“Our days are like the grass; we flourish like a flower of the field; when the wind goes over it, it is
gone, and its place shall be no more.”
I’m afraid that life in this time feels to many of us like being strapped into an out-of-control carnival
ride. We see people, objects and colors fly by too fast for them even to impress meaningfully on our
minds. We hang on for dear life and try to make sense of a life propelled by frantic activity and
peppered with the widest range of emotions imaginable.
But every so often something happens that causes the ride to screech to a grinding halt, and
suddenly the reality of human existence lurches into view with stark clarity. For me, these two
verses of Psalm 103 bring me to that place. “We flourish like a flower of the field; when the wind
goes over it, it is gone.” “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”
On classic rock stations we still hear that great song by the band Kansas, who I once saw in San
Francisco before they made it big. Their songwriter Kerry Livgren once rode the carnival ride to a
standstill himself, and he wrote these familiar words: “Same old song, just a drop of water in an
endless sea; all we do crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see. Dust in the wind, all we are
is dust in the wind.” (Actually, it sounds a lot better when they sing it than when I say it.)
Philosophers throughout history have been lionized for being the ones with the courage to take on
this whole enigma of human existence. In fact a whole school of philosophers, called the
existentialists, grew out of this poignant inquiry into the meaning of life. In his poem Ozymandias,
the English poet Percy Shelley tells the tale of a great monument that once stood in some Eastern
desert emblazoned with a dramatic testimony to its own greatness. The poem ends with these lines:
“On the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains: round the decay of that colossal wreck,
boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.”
A mighty and seemingly eternal monument, now alone and forgotten in time. I’d guess that most of
us have had some of these interludes of the fleeting and senseless nature of life. Often it’s when we
face suffering or perhaps the death of a loved one. We may be inclined to ask, “Does life really
have any enduring meaning?” Or, “How can there be a loving God when I’m being left to hurt so
much?” Or, “Are my beliefs really true, or are they just some kind of projection of my most
vulnerable desires?”
Now before we all go catatonic with depression, I just wanted to let you know that I’m not going to
leave you hanging by being content to ask the questions without suggesting some answers. This
has become popular in some Episcopal circles to do—you know, suggesting that it’s arrogant to
provide answers, and then allowing people to live into the tension of simply asking the questions.
Frankly, this drives me crazy, because we do have some rather important answers to offer the world.
I believe we can make two opposite mistakes when it comes to the existential dilemma. One is that
we can erect defenses against even dealing with it. We can keep ourselves ridiculously busy, or
buy into some kind of repetitive or addictive activity to divert our attention. For example, the TV set
engages at least two of our senses, and we can sit there for hours anesthetizing ourselves against
dealing with our own mortality or the other deep questions of life. The other mistake is that we can
be content to stare morbidly into the face of meaninglessness, as long as there’s someone else
there to share the feeling. You know, kind of like a pity-party ending with a group hug. If you don’t
mind my audacity, I’m here to tell you that that’s not how Christianity is supposed to work.
And as we enter into the season of Lent, we’re reminded that there’s a third way. This third way has
to do with walking in the tension between the reality of human suffering and the promises of a loving
God. You see, if we’re invested in staying morbid, it’s all too easy to extract those two verses we
read from the Psalm and ignore the rest of it.
I think it’s important first to note that Psalm 103 is attributed to David. Most of you know that his life
wasn’t exactly a smooth and comfortable ride. He was a shepherd selected by God through the
prophet Samuel to be King of Israel. After he defeated Goliath and the Philistines and became
popular among his people, David spent a good deal of time on the run, being pursued by the
soldiers of his arguably insane predecessor, King Saul, who was bent on killing him. Later he made
some foolish and destructive decisions, not the least of which was arranging for Uriah the Hittite to
be killed in battle so he could have his wife, Bathsheba. He paid for this crime in a big way,
ultimately losing his own son to death, and being all but crushed by the guilt issuing from his
actions.
David’s Psalms drip with the gut-wrenching torment of a life pierced by guilt and fear. Yet when
Nathan the prophet warned David of the consequences awaiting him, he emphasized one very
important thing. He said to him, “The Lord has taken away your sin. You’re not going to die.” David
was allowed to face real-life consequences of his sins. Yet these consequences paled in the light of
God’s mercy. For his sins were forgiven, and he was allowed to live. Do you suppose David looked
face-to-face into the meaninglessness of life? He writes, “Our days are like the grass; we flourish
like a flower of the field; When the wind goes over it, it is gone, and its place shall know it no more.”
