Lent is the traditional period of spiritual introspection and abstinence observed by Christians in remembrance of the passion, death, and resurrection of Christ. Beginning on Ash Wednesday, it includes the forty days, excluding Sundays, preceding Easter and is also symbolic of the forty days Christ fasted in the wilderness. Consequently, we have come today not to the first Sunday "of" Lent, but the first Sunday "in" Lent. The word "Lent" is quite beyond the Hebrew or Greek vocabulary, which is to say, it is not a biblical word. It is a derivation of the Saxon name for the month of March, "Lencten-Monath," indicating that at this time of year days begin to exceed nights in length. Anglo-Saxon Christians observed their primary time of fasting during this period. It was during the reign of Charlemange, about 800 A.D., that this most solemn and demanding season of the Christian year was rounded off at forty days. We are reminded now that the cardinal word is not "Lent," but "penance." The emphasis is not upon a practice originated by the Anglo-Saxons but in the soul-groanings of biblical generations prostrating themselves before almighty God, praying "Lord, be merciful to me a sinner."

When have we last prayed the sinner’s prayer? Was it in the privacy of some quiet moment that, overtaken by some remorseful urge, we whispered the inaudible plea for mercy? Was it in the course of doing business with a conscience which, like the tide, just comes and comes, thrashing repeatedly upon our thinking? Today? Yesterday? As a youth around a low burning fire at Church camp? Or was it later, at the collapse of some well-laid plan? Or just now perhaps, as we make bold to lift up the accumulation of all that we are into the presence of a holy God? When have we last prayed the sinner’s prayer? The prayer itself is not a confessional which immediately cancels our sin, but rather an overture, a "sign," if you please, before God that we have visited in the far country but now turn our face toward home. Prodigal-like, we have concluded with Carlyle that "the greatest of faults is to be conscious of none," and Jacob-like, we have resolved "I will not let you go unless you bless me." The sinner’s prayer is a sincere sign of repentance.

We are familiar with the role of signs in religious faith, are we not? Isaiah walked barefoot and naked for a period of three years as a sign against the Egyptians. Ezekiel reclined on his left side for 390 days as a sign against Israel, then turned to lie down again on his right side as a sign against Judah. Jeremiah declared that remnant Jews returning to Judah from Egypt would be a sign against idolatry. The Jews demanded a sign from Jesus to prove his authority and he answered that there would be no sign except the sign of Jonah. Legion are the signs and symbols in the witness of the scriptures and in the life of the Church. From ancient times until this day, the sprinkling of oneself with ashes has been understood to signify sorrow for one’s sins and the exercising of penance.

Like most ministers, I suspect, I work from more than one desk. There is the primary desk in the pastor’s study, the top of which is crowded with books, papers, file folders, correspondence, financial statements, membership information, and such other materials as pertains to the work of the local church. Immediately behind this desk is another, where writing obligations beyond the local church are seen to. A third desk, at the parsonage, provides a place for the overflow from the other two desks, plus whatever personal project as happens to be underway at the time. No spot on any of these desks, however, is permanently occupied by a more prominent article than the space containing a wooden-framed, beautifully-executed piece of counted-thread cross-stitchery. It is the product of hours of meticulous, eye-straining fingerwork by a loving wife who has pushed and pulled a part of herself onto a bit of fabric which reads, "You Are Loved." It is a kind of extended "hug." It is a sign that I am loved.

And God said to Noah,

This is the sign of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all generations; I set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. (9:12-13)

A rainbow in the cloud! Not just the sign that "never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth," (9:11) but also a sign that we are loved.

Ah, but you say that we enlightened people now, possessors of scientific knowledge enabling us to explain rationally natural phenomena, and rainbows are actually created by refracted sunlight reflecting upon rain drops. Realists, therefore, will hastily challenge the proposition that rainbows are of the slightest theological significance. Immediately, we are driven to the matter of the perspective by which a thing is viewed.

A religious-minded couple, whose lives are nurtured and sustained by the Christian faith, will look lovingly upon a newborn baby and profess, "It is God’s gift to us." Conversely, another couple to whom the spiritual life is unintelligible, may simply remark, in reference to their own newborn, "It is natural ... it happens all the time." Let us assume that Noah, himself 500 years old, had seen rainbows before. It had rained before, but never before had a voice accompanied a rainbow saying, "This is the sign of the covenant which I have established between me and all flesh that is upon the earth" (9:17). A natural phenomenon had now acquired theological significance because God had blanched it into the personal experience of an individual whose perspective enabled him to gather it in. No longer was it something "natural, which happens all the time," but rather a "sure sign" from God.

