Grace to you and peace from our loving God, and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

Perhaps you noticed the connection between last Sunday and today. Last week, in celebration of the Transfiguration, we read of the glory of Jesus as he is transfigured before Peter and James and John. While they're on the mountain, they hear from heaven words very similar to those spoken at the baptism of our Lord: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." The end of Epiphany and the beginning of Lent are marked with the announcement of Jesus' Sonship—God's personal acknowledgement of the divine connection between Father and Son—the affirmation of the one who is among us to complete the work of salvation.

The season of Lent provides time for our reflection upon the work of the one whose glory is manifest as much in suffering and death as it is in resurrection and victory. Lent is a season of contrasts—mortality and life, dust and doves, sin and grace. And grace stands out all the more brilliantly in contrast to the darkness of our sin.

This is one of the ecclesiastical images that still gets attention these days. It is meant to inaugurate the season of Lent, our forty-day pilgrimage to Easter, our time of fasting, prayer, and penitence. But it's not only that.

A conversation between a father and his ten-year-old son illustrates the problem in our attitude toward Lent. The father was attempting to explain to his young son the necessity of giving up something for Lent. In fact, the father went so far as to suggest that the boy give up candy.

Quizzed by his son about this kind of religiosity and what it would bring, the father replied, "It will improve your character. You'll be a better person on Easter Sunday if you give up candy. After all, your mother and I have given up liquor for Lent."

The son then said: "That's funny Dad. I saw you and mom having a drink before dinner last night." He then said, "That was wine. We gave up hard liquor."

"Okay," the boy countered, "that's fine. I'll give up hard candy."

When we think only of what we decide to give up, or only of the reflective side of Lent, it's easy to become legalistic or jaded. It's important to remember that we begin with dust and ashes a season that ends with glory and grace.

There is a pile of ashes at the entrance to Lent and at the heart of the Christian tradition. Ashes are the residue of burned-out fires and burned-up stars. Nothing could be more appropriately symbolic of the sinful state of humanity. Cold and lifeless, ashes make it clear that something isn't right, that human beings have settled in the dust and for the worst.

Ashes also contain carbon, the building block of life. To say that something is "organic," is the same as saying it's made of carbon. Physicists suggest that there is "high mathematical probability" that some of the carbon molecules in each of us have come from or will someday go to the furthest reaches of the cosmos.

In other words, we are made of the ashes of dead stars. What's more, our ashes extend in time as well as in space.

"There is an equally high mathematical probability that some of our molecular stuff has come from the primeval fireball of creation itself, the furnace in which the universe began—that we might literally have (for a while at least) within our very bodies some of the matter that was there during the very first moment, or some of the air with which Moses reiterated what he had heard when the One of Being said, 'I am'; or some of the air that charred that thin, barely audible sound of breathing, which calmed Elijah." (Source unknown)

So, before we think of Lent as just the season of ashes—a 40-day focus solely on our mortality and sinfulness, it's worth looking at the next image the church offers to us at this time of year.

On Wednesday, the leaves from Palm Sunday palms were reduced to ash for use that evening. On Sunday we hear about the arrival of a dove of the Spirit, soaring out of heaven and into our world.

On Wednesday the church proclaimed a 40-day period of solemnity and fasting. On Sunday Jesus proclaims, "The kingdom of God has come near."

On Wednesday we were marked with the ashes of our finitude and mortality. On Sunday we see the promise of eternal life as Jesus rises up out of the baptismal waters.

The late Malcolm Forbes, when publisher of Forbes magazine, liked to say that " Diamonds are nothing more than chunks of coal that stuck to their jobs." For Christians, the season of Lent reminds us that we are nothing more than chunks of coal—dust, ashes—that have been touched and transformed by the dove.

The dove told Noah everything would be all right after the Flood (Genesis 8:8-12).

The dove's feathers represented the cloud of God's comforting presence to Israel (Psalm 68:13).

The dove (that's the meaning of Jonah's name) came to Nineveh and warned her to repent, and in doing so, Nineveh was saved.

The Holy Spirit descends as a dove at the moment of Jesus' baptism and rests on him. But it is only after Easter—after Christ's death and resurrection—that the Holy Spirit is may rest on all. At Pentecost, the dove of the Spirit becomes flames. The dead lump of ash is fanned into flame again and bursts into tongues of Holy Spirit fire.

And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.

Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news."

Mark reveals the powerful contrast present in the gospel, Lent, and the Christian life. Why else is the Holy Spirit introduced as a beautiful, gentle dove, then immediately depicted as a violently driving force, driving Jesus out into the wilderness? The Spirit calls us both to know who we are as dust and know what we are to be once filled with the power of God as disciples.

In order to celebrate God's blessing and Christ's presence in our lives, we need to be able to acknowledge the curses that also accompany life. The church must be willing to have as high a doctrine of the corruption of humanity as it has of the grace of God. Lent must both remind us of our dusty history and of the rugged cross that transforms us into disciples who are victorious over death and who know what constitutes life.

A seminary professor asks each new group of seminary students, "What made you feel that God was calling you into the ministry?" And occasionally some poor, unsuspecting soul will say, "Well, I like working with people." The professor then looks the student right in the eye and says, "You haven't met many of the people you're going to be working with, have you? Some of them just aren't all that nice."

It's true, you know, for laity and clergy alike; most of us some of the time and some of us most of the time are not all that easy to like. Trying to like each other can be like trying to hug a porcupine. But the great good news of the cross is that God doesn't love us because we're all that nice or neat or socially acceptable or easy to like. God doesn't save us because we believe the right things, say the right things, or do the right things.

The good news of the gospel is that God shows love for us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us! God loves us—ordinary, everyday, standard sinners that we are—and offers us the extravagant gift of forgiveness and grace.

It is Lent. It is a time of ashes, for acknowledging the evil of a corrupted humanity. But without that dark realization, we might fail to notice when the wings of the Holy Spirit beat the fresh air of Christ's redeeming love into our lungs. This is the Spirit that drives us into the wilderness of life. This is the love that calls us into discipleship.

And we don't have to go it alone. Whether we are trapped by fear, by sin, or by meaninglessness, we are not in the struggle alone. Jesus will feed us in the desert with whatever manna we need to overcome death's clutches and to do the work of disciples. We too may then, with him, proclaim the good news of God, and say, "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near." Amen.

May the peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep our hearts and minds through faith in Christ Jesus our Lord unto eternal life. Amen.