But listen to the next lines. He writes: “But the merciful goodness of the Lord endures for ever on
those who fear him, and his righteousness to his children’s children.” Then comes the eruption of
praise: “Bless the Lord, you angels of his, you mighty ones who do his bidding, and hearken to the
voice of His word. Bless the Lord, all you his hosts, you ministers of his who do his will. Bless the
Lord, all you works of his, in all places of his dominion; bless the Lord, O my soul.”
You see, it was from right within the meaninglessness and suffering of David’s life that life’s real
meaning ultimately emerged. He knew more than most of us ever will of how much suffering life can
contain. And you can be sure that that suffering planted many gray hairs on his head. But the
meaning that emerged from that suffering is the same meaning offered to you and me right now, in
this Lenten season of 2009. In fact it’s the core of our beliefs as Christians. It’s the love and mercy
of our Creator God.
Kerry Livgren found this out for himself. Because not long after he penned the words to that song
“Dust in the Wind,” he discovered for himself the love of God the Father in the one He sent for us,
his Son, Jesus Christ. Kerry Livgren has been a devout believer now for around 30 years, and has
produced some big name bands in contemporary Christian music, among many other things.
Presently he’s working on an orchestral production based on the story of the resurrection of
Lazarus. Like David, what he found was that, when the carnival ride ground to a stop and he
confronted the hard realities around him, a loving God was there waiting for him as well. Like David,
he discovered that “The Lord has set his throne in heaven, and his kingship has dominion over
all.” This is a truth in which we may all take comfort. We know the end of the story and it’s a happy
ending.
So the ashes we’ll wear on our foreheads this evening are symbols of the courage entailed in
looking at life and death squarely in the eye. But they’re also the symbol of the hope entailed in
looking though death to the other side. They remind us that the stakes in this life are high. And,
that we have the gift of a Savior through whose sacrifice the dust of death will one day become the
body of resurrection. In this season of Lent may we fix our gazes forward with courage and with
hope. And may we never forget our duty and our privilege of offering that courage and that hope to
a lost and lonely world. Amen.
gone, and its place shall be no more.”
I’m afraid that life in this time feels to many of us like being strapped into an out-of-control carnival
ride. We see people, objects and colors fly by too fast for them even to impress meaningfully on our
minds. We hang on for dear life and try to make sense of a life propelled by frantic activity and
peppered with the widest range of emotions imaginable.
But every so often something happens that causes the ride to screech to a grinding halt, and
suddenly the reality of human existence lurches into view with stark clarity. For me, these two
verses of Psalm 103 bring me to that place. “We flourish like a flower of the field; when the wind
goes over it, it is gone.” “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”
On classic rock stations we still hear that great song by the band Kansas, who I once saw in San
Francisco before they made it big. Their songwriter Kerry Livgren once rode the carnival ride to a
standstill himself, and he wrote these familiar words: “Same old song, just a drop of water in an
endless sea; all we do crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see. Dust in the wind, all we are
is dust in the wind.” (Actually, it sounds a lot better when they sing it than when I say it.)
Philosophers throughout history have been lionized for being the ones with the courage to take on
this whole enigma of human existence. In fact a whole school of philosophers, called the
existentialists, grew out of this poignant inquiry into the meaning of life. In his poem Ozymandias,
the English poet Percy Shelley tells the tale of a great monument that once stood in some Eastern
desert emblazoned with a dramatic testimony to its own greatness. The poem ends with these lines:
“On the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains: round the decay of that colossal wreck,
boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.”
A mighty and seemingly eternal monument, now alone and forgotten in time. I’d guess that most of
us have had some of these interludes of the fleeting and senseless nature of life. Often it’s when we
face suffering or perhaps the death of a loved one. We may be inclined to ask, “Does life really
have any enduring meaning?” Or, “How can there be a loving God when I’m being left to hurt so
much?” Or, “Are my beliefs really true, or are they just some kind of projection of my most
vulnerable desires?”
Now before we all go catatonic with depression, I just wanted to let you know that I’m not going to
leave you hanging by being content to ask the questions without suggesting some answers. This
has become popular in some Episcopal circles to do—you know, suggesting that it’s arrogant to
provide answers, and then allowing people to live into the tension of simply asking the questions.
Frankly, this drives me crazy, because we do have some rather important answers to offer the world.
