A Meditation for Ash Wednesday
Offered to United Church of Chapel Hill by Katherine Henderson
Scripture Reading: Psalm 139, 7-18 (NRSV)
Listen to this sermon at this link, or read on below...
Psalm 139 tells us that God is with us, everywhere we go, even to the farthest limits of the sea. God knows us intimately; they knit us together in our mother’s womb. God created our frame, our inward parts. We are intricately woven. God is vast and unending, but still cares to know us, to form us, carefully crafting our unique bodily selves. And even when we come to the end, the Psalmist says, God will still be with us.
But sometimes God feels far away, and our bodies seem… accidental. Unruly.
When I was a new mom, I was scared. I was scared in all the normal ways that new parents are scared, not sure of how to take care of this tiny person who depends on you so completely. But I was also scared by the physicality of it all. I knew that there would be pain, but was I surprised by the details of the pain, and how long it took to heal. My body had done a miraculous thing, but it felt foreign, hurting in new and confusing ways.
Our baby was growth restricted in utero, so he was relatively low birth weight. Feeding him was everything. I was desperate to breastfeed, but my milk was slow to arrive, and my supply was low. Postpartum anxiety took over my life. I charted feedings obsessively, berating my body for its failings. A midwife told us that we needed to give the baby supplemental food, but we should think hard before giving him formula, since that would dramatically increase his lifetime odds of diabetes.
So I was physically sick with worry. We went to heroic lengths to feed our precious child, trying to follow the gospel of breastfeeding. We purchased breast milk from the Mother’s Milk Bank at WakeMed. My husband drove across the Triangle to pick up donated breast milk from a friend, another new mother who had extra milk to share. I fought with my body. It was not cooperating, and I was failing as a mother. I wished only that my body would do what it was supposed to do. I lived in my head, charting and worrying, only reluctantly tethered to my physical self.
But the thing is, we don’t just have a body, we are a body.
Our tradition says that in Jesus, God takes on human form. God becomes bodily. Thus body and spirit are married in our theology and in our religious practice. We speak of the church as the Body of Christ. We worship with our bodies: standing, speaking, singing, kneeling. We lay on our hands or raise them in blessing. We break bread, pour wine, and receive them into our bodies. And yet much of our religious life is very heady and intellectualized. We hide the messy physical details of our lives, and rarely honor our bodies as holy in and of themselves.
The Psalmist says that it was God who formed our inward parts. We were “intricately woven in the depths of the earth.” We are fearfully and wonderfully made. Yes! Wonderful are God’s works! … except when we want to lose 20 pounds. Or when we can’t feed our baby.
I spend much of my time in a disembodied state. Sometimes I barely notice my body at all. I will ignore pain signals for as long as possible, so I can keep thinking and producing. Because I’ve internalized the idea that my productivity, and my ability to ignore or control my body, is what gives me worth.
But when I divorce my “self” from my body, when I hate or shame my own flesh… this is an offense against the God who made me.
Before you dismiss this as some sort of new-fangled, self-help-y nonsense, let us consider some other ancient wisdom, inherited through the Christian mystics. According to theologian Beverly Lanzetta, female Christian mystics through the ages were especially attuned to the “subtle signifiers of a divine self-communication” (162). They studied their own bodies as divine text. For these mystics, Lanzetta tells us, “visions, spiritual gifts, worldly problems, ethical concerns, soul sufferings and physical pains were probed for insight into God’s concern on earth… In this temple of meaning, suffering and joy combine to form an integrated holiness, the holy of holies within one’s own flesh (162).
We don’t just have a body, we are a body. God has given us our particular bodies, infused with unique meaning, suffering and joys. Holy of holies, within my very flesh.
How we relate to our own bodies is a big deal. Not just for our individual lives, but also for our relationships in community. If we hate our own body, judging it against some mythical standard, it makes it much easier to judge other bodies for also failing to miss the mark.
Much of our collective pain comes from the classification, hatred and oppression of “non-normative” bodies. It is not always safe to inhabit our bodies. They might be marked as too dark-skinned. Too queer. Undocumented. Too young, too old. Too fat, too short. Poor. Disabled. Not feminine enough, not masculine enough. For simply inhabiting our unique bodies we suffer marginalization, exclusion, and violence.
Bodies who are forced to live on the margins of society understand the isolation of the wilderness, and perhaps the pain of crucifixion. But marginalized peoples have tremendous resilience, and they know something about resurrection, too. Their bodies and their stories testify to the rainbow diversity of creation, and the infinite particularity of humanity, each of us fearfully and wonderfully made.
In this time of Lent, as we walk in the wilderness with Jesus, we might also feel the call to walk with all those who are marginalized in today’s moment. We do this not out of our own shame, or pity for others. Shame and pity lead to a shallow welcome that is really only an invitation to conformance and assimilation.
Rather, if we really want to walk in the wilderness this Lent, we can seek to learn from people whose lives and witness can help us expand our concepts of God, embodiment and incarnation. LGBTQ bodies, Black and brown bodies, differently abled bodies, youth and elders. Our bodies are holy, and they have powerful stories to tell.
Treating our bodies as sacred text is, I believe, a way to queer Lent. By queering I mean celebrating the subversiveness of the Spirit. When we queer something, we manifest new ways of being and thinking and loving and knowing God that go beyond society’s artificial constructs and boxes.
What if, this Lenten season, instead of trying to deprive or control our bodies, we practice honoring and learning from them? What might you learn, if you listen gently to your body-self, really believing that your whole physical self was “fearfully and wonderfully made” by God? And how might this season of bodily discernment expand our consciousness, so that we are better prepared to celebrate the particularity of bodies on the margin, following their lead toward liberation?
I am still learning to relate to my own body as sacred. It seems this will be a lifelong process. When our second child was born, I was gentler with myself, and it was a much more humane experience. By listening to my body and getting lots of help I was able to ease my postpartum anxiety and depression. In this process of becoming a mother for the second time, I found great healing. But then just a few months ago I pushed myself too hard, triggering a horribly painful flare-up of an old tendinitis injury. I ignored the signals in my body, again choosing productivity over wholeness.
So this Lent I’m here, seeking the wisdom of the Psalms and the mystics. Ready to receive ashes as a reminder of my finite physical life, and also my connection to the stars. Trying to know in my bones that I am a body, and it is already good.
Now I invite you to close your eyes, if that feels safe for you. Sense your body sitting here in this room. Feel its outlines, the blood pumping through your veins. Welcome your natural cycle of breath in and out. Practice BEING a body.
Listen for any physical signals at this moment. Maybe you are carrying pain, hunger, or tension. Accept these signals without judgment. Feel your breath.
Stay here. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are a bodily temple of meaning, suffering and joy.
The Beloved created you from dust, shaping your particular body from divine soil. Your flesh is holy. Your scars, your soft places: these are your testimony.
Hold this question gently, in the quiet: what is your body trying to tell you? How might you tend the holy ground of your body-self?
And now, in our remaining moments, consider your intention for this Lenten season. Maybe you want to let something go, or welcome something into your life as a spiritual practice. Choose an intention that honors your whole bodily self, holy of holies.
Seal your promise to God, who is as near as your very breath, your own beating heart. AMEN
References
Lanzetta, Beverly, 2005. Radical Wisdom: A Feminist Mystical Theology. Fortress Press.