Let us pursue the matter further. The rainbow was:

1. A Sign of the Covenant

Every rainbow is a universal covenant made with Noah, his three sons, and every living creature. In consideration of the fact that Noah’s sons are sometimes symbolically regarded as the ancestors of all nations, it was an inclusive covenant for all people, for all eternity. The bow in the clouds is the sign that the covenant is sealed, that God is dependable, and is true to his word. Centuries later, a new covenant was struck and a new sign given. The bow itself is still in the clouds, but a greater sign has appeared to remind us that we are not only delivered from the threat of global inundation, but from spiritual self-destruction. The sign is the Cross, and the covenant is:

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God sent the Son into the world not to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him. He who believes in him is not condemned; he who does not believe is condemned already because he has not believed in the name of the only Son of God. (John 3:16)

The bow is still in the clouds, and the Cross yet hangs above the altar as God’s signature upon his irrevocable covenant. If only we could gather it in, discern the signs as a balm to our souls, and apply our own signature to the matter by surrendering what we so stubbornly hold in reserve. A rich young ruler approached Jesus and inquired as to what he must do to inherit eternal life. Apparently motivated more by curiosity than repentance, he addressed Jesus as "Teacher," not "Lord." Jesus replied to his question by promptly "sweeping it under the couch," exposing the young man’s reserves: "One thing you lack. Sell all that you have and distribute it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me" (Luke 18:22). Unwilling to give up his reserves and affix his signature to the covenant, "he went away sad." What do you hold in reserve? A personal habit, is it, which if removed would cause you distress? A sizable chunk of ego to which you feel you are entitled? A segment of leisure time which must be guarded at all costs? No matter the reserves. The bow is in the clouds and the Cross is above the altar as God’s signs, or signature, of the covenant. The greater question is why do you delay a personal endorsement? The bow is in the clouds. "This is the sign of the covenant which I have established between me and all flesh that is upon the earth."

2. A Sign of God’s Continuing Involvement

Did God really create the universe like a giant cosmic clock, wind it up, then abandon it to run down? You be the judge. When Adam sins in Eden, God seeks him: "Adam, Adam, where art thou?" When the Egyptian hosts are about to drive the Israelites into the sea, God parts the waters; when the Israelites wander in the wilderness without food, he provides manna and quail; when their water supply becomes exhausted, he provides water from the rock at Massah; when there is no formalized code of behavior acceptable before God, such a code is dictated to Moses at Sinai; when the walls of Jericho loom as impenetrable, God gives Joshua a plan; when the people cry for a king, God raises up Saul. And when the plea went up for a deliverer, "When the time had fully come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law;" (Galatians 4:4) when that Son lay in the cold embrace of death, God raised him up. There was Pentecost, powers, and wonders under the influence of the Holy Spirit, the forward march of the church, the eventual compiling of the scriptures, and the Spirit of God moving powerfully, even yet, upon the lives of those who have embraced the signs, received the Spirit, and endorsed the covenant.

We speak now not of an ancient display of color in the sky, long since faded from the horizon, nor of the symbol of a Cross which, fad-like, appeared briefly in the distant mists of the past, but of living, dynamic signs. The bow is still in the clouds. The Cross still hangs above the altar. It is still God’s cattle on a thousand hills. The covenant is yet binding, and penance is still our signature.

The laboratory of the great chemist Faraday was seldom idle. One particularly busy, experiment-filled morning, an assistant accidentally bumped a silver cup of great value into a tank of acid. Just why an article of such worth was located in so precarious a place, I do not know. However, the assistant and his associates could do nothing but stand helplessly over the tank and observe the rapid disintegration of the cup. Quickly, Faraday rushed from the other side of the laboratory and poured a chemical into the tank. Immediately, the silver precipitated to the bottom of the tank. Painstakingly, the shapeless mass was retrieved and sent to the silversmith to be refashioned into its original form. An article of worth had not been discarded simply because it had been reduced to a lesser state. In the hands of its original creator, it was recovered and restored.

