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We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see — we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.
When he writes these words, Saint Paul is on the defensive. He is on his back foot. (Maybe you can sympathize.) The church he founded in the city of Corinth has lost confidence in him. They think he is ineffective. They even disrespect his physical presence. In the portion of his letter to them that we just heard, he sounds more desperate and plaintive than anywhere else in the letters of his that survived into our own day.
But Paul, the patron of this parish, never merely wrote letters, defensive or otherwise. No matter what happened, he took every opportunity to think and write theologically. Every disappointment or setback, every triumph or victory, every event in the chaotic, colorful story of his work as a developer of churches was grist for Paul’s theological mill. (He would encourage us to do likewise.)
So… when he’s on his back foot with the Corinthians, Paul reflects on how simply being a Christian is inherently a disadvantageous position. We preach Christ crucified: we will always be one down; we will always be at a disadvantage. You want to build a faith community? You want to lead a movement for justice? Maybe you want to organize a protest, or revitalize this neighborhood, or just make life easier for the people around you who suffer the worst of our unjust socioeconomic society. If you want to do any of these good things, and if you want to do them because you are a Christian, you will struggle at it. You will be choosing an uphill road.
This is because, to be Christian, we are not just giving handouts or riding above the fray as policy makers. We are joining ourselves to the least of these as allies and companions. We are taking a place of profound humility. We are honestly confronting and confessing our own shortcomings. We are discarding weapons because Christ calls us to be nonviolent actors. We are responding to hatred with love. If they gaslight us, we respond with the truth. If they malign us, we say little or nothing in our own defense, and stay focused on the mission. And I’ll bet you know this chant — so if you like, say it with me now — when they go low, we go high.
I read yesterday that lots of people are mighty tired of that “when they go low, we go high” chant. It would feel a lot more satisfying for them to just slug back. But to be Christian, we are called to become like Christ, who “opened not his mouth” at his sham trial.
And look at what happened to him.
These hard and bracing truths are on our hearts and minds on this day, on this difficult, ashen, serious, late-winter, honest, humble-pie day. Today, we are marked with a cross, a symbol of humiliating defeat at the hands of a violent authoritarian government. And we are marked with ashes, a symbol of cleansing (ashes, in the ancient world, were used as a cleanser), but also a symbol of death.
And then, cleansed in ashes as mortals who preach Christ crucified, aware of our weakness and our finitude, then, we, on this day, like Paul on his back foot — then we own up to our shortcomings, mistakes, and failings.
And finally, we set our faces toward Lent, a solemn season of penitence and discipleship, of consuming less so that we can give more, of living simply so that others can simply live. What might you forego this Lent, to focus your prayers, to turn your attention, to deepen your discipleship? What might you abstain from doing or consuming?
Alternatively, what might you take on during Lent as a new discipline of prayer, study, or action? I encourage you to set aside some time to prayerfully consider the Lenten practices of setting aside some things, and taking on other things. Whatever you decide, it’s not about performance or perfection. Lenten disciplines are simple practices, tentative experiments, just prayerful exercises, all for learning, growth, and reflection. Be gentle, and take it day by day. Better yet, share a practice with someone else in our community, and by doing so, you’ll both get to know each other better.
It’s too soon to share my Lenten disciplines for this year. But last year, I chose a practice that might initially strike you as silly, even though it helped me focus on my development as a faith leader. Last Lent, I decided to practice a habit of positive thinking and intentional smiling between the two services on Sundays. As many of you know all too well, I don’t have a poker face, and I can get uptight about all that’s going on around here. I can get stern and serious. I can get self-important and even aloof. Then I start walking fast, head down, face grim, and only later do I come to my senses and repent of these sins. I am sorry, friends. I can always do better. I admit that when I get into that mode, it’s usually because, underneath the crusty crankiness, I feel sad, or scared, and it can be hard for me to be up front and honest about those deeper feelings.
Today is a good day to come clean about things like that.
But here’s some Ash Wednesday Good News. When Paul was on the defensive with the church in Corinth, he kept saying “We,” as in, “We entreat you, be reconciled to God,” and even more reassuringly, “We were treated as imposters, as unknown, as dying, as punished, as sorrowful, as poor, as having nothing…” This is reassuring because Paul was never alone in his predicament: as Christians, we are often on our back foot, often down and out, often weak or vulnerable, often liable to mess things up, but we are never alone. Our faith is communal.
That’s why Paul — regaining his old confidence again — adds these reassuring assertions: “We are true, well known, alive, not killed, rejoicing, rich, and possessing everything.” Whenever the chips are down in our life of faith, we are rich toward Jesus Christ; rich toward one other. Often enough, we ask each other for forgiveness. If we forgive each other, forgiveness is always offered by someone who knows what it’s like to do the wrong thing. If you feel weak and restless, defeated and even despairing, then grasp the hand of your neighbor, for she gets it, she’s been there, and together, with God’s help and with Christ as our forebear, we will kindle again the fire of resurrection that rises from all these ashes.
Many years ago, I imagined Ash Wednesday, this day of sober reflection, this day of coming clean about our shortcomings and finding our way together as God’s imperfect people — I imagined Ash Wednesday as a kind of “laundry day” for the church. Using this image for Ash Wednesday, my confession a bit ago about being cranky on Sundays is, let’s say, my dirty t-shirt, thrown into the community laundry basket that you could imagine stands here in the center of our common life. If Ash Wednesday is our communal laundry day, I wonder: what’s your dirty t-shirt, your pair of jeans with mud and blood on the knees?
Again, our patron Saint Paul teaches us that the community is restored when we honestly just offer up our dirty laundry, as it were, trusting that through Christ we are all made new. And so I will close with one of my favorite poems, by Jane Kenyon, one of my favorite poets. Her poem is titled “Wash,” and it has the power to focus and steady us on this early-spring day, this laundry day, when we come together to… do our wash.
Here is her poem:
All day the blanket snapped and swelled
on the line, roused by a hot spring wind….
From there it witnessed the first sparrow,
early flies lifting their sticky feet,
and a green haze on the south-sloping hills.
Clouds rose over the mountain….At dusk
I took the blanket in, and we slept,
restless, under its fragrant weight.
***
Preached on Ash Wednesday, February 18, 2026, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Psalm 103:8-14
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21