Ash Wednesday Homily

A Homily for Ash Wednesday                     St. Andrew’s Church, Nags Head, NC 

February 26, 2020                                                 Thomas E. Wilson, Supply Clergy

2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10                               Matthew 6:1-6,16-21

Years ago, I did six seasons of Outdoor Drama in a couple different places. Like the Lost Colony, they are done outside during the summer when rain is not unheard of. In Outdoor Drama there was this thing called “Rain Pace”.  This was when you knew a rainstorm was coming, but you didn’t want to cancel the show because if you didn’t get through the first act, you had to give the ticket holders their money back. On the other hand, if you made it through the first act and started the second act, then you would give them a “rain check”, which meant that they could come back another night free. Outdoor Dramas run on shoestrings, and too many rainy nights mean a difficult time opening next year. Performing at rain pace meant that you would do every line and hit all your blocking, but you would say your lines fast and move into your blocking fast. The difference is like this “Well (thoughtful pause)… Jack, I hate to admit it (small laugh), Jack- you are right!” In rain pace it would be “Welljackihatetoadmitit (half chuckle) jackyou’reright!” 

The difference between a good performance and one done at rain pace is that in rain pace, you do all the lines and the blocking, but the soul of the performance is missing. In a good - a righteous - performance, the actor is in the character, he understands the character; in fact, the character is part of him. He knows what the character feels, how he acts when no one is looking.  He knows what is in his pockets. He knows the backstory of the character, and the emotion conveyed in the performance comes out of the things the audience does not know but the actor does. The actor lives in the awe-filled mystery of the character. In rain pace, the actor is exhausted because all he has done is earn some money and sell himself out.  After a “righteous” performance, however, the actor is exhilarated for he has lived into another life, and while he might be tired, his soul is refreshed and alive and he looks at the world and his fellow actors in Thanksgiving. In that space he really doesn’t care what the critics say for he has entered into the mind of the playwright, to live fully into the character that he and the playwright have created.

There is a line from T.S. Eliot’s play Murder in the Cathedral: “What is the greatest treason? To do the right thing for the wrong reason.” That is what Jesus is talking about in the lesson from Matthew for today - doing the right thing for the wrong reason. His audience knew what the right things were - “to do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with your God.” The outward and visible signs of this were to fast, to enter into a hunger for God; to give alms as a way of giving thanks for your blessings and helping to create a just society; and to worship and give God the worth of your time and love. He points to some who perform the outward signs but who have missed the point because they want to impress people with their piety rather than grow closer to God.  

They exhibit a “What do I get out of it?” mentality. The difference is that doing the right thing only for the purpose of impressing others or getting a tax advantage will get you rewards, but they are short-lived rewards because they fade away over time. Jesus calls these “earthly rewards” where moth and rust consume, and thieves break in and steal. These are to be compared to what he calls a “Heavenly reward” which is entering into a full relationship with God, and he calls that “Righteousness”. The reward of that relationship is here and now, and he calls that relationship the Kingdom of the Heavens, and it continues long after we die.

Does that mean that, if you do all the right stuff and do it in “righteousness”, everything will turn out rosy for you? Not necessarily. Paul talks about it in the lesson from 2^nd Corinthians where he lists a long, very long list of the things that have gone wrong in his life. Yet he sees that, even in his defeats, he is more than a conqueror. Like Jacob in the Genesis story, it is in the defeats, as we wrestle with God, that we become blessed and live into a whole new way of being. 

If we live a life in which our focus is to impress people, the victories are so small, but if we are defeated by God’s love, then we grow in faith. Usually I write a poem but today I am using a poem by early 20^th Century Austrian Poet Rainer Marie Rilke which sums that up:

The Man Watching 

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on 
across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book, 
is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny! 
What fights with us is so great. 
If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm, 
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it's with small things, 
and the triumph itself makes us small. 
What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us. 
I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestlers' sinews 
grew long like metal strings, 
he felt them under his fingers 
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel 
(who often simply declined the fight) 
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand, 
that kneaded him as if to change his shape. 
Winning does not tempt that man. 
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, 
by constantly greater beings. 

This Lent we invite you to not strive for small victories, but to enter into a struggle with God’s love and forgiveness, where defeat brings you life.