Homily for Ash Wednesday
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
“Where your treasure is, there your heart will also be”
-- Matthew 6:21
The annual exhortation to fasting, almsgiving, and prayer is upon us. Annually we read Jesus’ admonition to go about this work and devotion quietly, in private, without making a fuss. We are not to make a show of our almsgiving, we are not to be ostentatious in our praying, and we are not to disfigure our faces so that other will see we are fasting. And yet, here we are kneeling in prayer, confessing our faults publicly, receiving the imposition of ashes, which we shall wear out into the streets as a sign that Lent is once again upon us. There is a dissonance in all of this, is there not?
I recently spoke with a gentleman who told me that as a child, he was told all good Anglicans wiped the cross off their foreheads when they left church on Ash Wednesday, unlike those terrible Catholics who wore their ashes with pride throughout the day for all to see. Was this really Catholic pride and was this really Protestant humility. I doubt it very much. I think that the pious Catholic had a very different motive, and that the Protestant was little more than an iconoclast. Yes, at first glance there seems to be a dissonance in what we do today with the words of Jesus, but as we explore both the words of Jesus and our response more deeply, I think that we shall come to a deeper understanding than the caricatures of proud Catholics and humble Protestants.
Where is your heart? This is the question that Jesus is asking us. The admonition against practicing our piety before others is really about the state of our heart. Do we long for praise, acknowledgement, recognition, and reward? Jesus is warning us that sometimes the outward trappings of our religious practice are served up to meet that oh so human need for approval. We long to be liked, respected, and admired; yet we are fundamentally insecure creatures. We store up rewards on earth, we display our strength, our perfection, and our wealth before others in order that we might convince people that we are all right. And more than all right, we are perfect. What does this say about our hearts? It suggests that there is something missing and that we are trying fill that void or mend that wound with external trappings. These things are all on the outside, though. That is not where our heart is meant to be.
As with many of the sayings of Jesus in St. Matthew’s Gospel, choices are often presented as stark opposites. There is a temptation here to read the words of Jesus in simplistic terms, but viewed amongst the varied woven tapestry that is the Holy Scriptures, we sometimes admonished to wear our faith on our sleeves, as Jesus says elsewhere in the Gospel of Matthew, “Do not hide your light under a bushel,” whilst in other places, like today’s passage from the same gospel, he encourages us to practice our piety in secret. The corollary of all this must be not that outward piety is bad and inward piety is good, or vice versa, depending on the passage you read; rather the corollary must be that with our hearts set on the things of God, the inward and outward life of faith will both fall into place.
Consider an analogy. Think for a moment of a close relationship that you share with someone, a spouse, a dear friend and confidant, a family member, or even a counselor, spiritual director or priest. Any intimate relationship will be multi-layered and multi-faceted. In the intimacy of a relationship there are things that you will share with each other that you will not share with the rest of the world. There are some things that are meant only for the two of you and your personal intimacy. And that is just fine. At the same time, any intimate relationship will bear fruit in the world, and there will be things about your relationship that will be shared and celebrated with the community around you. We celebrate our relationships and covenants both privately and publicly. If our hearts are set aright on the good and we live our covenant relationships faithfully, then where are hearts are, there too will be our treasure. Wherever we live out depths of covenant love and friendship with authenticity, there we will experience richness and blessing. The same is true of our life of faith. The sign of the cross in ash upon our foreheads, giving to those in need, and being intentional about our public prayer is the external fruit of living out a deep and intimate relationship with a loving God.
There is one hitch, though, and that is where we come to this day, Ash Wednesday. Try as we might, sinners that we are, we are prone to break covenants, betray confidence, hurt those we love and with whom we share our deepest intimacy. We often use our intimate relationships for selfish gain and in doing so we can cause great harm to those we love, and to ourselves. It seems to me that this is what Jesus is speaking about. Thus, when we use the disciplines of prayer, fasting and almsgiving to direct attention to ourselves rather than nurture the deep intimacy of heart speaking to heart, we abuse the sacred mystery of humanity and the divine touching each other.
But herein we encounter the good news, as well. It is not humanity that has reached the heavens and touched God, rather it is God who has reached down and touched humanity. In the Word made flesh, God has placed his heart amongst his people. The heart of God is where is treasure is, and we are his treasure. In spite of all the ways we abuse his holy religion, in spite of all the ways we take advantage of his intimate presence for our own aggrandizement, God still counts us his treasure enough to place his heart amongst us. God longs for a loving relationship with his people, and persists again and again, even as we turn again and again from his intimacy and love.
