is the story Paul tells in Romans.

Why tell this story? After all, the idea of Sin with a capital S feels like a relic of a bygone era. Invisible cosmic powers controlling our lives? inhabiting our bodies? Seems a bit outlandish. And yet, this is exactly how the world works. Paul did not know us, but the story he tells is about us. Our lives are – in so many ways – defined by forces beyond our control. Patriarchy. Capitalism. Racism. The list goes on and on.

These sinful, death-dealing powers are doing exactly what Paul says Sin does; working their way into our bodies, making it impossible for us to live according to God’s ways. Patriarchy constrains our concepts of gender and sexuality. Capitalism tells us our worth is determined by what we produce. Racism decides for us which bodies are worth protecting and prevents us from living in solidarity with one another.

No one is immune to these powers. They are constantly pushing and pulling us toward alienation and disintegration. And whether we blame “the system” or sin with a capital S, I am convinced that what Paul says is true: We can will what is right, but we cannot do it. … When we want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand. But there is good news, friends. God cares enough about our living that God is not content to leave us as mere victims to the powers of this world.

In Christ, God has made a way for us to walk in newness of life. Even in the midst of a world where Sin still reigns, freedom is possible. Justice is possible. Life is possible. We just need to die.

Baptism is indeed the sacramental means of our death. Through the waters of baptism, we die with Christ and through the power of the Spirit are set free from the reign of Sin.

But in v. 12, right after Paul celebrates what baptism does for us, he says this: Therefore, do not let sin exercise dominion in your mortal bodies, to make you obey their passions. No longer present your members to sin as instruments of wickedness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and present your members to God as instruments of righteousness. For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace.

Thanks to our baptism, Sin no longer reigns over us. It no longer defines us. But it can still affect us, influence us, even control us. Baptism is not merely a sacramental death. It is not merely a means of grace. It is an invitation to become instruments of righteousness, to actively resist the work of Sin in our bodies and in the world around us. It is an initiation into death as a way of life.

We die to all of the ways Sin tries to exercise its power within us. We die to our need for control; our fear of vulnerability; our reluctance to rest. We die to patriarchy’s scripts for gender and sexuality; to the productivity mindset that defines life under capitalism; to the internalized racism which distorts our social and political imaginations. As we live out these deaths, we become – in the words of the theologian Brian Bantum – “burning bushes and tongues of fire, bodies set ablaze with the Spirit.” (Redeeming Mulatto, pg. 163) We become beacons of the coming kingdom of God, a world where Sin has lost its power and Death has lost its sting.

Thankfully, we do not have to do this work alone. As Jesus told his disciples in John 17, God has sent God’s Spirit to be with us and to guide us into truth and life (John 17:4-15). God is literally with us, each and every day, as we die to ourselves. Indeed, it is God’s Spirit at work within us who transforms these deaths into life for us and for the world. And the Spirit is not all that God gives us. God also gives us one another, the body of Christ. And when that body is composed of people who are following Christ into death, it is like single, quiet notes combining into a resounding symphony of abundant life.

God even gives us creation, where life is sustained by death and decay. Through creation, God reminds us that death is beautiful, holy, and – most of all – necessary. This is hard work. It is a lifetime’s worth of work. But it is work sustained by God’s free gift of grace. And this means that it is work which is not too much for us. The late German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, “When Christ calls a [person], he calls [them] to come and die.”

Today, friends, Christ is calling to us from the waters of our baptism. Can you hear him? He is calling us to join him, to take up our cross and follow him (Luke 9:23). He is calling us to leave behind the reign of sin and present ourselves to God as members of righteousness. He is calling us to a life of resisting the sinful, death-dealing forces at work in the world and in ourselves. He is calling us to die.

May we embrace the call to death. And in the dying, may we find life, and life everlasting.

Amen.

If Snow Were Ashes

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.

“So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

 If snow were ashes…

That’s been my working title for this sermon, since Indiana and so much of our country started to receive warning upon warning that ‘winter was coming’ over the last week or so. And that it was going to show up all at once… winter… in Indiana at least. Piles and piles of snow we hadn’t seen yet, this year, until the middle of February when it all showed up at once. And that it would hit places like Texas, too, where they aren’t so used to or prepared or able to handle what came with such weight and depth and cold.

If snow were ashes…

But that working title really hit home for me yesterday, when the first wave of all that snow had arrived, as predicted, and I did my annual dusting off of the snow blower. You know that machine that gets packed away in the Spring, parked in the far reaches of the mini-barn, until Fall rolls around and I make space for it in the garage where it sits and waits for winter and cold and snow high and heavy enough to earn its keep.