I believe we can make two opposite mistakes when it comes to the existential dilemma. One is that
we can erect defenses against even dealing with it. We can keep ourselves ridiculously busy, or
buy into some kind of repetitive or addictive activity to divert our attention. For example, the TV set
engages at least two of our senses, and we can sit there for hours anesthetizing ourselves against
dealing with our own mortality or the other deep questions of life. The other mistake is that we can
be content to stare morbidly into the face of meaninglessness, as long as there’s someone else
there to share the feeling. You know, kind of like a pity-party ending with a group hug. If you don’t
mind my audacity, I’m here to tell you that that’s not how Christianity is supposed to work.
And as we enter into the season of Lent, we’re reminded that there’s a third way. This third way has
to do with walking in the tension between the reality of human suffering and the promises of a loving
God. You see, if we’re invested in staying morbid, it’s all too easy to extract those two verses we
read from the Psalm and ignore the rest of it.
I think it’s important first to note that Psalm 103 is attributed to David. Most of you know that his life
wasn’t exactly a smooth and comfortable ride. He was a shepherd selected by God through the
prophet Samuel to be King of Israel. After he defeated Goliath and the Philistines and became
popular among his people, David spent a good deal of time on the run, being pursued by the
soldiers of his arguably insane predecessor, King Saul, who was bent on killing him. Later he made
some foolish and destructive decisions, not the least of which was arranging for Uriah the Hittite to
be killed in battle so he could have his wife, Bathsheba. He paid for this crime in a big way,
ultimately losing his own son to death, and being all but crushed by the guilt issuing from his
actions.
David’s Psalms drip with the gut-wrenching torment of a life pierced by guilt and fear. Yet when
Nathan the prophet warned David of the consequences awaiting him, he emphasized one very
important thing. He said to him, “The Lord has taken away your sin. You’re not going to die.” David
was allowed to face real-life consequences of his sins. Yet these consequences paled in the light of
God’s mercy. For his sins were forgiven, and he was allowed to live. Do you suppose David looked
face-to-face into the meaninglessness of life? He writes, “Our days are like the grass; we flourish
like a flower of the field; When the wind goes over it, it is gone, and its place shall know it no more.”
But listen to the next lines. He writes: “But the merciful goodness of the Lord endures for ever on
those who fear him, and his righteousness to his children’s children.” Then comes the eruption of
praise: “Bless the Lord, you angels of his, you mighty ones who do his bidding, and hearken to the
voice of His word. Bless the Lord, all you his hosts, you ministers of his who do his will. Bless the
Lord, all you works of his, in all places of his dominion; bless the Lord, O my soul.”
You see, it was from right within the meaninglessness and suffering of David’s life that life’s real
meaning ultimately emerged. He knew more than most of us ever will of how much suffering life can
contain. And you can be sure that that suffering planted many gray hairs on his head. But the
meaning that emerged from that suffering is the same meaning offered to you and me right now, in
this Lenten season of 2009. In fact it’s the core of our beliefs as Christians. It’s the love and mercy
of our Creator God.
Kerry Livgren found this out for himself. Because not long after he penned the words to that song
“Dust in the Wind,” he discovered for himself the love of God the Father in the one He sent for us,
his Son, Jesus Christ. Kerry Livgren has been a devout believer now for around 30 years, and has
produced some big name bands in contemporary Christian music, among many other things.
Presently he’s working on an orchestral production based on the story of the resurrection of
Lazarus. Like David, what he found was that, when the carnival ride ground to a stop and he
confronted the hard realities around him, a loving God was there waiting for him as well. Like David,
he discovered that “The Lord has set his throne in heaven, and his kingship has dominion over
all.” This is a truth in which we may all take comfort. We know the end of the story and it’s a happy
ending.
So the ashes we’ll wear on our foreheads this evening are symbols of the courage entailed in
looking at life and death squarely in the eye. But they’re also the symbol of the hope entailed in
looking though death to the other side. They remind us that the stakes in this life are high. And,
that we have the gift of a Savior through whose sacrifice the dust of death will one day become the
body of resurrection. In this season of Lent may we fix our gazes forward with courage and with
hope. And may we never forget our duty and our privilege of offering that courage and that hope to
a lost and lonely world. Amen.
Dust in the Wind
Ash Wednesday
Ash Wednesday
February 25, 2009
Fr. Dan Tuton
Fr. Dan Tuton
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