Thus, to keep a holy Lent is not about whether or not we wear a cross proudly or wipe it away humbly, it is asking about where our heart will be, in the midst of the more profound reality of where God’s heart already is. In the intimacy of hearts meeting, human and divine, we will know treasure in the depths of our being and treasure in our common life with all God’s children.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Showing posts with label Ash Wednesday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ash Wednesday. Show all posts
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
To Turn Again: A Homily For Ash Wednesday
Homily for Ash Wednesday, 2008
Wednesday, February 6th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
“See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!”
In his poem cycle, Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot uses the metaphor of a spiral staircase to evoke the concept of conversion to the Christian life. Recently, Karen Armstrong, in her autobiography, The Spiral Staircase, appropriated Eliot’s image to speak of her own climb from the darkness of depression. On a spiral staircase one is continuously turning and continuously ascending. And yet, one experiences a sense of déjà vu; one finds oneself in a remarkably similar place; similar and yet not the same. It is a forward and upward motion in which one's eyes are continuously fixed on where one has gone before, all the while steadily moving beyond where one has been. And to this pattern Eliot sets the words,
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
These words evoke the motion of the spiral staircase. In each turn we are reminded of what is left behind, even as we move toward a distant goal. Eliot’s poem may be read as a reflection on his own conversion to Christianity. He turns, and turns, and turns again – longing to leave behind the things of the past, and yet, with each turn, he glimpses them once again. The turn of the stair is difficult and frightening because all of our past is constantly in view, the good, the bad, and the ugly. With each turn one hopes for something more, and yet with each turn the sum of who we are, what we have been, the choices we have made are ever before us.
My sin is ever before me.
But when all is said and done it is in looking back that we meet our hope. In looking back we see not only the worst of who we have been, but the also providence of God in each turn. Is it not true that in any given moment we pine to see that hand of God at work and we lament when we cannot glimpse it? But how many of us looking backward catch that glimpse of the divine in retrospect? What we could not see before, we can see now: There was God. Now I know how God acted in the midst of all that pain, that sorrow, that disappointment. Now I know. Now I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And therein lies our hope. The backward glance from the spiral staircase enables the forward movement of hope. The backward glance enables us to turn again, against all fear, against all hope, against all trepidation. The backward glance illuminates that moment on a hill outside Jerusalem when a man hung on cross unto death. What seemed like the end was but the beginning. For as the disciples turned again and again round that spiral staircase, closer and closer into the presence of the risen one, with each backward glance, that frightful moment in which their Lord died, became for them the moment of hope for new life. With each turn they understood that moment more and more and more.
Our conversion into the Christian life may be likewise understood. Our journey is a spiral staircase, with each step and each turn illumined by a glimpse backward and a movement forward. We turn again, and again. Each turn may be frightful because our entire lives are ever before us, but each moment is a call to keep on turning and journeying toward the consummation of life in Christ. It seems to me that conversion can never be simply one moment in our lives. The one moment is reserved for Christ alone. It was that single moment on that hill when darkness descended. It is the moment of his crucifixion and resurrection that transforms the world, that transforms us. And it is to this moment that we turn again and again. Whenever we sense ourselves stopping on the staircase, overwhelmed, or God forbid, backing down the staircase into the abyss of our fear, we are called to turn again and continue the ascent under the strength of the one who beckons us forward, confronting both our past and the potential with us.
As the clock of the liturgical year comes round and here we turn again and meet our Ash Wednesday, shall we hope to turn again? Shall we dare to turn again? Can we dare to find the hope in the backward glance and our forward movement? Can we recognize in the turn and the step the sacred “now”? Each moment, each turn, each step, is a sacred “now” – a holy present moment in which past and future are confronted in a moment of choice. As St. Paul said, “now is the acceptable time, now is the day of our salvation.” Whether we have turned before is, in a way, irrelevant to the choice before us now. Can I hope to turn again? Do I dare to turn again? Shall I, in this moment, turn again? The late archbishop of Toronto Lewis Garnsworthy was fond of saying, “In the Anglican Church we have an altar call each week. It’s called the Eucharist.” Each year in this season of Lent, we dare to turn again and glimpse our past in all its glory and all its failings in order that we might take another step. Each week, as we approach the altar of grace, we glimpse back through our week in order that we might move forward into the new life. We do hope to turn, because we know that with each turn we meet again and again the acceptable time and the hour of our salvation. In each turn we meet the sacred and holy “now”, the moment of our conversion. With each turn we are called to turn to our Lord, meet our Lord, and cast all our burden on our Lord. In the spiral turn and the glance backward we see him with us in each turn and know that he shall be with us in each turn and step we take, and ultimately, be with us and welcome us home when our journey meets it holy end in its final glorious ascent.