Along with the annual dusting off of the snow blower comes the annual testing of my patience when the thing doesn’t start as it should. And the annual frustration I feel as I check the oil and wonder about the spark plug and pull that rope until I break a sweat. And then the shame … oh the shame is real … for knowing, every year … every God-blessed year … that I should have started the thing a time or two or twelve since last time I used it … and probably changed the oil … and apparently used different, better gas, according to the guy at the hardware store.

If snow were ashes…

Then comes the crow I eat (whatever that means) as I recruit my boys to help me shovel – back-breaking work this time around – and as I hear the sounds of happy snow blowers, starting up without fail, in garages and driveways all around me, over the clear, driven snow. And as I watch those driveways get cleared with efficiency and ease – just as it should be when one owns such a piece of snow blowing equipment. Oh, and the mix of shame and deep gratitude for the kind neighbor who comes to our aid by snow-blowing out the biggest, heaviest piles of it all just after the city plow does a drive-by in the middle of our work and blocks the end of our driveway again.

If snow were ashes…

I say that because I think a lot of us – me included – treat the sin and death these ashes represent for us with about as much respect, regard and preparation as I treat my snow blower and the prospect of snow. I mean, I think we avoid and dodge and deny the inevitability of our sin, our shame, and our ultimate demise to the point that it catches us off-guard and finds us unprepared and leaves us frustrated and ashamed and afraid, even, too much of the time.

Which is so much of what Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent are meant to be for us: a reckoning for our brokenness and sin; a reminder that the winter of our dying will, indeed, come; and an invitation to do something – to live differently – because of it; and with hope that someone – God, in Jesus, to be specific – has and will get us out of this mess, to redeem all of it for our sake and for the sake of the world.

So what would we, could we, should we do, if snow were ashes?

Let’s stop denying that death will come – and indeed is on the way – for every one of us. Let’s stop denying the Sin that besets us as individuals and as disciples and as a people… as God’s Church in the world.

We’ve had enough, too many, reminders of that death and our Sins since our last Ash Wednesday worship a year ago have we not?

When we last shared and received our ashes in 2020, the pandemic wasn’t being called a pandemic yet. We thought it might be something like the flu and we tried to convince ourselves of that for quite a while. Too long, probably. 485,000+ deaths in the U.S. and almost 2 million more deaths worldwide later, this death is impossible to deny. (If snow were ashes…)

Last Ash Wednesday we’d never heard of George Floyd or Breonna Taylor or Ahmaud Arbery; we didn’t know who Rayshard Brooks or Daniel Prude or Casey Goodson were, either. Too many of us still keep the truth and the ugliness of the deadly racism that infects our country hidden away in the back of the mini-barn until it rears its ugly head, like it did on the steps of the US Capitol, for instance. (If snow were ashes…) 

Last Ash Wednesday, cancer and chemotherapy and radiation were things I wondered and worried and prayed about for all of you and for so many others. But it all moved into my house this summer, fast and furious, like a blizzard you might say, and things have changed for our family because of it. And, I know, the same is true for so many … some disease, some diagnosis, some treatment – or worse – find us all, eventually… (If snow were ashes…)

And this is how Sin and death come together so much of the time for us – like something we know is there; like something that could happen; like something that will, eventually happen; like something we can choose to put off or deny or pretend away. But something that looms, nonetheless. And lingers for those of us who are left behind.

So what to do? – if snow were ashes or ashes were snow, or whatever – dumped so predictably, yet by surprise in so many ways.

These ashes we wear on our foreheads and these words we hear from Jesus and the promises we read in Scripture remind us that we need not fear the sin and death that send us running and reeling, dodging and denying so much of the time.

Instead, in the midst of it all, we’re called to tend our faith. We practice our piety, faithfully and quietly – not before others, in order to be seen by them. We give our offering without expecting applause or accolades for being generous. We pray, we fast, we worship, we learn, we serve.

And there’s more. We love our enemies and we pray for those who persecute us. We love the Lord our God with all of our hearts, minds, souls, and strength. And we love our neighbors as ourselves, too – which means even more than blowing snow for the knucklehead next door, truth be told. It means recognizing that our enemies are our neighbors a lot of the time. And that Jesus died and was raised for the whole lot of us.

And we do all of this, not because we have to but because we get to. And we do all of this imperfectly, tending to our faith, I mean, like the broken, sinful, dying children that we are. But we do it with gratitude, with gusto, and with as much faith as we can find – even if that faith is too small to see or to be seen some days.

And we live this way, with hope, in spite of these ashes and all they represent, because it is by way of ashes … dust … and even death that God does God’s best work, remember.

God looks forward to repairing what is so broken in our lives and in this world.

God has plans to redeem the ashes and the soot of our sinfulness.

God promises to breathe life into the dust and dirt of our dying.

Because if snow were ashes or ashes were snow, today reminds us that none of that lasts forever. It will all melt away, in the end, thanks to the grace we know in Jesus. And Spring will come, in God’s sweet time.

Amen