Tonight my congregation, like thousands of other Christian bodies around the globe, will gather in prayer, confess our sins, receive the disfiguring ashes on our foreheads, and ask for God's mercy. We will enter the holy season of Lent with promises to amend our lives.
In our Lutheran liturgy--similar to that of our Roman Catholic and Anglican brothers and sisters--we will pray,
Most holy and merciful God,
we confess to you and to one another, and before the whole company of heaven, that we have sinned by our fault,
by our own fault,
by our own most grievous fault,
in thought, word, and deed,
by what we have done and by what we have left undone.
We will use the pronoun "we," because we are not confessing our individual transgressions, but rather our contributions to the sinfulness of a society. The corporate confession requires we examine our role in the corporate guilt.
This year, two of the petitions in this confessional prayer are speaking very loudly to me. First,
Our neglect of human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty, we confess to you.
A few hours before this writing, America learned of the death of journalist Marie Colvin and news photagrapher Remi Ochlik. They were killed by artillery fire in Homs, Syria while covering the revolt in that country. As I write this, thousands of Syrians are facing cruel death at the hands of their own government. Ms. Colvin and Mssr. Ochlik have given their lives so that the rest of the world will not be indifferent to this atrocity.
Some weeks ago, via the miracle of YouTube, I watched the 1925 silent fiilm classic, The Battleship Potemkin. The "Odessa steps" sequence in the film is one of the most gripping and disturbing images I've ever seen in a motion picture. In these scenes, director Segei Eisenstein was able to put the film-goer right in the middle of a massacre. As I watched the film, I said to myself, "This is real. This is Syria. This is happening right now."
A famous still from the massacre sequence in "Battleship Potemkin" (1925)
As I sit comforatably in my office, sipping my coffee, thousands of my fellow human beings are undergoing unspeakable suffering in Syria and other places around the globe. What should my reaction be? Turn off the news? Say, "There's nothing I can do?" Forget about it? What is Jesus calling me to do in the face of so much innocent pain and horror?
I don't know the answer to this, but I know I must let myself be troubled and moved by this. Our prayers and the humanitarian efforts of our Christian communities must be employed. Those of us in democratic countries have an obligation to use whatever influence we have on our governments to encourage a righteous, compassionate, and just response to this assault on our humanity.
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Another petition from our confession reads,
Our false judgments, our uncharitable thoughts towards our neighbors, and our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us, we confess to you.
Last Sunday, as is my custom, I stood at the door of the narthex shaking hands with my parishioners as they left the late mass. Tony, a guy from the neighborhood who has been worshiping with us off and on for a few months, was one of the first out the door. Since he's not an official member of the congregation, I asked him if he'd like to formally unite with us at Easter.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't feel like I belong."
To me, his words were a slap in the face. I don't know why he feels estranged or alienated from the church, but I do know that it isn't right. Jesus said, "I was a stranger and you welcomed me." (Matthew 25:35) It is the responsibility of every Christian, if we are truly obedient to Christ, to extend loving hospitality to anyone who crosses our threshold. If someone leaves my congregation feeling that they don't belong, then I have failed in my mission to teach the Word of God.
And we, as a Church and a society, have much for which we must atone.
Have mercy on us, O God.
Thank you for reading, my friends. May we enter the season of Lent with contrite hearts, ready for God to work a miraculous change.
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