See the silver cup; see the granulated silver; see the restoration. Now transpose the articles. See the person we used to be; see the person we have become, diminished from our original potential, precipitating in varying degrees toward the bottom, bearing little resemblance to the flawless spirit with which we were endowed. See now the restoration. Yes! In the hands of the Creator, we too can be restored and sing with the Psalmist; "He leads me beside the still waters; he restores my soul." Our belief is not merely an anxious wish, but rather a promise punctuated by signs in which we recognize God’s continuing involvement with what he has made. The bow is still in the clouds. The Cross still hangs above the altar. The covenant is yet binding, and penance is still our signature.

3. A Sign of Grace

So long as there are rainbows, crosses, and air to breathe, we are well within the mark to declare that God retains confidence in his creation. Grace not only provides, it provides evidence of itself: signs which abide.

We each know something about abiding signs, don’t we? I do not recall all of the splendid aspirations I entertained as a small boy, but the two which remained at the top of the list longest were (1) matriculating out of bib-overalls into pants which could be worn with a belt, and (2) coming into possession of a Daisy air rifle. The air rifle came first. Frequently, during the summer, I would spend days at a time with my grandparents in the country. The farm provided a natural shooting gallery. Countless hours were spent in shooting milk cans, fence posts, glass jars in the junkpile, lids nailed to a white-oak tree, and grandfather’s old Prince Albert cans. And then one day, it happened. I was out by the barn in search of a cardboard box or an old feed bucket to shoot up when suddenly, there on the edge of the hay loft, appeared a bright red cardinal. Deliberately, I aimed, setting the sight at the end of the barrel squarely upon the breast of my prey. Steadily, I pulled the trigger. Instantly, the little bird toppled to the ground, fluttered two or three times, then lay still. I did not move. It was as if my knees no longer wanted to support my body. My arms were limp, my stomach churned, and my eyes glazed over. This was strangely different from shooting fence posts, tin cans and glass jars, and I had not anticipated the difference being so disconcerting. Strangely confused, conscience-stricken and afraid, I somehow managed to muster the wherewithal to sling the air rifle against the side of the barn and run to the house. Leaving a piece of my overalls on the top strand of a barbed wire fence, scattering chickens all over the backyard, and sobbing uncontrollably, I bounded upon the back porch. Grandmother heard me coming well before I arrived. Straight into her arms I ran, needing desperately to say something but unable to verbalize anything except jerky half-words which were painfully jammed in my throat. Presently, however, it came out; "I killed a red bird!" There then followed a head-patting, eye-wiping little talk from my grandmother assuring me that God could easily see I was sorry and she knew that I now knew red birds were too pretty to shoot. "I won’t do it again, I promise," I assured her. "I know you won’t, honey," she consoled, "I know you won’t." And I haven’t, for until this day whenever I see a red bird, it is a living sign of a covenant made long ago with penance as the signature. The sign itself is a grace, a graceful reminder of early strugglings to forge a perspective by which to measure the human experience.

When is the last time you have prayed the sinner’s prayer? It is told that two brothers were once convicted of stealing sheep. This was before the days when criminals were allowed the luxury of being liberated on the grounds of some minute legal technicality. Justice came swiftly and the consequences were clearly defined. According to custom, both brothers were brutally branded on the forehead with the letters "ST." The marking would be recognized by all as the usual designation for a "sheep thief." One of the brothers, too embarrassed to remain in the community, wandered from one village to another attempting to disguise his reputation. However, true to the old adage, "a bird never flies so far that it escapes its tail," he encountered hostility wherever he went. Embittered, he was to die and be buried in a forgotten grave. The other brother repented of his crime, remained in the community, and was determined to win back his respect. In his old age, he had gained the reputation of being a God-fearing man of integrity. One day a stranger in the community could not help but take notice of the letters "ST" on the old man’s forehead and felt led to inquire as to their meaning. "I’m not sure," replied one of the residents, "it all happened so long ago, but I think it is the abbreviation of ‘Saint’."

People do change. People do endorse the covenant with the signature of penance.

When was the last time you prayed the sinner’s prayer? The bow is still in the clouds. The Cross still hangs above the altar. The covenant is still binding, and the signature is still penance.