Sermon for Ash Wednesday

Joel 2.1-2, 12-17

 

The English translation speaks of a trumpet being blown in Zion. It was actually a ram’s horn, the shofar. In this instance the shofar acts as a warning to the people: catastrophe is about to fall upon the land – a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness no less! Although not named as such, the powerful army of which the prophet speaks that will cause such destruction is actually a plague of locusts.

Today’s recommended passage omits verses 3-11. Those verses describe this enemy’s approach as being like that of horsemen and chariots; they will consume the straw so fiercely that it will sound like fire and like warriors they will scale the walls of the city and terrify the inhabitants.

For a few decades we, in this small corner of God’s world, have tended to be pretty immune to the sort of disaster that Joel describes. I say a few decades because in reality it was not so long ago that even those who lived on these islands were dependent upon the harvest and weather in much the same way as billions are still dependent to this day. But many of us here have become so wealthy that strawberries can be provided all year round, the shelves in our supermarkets are stacked high with food, and no one need fear the supply; providing of course we have money in the bank and Brexit doesn’t go badly wrong. Thankfully some of us are growing more aware of how fragile planet Earth is; how vulnerable we and all God’s creatures are to global warming and changing weather patterns. A fear of impending disaster is beginning to rise amongst us.

In his dystopian novel The Road Cormac McCarthy tells us of a journey undertaken by a father and his young son. The landscape through which they travel has been ravaged. They are making their way to the coast avoiding lawless bands who scavenge what is left of this ash-ridden world. They have no idea what they will find at their intended destination. The book is both relentless and gripping. The reader is not told of what has caused this ecological calamity, whether it is nuclear conflagration or environmental meltdown. In a sense it matters not – it is as it is. Yet in this imaginary bleak world, seemingly devoid of any hope, the relationship between parent and child is all that matters. Each sustains the other for each is to the other the world entire. Eventually the destination is reached, the father hands the son on –– the boy has to live his life without the father, but the lessons have been taught and learned, it’s now up to the rising generation, for their time has come.

I can’t help feeling that like the child in the novel, we too have been brought to our destination – the charge has been handed on to us, we have been given the responsibility of caring for this planet and for those who live on it.

In our passage today we read of God’s gracious and unrelenting faithfulness in the face of disaster; but action has not yet taken place to deal with that disaster. So the horn is blown a second time, not in warning as before, nor in celebration of what has been achieved, for nothing yet has been done to save the world, but as a call to action on the part of the people. Young and old are called out, the bride and bridegroom from their wedding and the priests to weep and plead with God.

Today we are somewhere between the first horn signalling a danger and the second calling us to action. Many of us have heard the first horn but not the second. We are still messing about with the stuff that won’t save us or our planet. We are in a sort of denial or sense of impotence. We know that the earth is groaning not toward perfection but destruction. Yet we haven’t quite yet recognised in sufficient numbers what we must do or indeed developed a satisfactory urgency to respond appropriately.

However I just get the feeling that the trumpeter may well be picking up the shofar for a second time right now.