Dust To Love

We read Jesus’ call to hidden devotion and reflect on Ash Wednesday’s hard gift: remembering we are dust so we learn how to live. A family loss turns doctrine into practice, revealing that what endures is presence, not applause.

Transcript

Gospel On Secrecy And Treasure

SPEAKER_00 0:00

The Holy Gospel according to Matthew. Glory to you, O Lord. Jesus said to the disciples, Beware of practicing your righteousness before others in order to be seen by them, for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret, and your father who sees in secret will reward you. And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door, and pray to your father who is in secret, and your father who sees in secret will reward you. And whenever you fast, do not look somber like the hypocrites, for they mark their faces to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others, but by your father who is in secret, and your father who sees in secret will reward you. Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume, and where thieves break in and steal, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. The gospel of the Lord. Praise to you, O Christ. Please be seated. Grace and peace to you from our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. Ooh, you can take me off screen. Too close, too big. Oh yeah. Just hit the blank button. Please, thank you. Let's try again. Grace and peace to you from our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. These are the words that we'll hear later in this service as ashes are traced on our foreheads, words that echo throughout this Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent. They come from the book of Genesis, from the moment after Adam and Eve eat of the forbidden fruit and are cast out of the garden. God tells them that life will now include toil and struggle, limits and loss. And then comes the unsparing truth, you are dust, and to dust you will return. Ash Wednesday refuses to let us avoid our mortality. It calls us back to the truth of the human condition. Our lives are fragile, our time is finite, and none of us escapes this ending. Over the past two weeks, our family has been profoundly and painfully reminded of this truth with the death of my father-in-law, Ellie Alboim. And the phrase that I've been turning around in my mind and heart thinking about this day is that Ash Wednesday tells us that we are going to die in order to remind us how to live. Ash Wednesday tells us that we are going to die in order to remind us how to live. This is not just a matter of theology, but a matter of experience. I've walked with families through hundreds of funerals, listened to stories told at the edge of grief, when pretense falls away and what really matters rises to the surface. I've seen again and again what people reach for when an earthly life is completed. And the pattern is always the same. What people remember is not what someone achieved, but how they loved. Not their success, but their presence. Not their influence, but their faithfulness. That truth has been confirmed for me so many times over the years, and now I see it again clearly and unmistakably in my own family. Because Ellie's life itself tells that same story. Ellie was the child of Polish Jewish immigrants. His mother Helen barely escaped the Holocaust. She fled Warsaw as a teenager. She couldn't go through Europe. She traveled through Russia, then to Japan, Hawaii. She was on the last boat out of Japan before Pearl Harbor when all stopped. Japan, Hawaii. She winds up on the campus of Cal Berkeley, doesn't speak any English. She's taken in by two professors at Cal Berkeley who teach her English, help her find her father who had immigrated to New York, went to New York, and then immigrated to Canada, where she met her husband. And so Ellie grew up shaped by history before he even studied it. And then he went to McGill and the Columbia School of Journalism. He worked at the CBC, the Canadian Broadcasting Company, which is the Canadian equivalent of the BBC, for more than two decades. And from 1977 to 1993, he became the parliamentary bureau chief and national political editor, helping Canadians understand the workings of power at its highest levels. He covered over 50 elections, he called dozens of them. He had a front row seat to the important moments in Canada and the world and helped people to make sense of them. And at the same time he was doing that, he was teaching journalism at Carleton University. He mentored generations of journalists, shaping not only how they reported the news, but how they thought about the truth and responsibility and the public good. And then after the CBC, he continued advising leaders and governments, offering research and counsel around federal and provincial budgets, serving as a senior advisor to Paul Martin during his years as finance minister and then as prime minister. I remember that on our wedding day, the Prime Minister of Canada called our cottage and left a voicemail for my father-in-law, wishing us every happiness. And all of this life matters. A life of true accomplishment, lived in the service of the common good. And yet none of it is what matters the most for us right now. And if I could tell you one thing that captures who Ellie truly was, it would be that Ellie never declined a phone call from his wife, his children, his sister, or his grandchildren. And it didn't matter whether he was meeting with the Prime Minister of Canada or teaching a class. He'd step aside, answer the phone, and ask one simple question, Are you okay? And then he would say, Okay, can I call you back? I would hear over the years Jenny's side of those conversations many, many times. And she would say, Hi, Daddy, and then launch into whatever it was that had come up or was on her mind, and he'd listen and he'd say, Okay, can I call you back? I'm with the Prime Minister. And she's like, Oh my God, Daddy, never mind. Call me back, no big deal. And he did. He always called back. And he always called. He was constantly checking in on the people in his life. As his sister shared at our little memorial service with family this past week, she recalled how he always seemed to know just when to call and just when to show up. As busy as he was, as important and pressing as his work could be, he found a way to be present for those he loved. And that was how he lived his whole life. And so here was a man who understood power and responsibility, and yet never confused importance with attention. He knew what mattered, and he knew who mattered. A colleague and friend of his said about him, I think this was a man who never sought honor, though he should have been showered with it. Ellie didn't need applause, he didn't need to oppress others or himself. His life was anchored into something deeper. And I've seen this truth at every funeral I've ever led. When people gather to remember a life, the language is always the same. It's not the language of accomplishments and resumes and accolades, it's the language of love. How somebody showed up, how they listened, how they stayed, how they cared. What people cherish are the moments of presence, the small acts of kindness, the steady faithfulness, the love that makes you feel safe and seen, known and held. The tragedy is that sometimes we don't realize it until it's too late. But once a year, Ash Wednesday reminds us. It tells us that we are going to die in order to remind us how to live. There's a song that our band sings that's been echoing in my heart in these days. It reminds us that when everything else falls away, when things fall apart and plan shift, when success and failure lose their meaning, what finally remains is love. It's a song called How We Love by Beth Nielsen Chapman. Some of the lyrics go, Life has taught me this, every day is new. And if anything is true, all that matters when we're through is how we love. Faced with what we lack, some things fall apart, but from the ashes, new dreams start. All that matters to the heart is how we love. From the smallest act of kindness, a word, a smile, a touch. In spite of our mistakes, chances come again. If we lose or if we win, all that matters in the end is how we love. And that is the wisdom of Ash Wednesday. We remember that we are dust not to despair, but to awaken. Not to be ashamed, but to know that we are claimed by God. Not to withdraw from the world, but to choose how we will show up in it. Not to fear the end, but to live faithfully now. So tonight, as ashes are placed on our foreheads, may they remind us not only of where we are headed, but of how we are called to live along the way. We remember that we are dust, so that we may remember how to live and how to love. Amen.