TO DIE FOR

Scripture Reading: 2 Corinthians 5:16 – 6:2

In our reading for this evening, the Apostle Paul gives us a wonderful explanation of how Jesus Christ bridges the gap between our humanity and God’s divinity. But some of us are more human than others. Fortune Magazine once listed some actual lines from actual resumes and cover letters. Here are my five favorites:

1. "It's best for employers that I not work with people."

2. "I have become completely paranoid, trusting completely no one and
absolutely nothing."

3. "Personal interests: donating blood. Fourteen gallons so far."

4. "Note: Please don't misconstrue my 14 jobs as 'job-hopping'. I have never
quit a job."

5. "The company made me a scapegoat, just like my three previous
employers."

Mark Twain once wrote that the human “is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to.” It’s embarrassing – or at least it ought to be – so much of what we say and do. We’re foolish, sinful people, we human beings.

The Good News on this Ash Wednesday is that even though we are so foolish, even though we are so sinful, it’s all right because Jesus died for us. Jesus saved us, no matter how foolish or sinful we are. Amen.

Okay. That’s the sermon you were all expecting tonight, a typical Ash Wednesday/Lenten sermon, though maybe you were hoping it would be dressed up a bit. But that’s probably pretty much it: we’re sinful but Jesus died for our sins and now everything’s okay. So what do you think of that sermon?

In the depths of the Civil War, President Lincoln visited the New York City Presbyterian Church for a mid-day service. Lincoln would do this on occasion as a respite during those difficult years. Lincoln would slip in late by a side door and sometimes leave early without being noticed. One day, when he and his aide visited the church, the president lingered there in his private corner long after the other worshipers had gone. His aide finally asked, “Mr. President, what did you think of the sermon today?”

Mr. Lincoln said, “I thought it was eloquent, well thought out, and powerfully delivered.” “Then you liked it?” the aide asked. “No. It failed,” the president answered. “It did not ask of us something great.”

Too often the sermons we hear on Ash Wednesday and during the season of Lent not only don’t ask of us something great, they only harp on our sinfulness, our foolishness, and leave us with nothing but a feeling of being slightly affirmed in our smallness.

Jesus did indeed die for us sinners. That is very much a part of the message that we need to receive during this period of Lent.

But that’s only part of the message. Here’s the other part: Jesus thought us worthy enough to die for. Jesus thought so highly of your potential, of your blessedness, of your giftedness, that he gave his life for us.

Do you see how different that sermon is from the one about how sinful and foolish we all are? This message, the message of our unsurpassing worth, our absolute preciousness in the eyes of God and in the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, asks something of us, something… something great.

As Mrs. Thompson stood in front of her 5th grade class on the first day of school, she told the children a lie: she said that she loved them all the same. What put the lie to that statement was slumped in the front row, a fifth grade boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn't play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy, and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant, too; hard to teach. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take a secret delight in marking his papers with red check marks and putting a big "F" at the top.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise:

n Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around."

n His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."

n His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

n Teddy fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class."

Now Mrs. Thompson realized the problem, and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, all of them wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present was wrapped in the heavy brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was only one quarter full of perfume. But she quieted the laughter by putting on the bracelet and remarking how pretty it was, and by dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.

Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to." After the children left she cried for a whole hour. That very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the more he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class, and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, you couldn’t blame Mrs. Thompson for perhaps loving Teddy a little bit more.

A year later she found a note under her door from Teddy, telling her that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with high honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer — the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.

There was yet another letter that spring. Teddy had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. She sat in the front row and wore that bracelet, the one with the missing rhinestones.

At the wedding they hugged each other, and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you, Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."

This could be my story. This could be yours. This could be the story of any one of us here, for each of us are so precious, so worthy that Jesus died for us; so valuable, that others have dared to live for us.

And now I want to ask something of each one of us. I want to ask of us something great; that we try to live our lives to make a difference in the life of someone else, the life of someone that Jesus thought worthy enough to die for them.

You were handed prayer cards as you came into the service tonight. Usually those cards on Ash Wednesday are used by folks who want to write down something they’re ashamed of, something they want to confess or pray about. Or maybe they write down a discipline they want to follow in this Lenten season – giving up candy or smoking or complaining. And if that’s what you feel called to think about tonight and work on through Lent, please do so. You know best how God is working in your life right now, what God is calling you to be and do.

But I’d also like you to consider putting on that card the name of someone, someone who could use some love and attention, someone in whose life you could make a difference. Maybe it’s a mother who has seemed awfully sad lately, a father who has been acting withdrawn, a child who would appreciate you spending some extra time with them, a friend who needs some loving care. Maybe it’s someone you don’t even know, someone who is homeless or in need of food or in need of health care or in need justice; someone you feel called to work for, to live for.

As the choir sings, I’m going to invite you to write on those prayer cards whatever it is you feel called to focus on in this Lenten season. You’ll bring them up later, when you come forward for communion. Those cards won’t be shared. In fact, they won’t even be read. They’re between you and God.

Those cards will act as a sermon you’re preaching to yourself, a sermon about this season of Lent, a sermon about the life you’re leading and the life you’d like to lead. And as you’re preaching, remember Abraham Lincoln’s advice and ask of yourself something... something great. Amen.

Sermon preached by Reverend Steve Savides at First Congregational United Church of Christ, Appleton, Wisconsin on Ash Wednesday, February 6, 2008.