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On a wall in the parsonage hang some special photographs. Pictures of both sets of my grandparents are there, as is one set of my great-grandparents. And an especially treasured photo shows my father holding my mother close to his side, and they each smile broadly. These pictures remind me of my unique history.

Taken together, these pictures form for me an emotional anchor. Whenever I wonder who I am, or whose I am, I look at them, and see the seed of an answer. I am he who belongs to those people. I carry their hopes, even as they remind me of my history. And I don’t actually need the pictures. I look at my hands, and remember my grandmother’s long fingers, so much like my dad’s and mine. Whether by nature or by nurture, I’m their child; they are my anchor, these ancestors.

We all have ancestors, of course. For good and for ill, they make us who we are. We have fathers and mothers in the faith, too. They are the teachers, the preachers, the neighbors and the friends who’ve loved us into this tent of hope that we call the church. Some were grumpy, dull, or boring. Others were a delight. All of them gave us a gift: faith. They model the faith, and they showed us how to live it and they left it to us as in their wills. It’s very different from but every bit as importance as any family inheritance. The line of this ancestry goes back – way back – all the way back to God’s conversation with the first humans in the first garden. Whenever we wonder who we are, and whose we are, we remember them, our spiritual ancestors.

As we begin our Lenten journey of penitence and self-awareness, we start here. This Lent, confronting our sin means knowing ourselves. Lent reminds us, that we are shaped of earth and therefore both brittle and frail. Lent reminds us that we all have histories, not merely our own. All of us and each of us are shaped by the steps and stumbles of our ancestors.

Our Hebrew Bible lesson invites us to look at the photos of our ancestors hanging in our hearts and figuratively on the wall of our church. Though we Christians don’t spend much time in Deuteronomy, my Jewish friends know this passage well, because every participant at every Passover Seder reads this passage as part of that yearly liturgy. And while it’s not exactly an affirmation of faith, these verses form a core reminder of whom and whose we are. Did you hear the genealogical reminder? Listen again: “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien….” It’s the story of Jacob, say my Jewish friends, our common ancestor whom God renamed “Israel.” His name is synonymous with the whole people faith, which includes both our Jewish cousins and us Christians, too. We are who we are because God claimed Jacob and all his descendents. And the lesson deliberately has us claim him. “A wandering Aramean was MY ancestor.” Not “yours”; not “ours”; but “my ancestor.”

So Lent begins with a reminder that our identity is as at once simple and complex. We are God’s children. But that identity is elusive, and we quickly sell our very selves to the expediency, greed, or the urgent knock at the door. So Lent invites us to courageously remember our identity as people of God. If you’re courageous to ask yourself, this Lent, “Who am I?”, then our faith is strong enough to help you answer that very question. Who are we? We are God’s people, redeemed at the high cost of the sacrificial love of Christ Jesus our Lord.

Our spiritual cousins, the Jews, having several thousand years’ worth of head start in the faith, understand that this passage carries not merely information but transformation. The Jews believe that in the very act of reading this lesson together it actually comes true – here and now – for every successive generation. They know what we do well to learn: God has no grandchildren, only children. For them, and perhaps also for us, the faithful reading and reciting of this lesson makes it true for us. We become part of the throng led out of Egypt by Moses as God sets us free. Not just those people, but us. Not “them” alone, but we, too, are liberated by God’s love. Yes, our ancestors; but yes, we, too, are in that throng escaping Pharaoh’s tyranny. “The Lord brought us out of Egypt…. He brought us into this place and gave us this land…” We are the children of those liberated slaves, all of us. We are their descendents. But, in another sense, we ARE those people set free. God does this for us.

So for the followers of Christ, the answer to the question, “Who am I?” is always this simple: I am the one whom God set free. What I noted a couple of weeks ago remain true: we love to sing “Amazing Grace” especially because it is as true for us it was for John Newton, who wrote the words: “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.” We have ancestors in the faith, and they go all the way back to Jacob and to Abraham; but God has no grandchildren. This faith is my faith or it is meaningless. A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; but the Lord brought me out of slavery, brought me to this place, and gives me a new life.

Who am I? I’m God’s child, bought with a price and freed to live in the world in a radically new way. Lent helps me remember anew the old, old story. And remembering anew, I’m made new as well.

And notice that the lesson ends with people made anew. The response to God’s generosity is a responsive generosity on our part: bringing the first fruits of God’s goodness back to our Lord and, in effect, to our neighbors. Having been loved into being, we then embody this same love of God.

I saw an example of such a radically generous spirit on evening news’s broadcast a few days before we left for Nicaragua. It was the story of Kevin and Joan Salwen and their children Hannah and Joseph. They found themselves living the American dream: A new 6,500 square-foot home in Atlanta with plenty of room for them all to spread out. But at 14, Hannah became increasingly disconcerted about the huge disparity between the rich and poor in the country and in the world. In response to her discomfort, the family’s conscience called them to change, to bring, as it were, their first fruits to the world’s table. Having been blessed, they decided they could become a blessing. They wanted to do something that made a difference, at least to them.

So here’s what they did: they discussed it around their table and agreed to live a life only half as large. They sold their “dream house” and bought one half as large for half the price. Then they took their newly liberated capital – a full $800,000 – and gave it to two dozen villages in Ghana, in West Africa. They made their gift even though none of them had ever even been there before. They had to buy a new map to locate Ghana. Their generosity changed their life in wonderful ways; they tell their story in a book called “The Power of Half.”

This Lent, I invite you to a journey not unlike that taken by the Salwen family at the invitation of their daughter, Hannah. Remember who you are. Experience anew the truth of God’s good gifts. Discover again the blessings that God gives each of us in such abundance.

You may discover that the answer to the question, “Who am I?” will surprise, uplift, even challenge you. At the core, I believe we are all God’s children, divinely blessed, empowered to act, and challenged to generosity for our neighbors in the world.

This Lent, take a risk with God. Discover your own spiritual ancestors, and remember God’s goodness in your life. Who are we? We’re all “wandering Arameans.” We are spiritual nomads by nature and by nurture. But God blesses the journey, and invites us to share the blessings.

Will you stand now with me, and let us affirm our inheritance?

Mamaroneck United Methodist, February 21, 2010.

 

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