Ash Wednesday and Valentine's Day

It is both Ash Wednesday and Valentine's Day, a confluence of holidays that will only happen again once this century in 2029.  Observant folks may remember that it happened in 2018, and people like me, who do some Google searching (which is not nearly as effective as it once was) will discover that it happened in 1923, 1934, and 1945.

I need to write a sermon for tonight's worship service at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee, and get the Communion bread made.  I am hoping that this blogging helps to order my thoughts.  Part of the problem with an Ash Wednesday sermon is that there are so many fruitful directions.  But since there aren't many Ash Wednesdays that are celebrated on Valentine's Day, maybe I'll use this juxtaposition.

I went to my YouTube channel and was surprised in a delighted kind of way to remember how many video sermons I made during the pandemic.  Here's a video sermon that I created for Ash Wednesday 2021--it holds up well.

I am intrigued by how many of my Ash Wednesday meditations from past years didn't reference the Bible texts at all.  But in some ways, that makes sense.  I wasn't preparing a sermon after all.  But for tonight, let me think about all of the texts.  We are using the passage from Joel, not Isaiah--drat.  I love verse 12  from Isaiah 58:  "Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in."

I am also thinking about my sermon and about how few of us need reminders of our mortality.  Most of the members that will hear my sermon tonight are over 50 years old; sadly, these days, death is not unfamiliar to us.  My seminary professors might remind me to ask myself as I'm writing:  where is the good news in this?

The good news is the animating breath of God.  We are dust, yes, galactic ash, the remains of stars and galaxies.  But it is the breath of God that transforms.  And that breath of God is love itself.

I am writing this blog post as a fire burns in the fireplace, as the bread for tonight's communion is in the oven set to proofing temperature.  The first pinks of sunrise are making their way across the mountain range that I can see through the mostly leafless trees.  Yesterday I saw a field of daffodils at the North Carolina welcome center as I drove home from teaching at Spartanburg Methodist College.  Part of me loved seeing this eruption of daffodils, but part of me thought, no, no, it's too soon.

That imagery can work for Ash Wednesday too.  Let me see what I come up with.