Homily for Saturday after Ash Wednesday
Feb.
21, 2026
Collect
Provincial
House, New Rochelle, N.Y.

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At
the end of his little book The Living Reminder (pp. 77-78), Henri Nouwen
retells an old rabbinic tale about the rabbi who
was weary of threatening sinners with the wrath of Yahweh … and of comforting the meek with his goodness. And so, deserting his synagogue, he set off on his wanderings in disguise. He came to an old woman who lay dying in her drafty hovel. “Why was I born,” asked the old woman, “when as long as I can remember, nothing but misfortune has been my lot?” “That you should bear it,” was the disguised rabbi’s reply, and it set the dying woman’s mind at rest. As he drew the sheet over her face, he decided that from then on, he would be mute. On the third day of his wanderings, he encountered a young beggar girl, carrying her dead child on her back. The rabbi helped to dig the grave; shrouding the tiny corpse in linen, they laid it in the pit, covered it up, broke bread, and to the beggar girl’s every word the rabbi answered with gestures. “The poor thing got nothing, never pleasure nor pain. Do you think it was worth his being born?” At first the rabbi in disguise made no move, but when the girl insisted, he nodded. Thereupon he decided to be deaf as well as dumb. He hid away from the world in a cave. There he met no one, only a ferret. Its foot was hurt, so the rabbi bound it with herbs; whereupon the ferret brought him tasty seeds. The hermit prayed, the tiny beast wiggled its nose, and the two grew fond of one another. One afternoon a condor plummeted from a great height, and as the ferret was basking in the sun at the mouth of the cave, carried it off before the rabbi’s eyes. At that, the rabbi thought to himself that it would be better if he closed his eyes too. But since—blind, dumb, and deaf—he could do nothing but wait for death, which, he felt, it was not seemly to hasten, he girded his loins and returned to his congregation. Once again, he preached to them on the subject of good and evil, according to Yahweh’s law. He did what he had done before and waxed strong in his shame.
The Scriptures are full of stories like that, stories wherein the weak become strong, the outcasts become accepted, the younger sons become the heirs. Cain cries to God for help after being sentenced to a fugitive’s life and is given a protective mark. Abraham humbles himself to beg for the lives in Sodom and receives the lives of Lot’s family. Jacob the younger supplants Esau the elder and outwits Laban the crafty. Moses overcomes the might of Egypt and liberates his people. Little David clobbers Goliath. Prophets constantly defend the poor of the Lord and chasten the nobility. Against all odds, the Maccabees hold at bay the Seleucid empire. Jesus calls a bunch of farmers and fishermen from the villages and beaches of Galilee to preach his kingdom while the proper Pharisees and scribes shake their fingers and mutter under their collective breath. Saul hears the Word of God only when knocked onto his gluteus maximus. The Gentiles are called to salvation without having to become Jews first. It’s all kind of like that strange day when Lord Cornwallis had to admit Washington had checkmated him at Yorktown, and as his legate surrendered, the imperial band could contrive only one tune: “The World Turned Upside Down.”
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| The Surrender at Yorktown (Jonathan Trumbull) |
Lent invites us to turn our world upside down—or, rather, to let the power of God do it for us. For what runs more contrary to our inclinations than the theme of today’s liturgy? to admit our weakness and our need for God to stretch forth to us the right hand of his compassion.
The
meaning of Lent is metanoeite, change your mind, change your heart; turn
around, repent. Take a look at who you
really are, quit pretending to be self-sufficient, a just observer of some
moral code. Admit your frailty before
God and your brothers. Admit your need
to be saved by God’s loving power.
Our
readings this morning present alternate religious outlooks. Isaiah, Third Isaiah if you’re keeping count,
tells his post-exilic community that if they’ll stop being laws unto
themselves—pointing fingers, doing their own pleasure on the sabbath—then he’ll
make them a watered garden, a strong city, a shining light. He’ll make them strong if they’ll admit they
need his strength.

Jesus eats with tax collectors and sinners
(Alexandre Bida)
Luke
gives us “healthy” Pharisees and “sick” tax collectors. We know who feasts with Jesus in a foretaste
of the eschatological banquet (5:27-32).
We
come to Lent now with the chance to turn ourselves upside down. That requires a reflective disposition for
self-knowledge, something offered to us by our daily reflections on the
Scriptures, the book Mike has provided for us, and the Stations of the Cross. It requires of us the inner and even the
outer humility to admit our weakness and ask for grace.
Something
I read yesterday[1] offered
a good explanation of humility: “Humility,
as a disposition, makes us focus on our limitations and shortcomings, in a
healthy way. Humility, rightly
experienced, disposes us to recognize that we need help, be it horizontally
through cooperation and mutual endeavor, or vertically, by acknowledging that
we are not, in fact God. That is the
disposition that brings us together, fires our instincts to unite, and reach
for something more than and outside of ourselves.”
So,
brothers, we pray for one another to our Physician-Savior that he bestow his
healing power on us so that, like St. Paul, persecutor and apostle, and Henri
Nouwen’s rabbi we too can wax strong in our shame.