Text copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, in whole or part, without the express written permission of the author.
Wednesday, February 6th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
“See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!”
In his poem cycle, Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot uses the metaphor of a spiral staircase to evoke the concept of conversion to the Christian life. Recently, Karen Armstrong, in her autobiography, The Spiral Staircase, appropriated Eliot’s image to speak of her own climb from the darkness of depression. On a spiral staircase one is continuously turning and continuously ascending. And yet, one experiences a sense of déjà vu; one finds oneself in a remarkably similar place; similar and yet not the same. It is a forward and upward motion in which one's eyes are continuously fixed on where one has gone before, all the while steadily moving beyond where one has been. And to this pattern Eliot sets the words,
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
These words evoke the motion of the spiral staircase. In each turn we are reminded of what is left behind, even as we move toward a distant goal. Eliot’s poem may be read as a reflection on his own conversion to Christianity. He turns, and turns, and turns again – longing to leave behind the things of the past, and yet, with each turn, he glimpses them once again. The turn of the stair is difficult and frightening because all of our past is constantly in view, the good, the bad, and the ugly. With each turn one hopes for something more, and yet with each turn the sum of who we are, what we have been, the choices we have made are ever before us.
My sin is ever before me.
But when all is said and done it is in looking back that we meet our hope. In looking back we see not only the worst of who we have been, but the also providence of God in each turn. Is it not true that in any given moment we pine to see that hand of God at work and we lament when we cannot glimpse it? But how many of us looking backward catch that glimpse of the divine in retrospect? What we could not see before, we can see now: There was God. Now I know how God acted in the midst of all that pain, that sorrow, that disappointment. Now I know. Now I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And therein lies our hope. The backward glance from the spiral staircase enables the forward movement of hope. The backward glance enables us to turn again, against all fear, against all hope, against all trepidation. The backward glance illuminates that moment on a hill outside Jerusalem when a man hung on cross unto death. What seemed like the end was but the beginning. For as the disciples turned again and again round that spiral staircase, closer and closer into the presence of the risen one, with each backward glance, that frightful moment in which their Lord died, became for them the moment of hope for new life. With each turn they understood that moment more and more and more.
Our conversion into the Christian life may be likewise understood. Our journey is a spiral staircase, with each step and each turn illumined by a glimpse backward and a movement forward. We turn again, and again. Each turn may be frightful because our entire lives are ever before us, but each moment is a call to keep on turning and journeying toward the consummation of life in Christ. It seems to me that conversion can never be simply one moment in our lives. The one moment is reserved for Christ alone. It was that single moment on that hill when darkness descended. It is the moment of his crucifixion and resurrection that transforms the world, that transforms us. And it is to this moment that we turn again and again. Whenever we sense ourselves stopping on the staircase, overwhelmed, or God forbid, backing down the staircase into the abyss of our fear, we are called to turn again and continue the ascent under the strength of the one who beckons us forward, confronting both our past and the potential with us.
As the clock of the liturgical year comes round and here we turn again and meet our Ash Wednesday, shall we hope to turn again? Shall we dare to turn again? Can we dare to find the hope in the backward glance and our forward movement? Can we recognize in the turn and the step the sacred “now”? Each moment, each turn, each step, is a sacred “now” – a holy present moment in which past and future are confronted in a moment of choice. As St. Paul said, “now is the acceptable time, now is the day of our salvation.” Whether we have turned before is, in a way, irrelevant to the choice before us now. Can I hope to turn again? Do I dare to turn again? Shall I, in this moment, turn again? The late archbishop of Toronto Lewis Garnsworthy was fond of saying, “In the Anglican Church we have an altar call each week. It’s called the Eucharist.” Each year in this season of Lent, we dare to turn again and glimpse our past in all its glory and all its failings in order that we might take another step. Each week, as we approach the altar of grace, we glimpse back through our week in order that we might move forward into the new life. We do hope to turn, because we know that with each turn we meet again and again the acceptable time and the hour of our salvation. In each turn we meet the sacred and holy “now”, the moment of our conversion. With each turn we are called to turn to our Lord, meet our Lord, and cast all our burden on our Lord. In the spiral turn and the glance backward we see him with us in each turn and know that he shall be with us in each turn and step we take, and ultimately, be with us and welcome us home when our journey meets it holy end in its final glorious ascent.
Text copyright 2008, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This sermon may not be reproduced or redistributed, by any means, in whole or part, without the express written permission of the author.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)