We have begun a liturgy together that will last over four hours, spread over three days.

If you look in your bulletin, you will see that our time tonight ends, but the service itself doesn’t have an ending. The same is true for tomorrow. No real beginning and no real ending.  We won’t hear a blessing or dismissal again until the end of the Easter Vigil when our three-day observance of what is called the Paschal Triduum comes to a glorious and joy-filled sending forth on the other side of the empty tomb.

Today we embark on a journey, a journey that we take every year. Because the route is so familiar, our attention sometimes falters, and we are traveling on auto-pilot. We know how it goes: Jesus is arrested, and sentenced to die by crucifixion. We have to get through this part in order to get to Easter. The details smudge and blur like a landscape viewed through a window streaked with rain.

This is a difficult Gospel text, particularly for those of us from this part of the world, particularly this part of the country.

Our worship of restraint and subtlety causes many of us to bristle at Mary’s extravagant gesture.  Our pride in being thrifty creates, in our minds, an either/or in this Gospel story.

Either we can help the poor OR we can lavish abundance in our worship of God.

This is a story and a choice St. Paul’s Brookline knows all too well.

Paul writes to the church in Corinth:

“No testing has overtaken you that is not common to everyone. God is faithful, and [God] will not let you be tested beyond your strength, but with the testing [God] will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it.”

When most of us hear this passage from Paul, we hear the phrase, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.”  I don’t know if anyone has ever said that to you, but when they’ve said it to me, I’ve had to hold myself back if not physically, then at least mentally -- trying desperately not to let my words say what my mind was thinking.

We are now a week and a half into our Lenten journey through the wilderness. Eleven days into whatever Lenten discipline we’ve taken on. Each day presents us with a choice – do I keep going with this discipline, or do I let it go? Each choice is a step we take, enabled by grace, in the journey toward God, the journey toward love.

Even before we take each step, I think there is a prior choice – and that is, what voice in my head will I listen to?

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” These are the words we hear as the mark of the cross is made on our foreheads, a mark made with ash, with black dust. It is a sobering statement, and something of a morbid act, if we are honest about it. “You are dust.” This proclamation is about much more than the simple fact that we all will die, though it is most definitely that. It is a statement about the future, and it is also a statement about our present.