You think that body of yours is immortal? Ha!
The Bible says you come from the dust, and through
the dust you will return. Dust. Some nights don't
begin with a story, they begin with a silence.
Tonight isn't a deep dive into a passage or a
slow walk through a Bible study. Tonight feels
different. There's a jar on a table. There's
a room that knows something honest is about to
be spoken. And there are words that don't argue.
They just wait. If you're tuning in expecting
our usual midweek study, stay with me. This one
matters just as much, maybe more. Because tonight
we didn't gather around a whiteboard or a worksheet.
We gathered around dust. And around a truth the
body already knows, but the calendar keeps trying
to outrun. It's Ash Wednesday. Instead of Bible
study, what you're about to hear is the homily
from our sanctuary, the imposition of ashes,
the quiet moment where foreheads are marked and
mortality is named. So lean in, let it be what
it is, and I'll see you on the other side. Almighty
and everlasting God, you hate nothing that you
have made. and forgive the sins of all those
who are penitent. Create and make in us new and
contrite hearts, that, lamenting our sins and
acknowledging our wretchedness, we may receive
from you the God of all mercy, perfect forgiveness
and peace, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
So, friends, we are here tonight for the imposition
of ashes. But before we partake in that, let
me offer just a few words to kind of set the
scene for this ritual, this ancient practice
that we are about to partake in. Now, I want
to start off by saying you guys have been paying
attention. I know you have because I have watched.
I've seen some of you. These past few months,
you've been learning to read the room. Not just
like people and circumstances or environments,
but the room that the church lives in. You now
notice when the banners change. You ask about
the different stole. You leaned in when I explained
that the green season is a workshop. That God
is doing something in that ordinary, unhurried
time. The long green stretch. where nothing dramatic
happens, but everything slowly shifts. You've
been a good student, and tonight class takes
a different shape. Tonight the church doesn't
explain, it acts. There's a ramekin of ash on
this table down here. In a little while, I'm
going to press some of it into your forehead
and say a handful of words. Remember that you
are dust. To dust you shall return. No footnote,
no takeaway, no three -point application to a
sermon. Just ash, just forehead, just a handful
of words that don't flinch. And like I just mentioned,
I want to spend just a few minutes before we
get there, not to soften what's coming, but perhaps
to help you receive it. Because there is a difference
between a blow and the truth. And what the ashes
carry tonight is a truth, my friends, that you
will not be able to argue out of, but it is a
truth you can survive. There is a kind of silence
that argues with us. You walk into a hospital
room. Suddenly, all of your plans for the leak
feel embarrassingly small. You stand at a graveside
in January and the cold isn't metaphorical anymore.
It just is. Just standing in it. And all the
words you thought you had have dissolved somewhere
between your chest and your throat. Silence doesn't
need your interpretation. It already says what
it has come to say. Ash Wednesday is that silence.
It walks in, it sits down its jar, and it waits.
Friends, tune your ears to the reading of Holy
Scripture. Tonight's reading comes to us from
the very first book of the Bible in Hebrew, known
as Bereshit, Genesis 2 -3, beginning with verse
17. Cursed is the ground for your sake. In toil
you will eat of it all the days of your life.
We yield thorns and thistles to you. You will
eat the herb of the field. By the sweat of your
face will you eat bread until you return to the
ground. For out of it you were taken. For you
are dust. To dust you shall return. Sends the
reading of the scripture this evening. For out
of it you were taken. Punishment added to the
sentence of life. A reminder folded in a verdict.
You came from somewhere before you arrived here.
And that same somewhere, friend, you're headed
back to. The ground is not your enemy. It is
your origin. And it is your destination. And
the ash on your forehead tonight is not a threat.
It's a homecoming address written in advance.
And God doesn't say because you're dust, you're
worthless. God says you will return. And there's
a difference there. And I want us to hold that
difference for just a moment. But first, let
me ask you something. I want you to sit with
it honestly and don't answer to yourself too
quickly. When was the last time something stopped
you, genuinely stopped you, and you couldn't
talk your way past it? Not a problem that you
needed to solve, not a decision requiring analysis,
just a moment that looked you in the eyes and
said, this is real. And you? are mortal. And
no amount of productivity is going to change
any of that. Because we are very good at moving.
We're very practiced at filling our time, the
calendar, the noise, the next thing. We have
developed sophisticated systems for never quite
arriving at the stillness. where the question
actually lives. And Ash Wednesday is the one
night in the Christian year when the church refuses
to let you skip past it. The green season prepared
you. The workshop shaped you. And this, this
is the moment the workshop has been building
towards, not as a graduation, not as an achievement,
but as... But can you receive something that
you can't manage? Because here's what I've noticed
about the way we talk about death in the church.
We are very comfortable with death as theological
concept. We might preach resurrection 40 days
straight. Sing about crossing the Jordan River
and going home to glory. We all nod along when
someone says eternal life is real. We're less
comfortable about our own body's honesty, though.
And the ashes here tonight, friends, they're
not symbolic the way a candle is symbolic. They're
not a gesture towards something abstract. They
are actual burned material pressed into actual
mortal skin. They will smudge by the time you
get home. They'll get on your pillowcase if you
forget to wash your face. They are, by design,
a little undignified. And that indignity is the
point. The Christian tradition puts ash on skin
because ideas about morality, about the reality
of our death, it's too easy just to set back
down. You can hear a sermon about death and drive
home thinking about what you want for dinner.
Cannot put ash on your forehead and entirely
forget it. And your body knows. Your body has
always known what your calendar tries to argue
around. You are dust. You will die. Not metaphorically.
Not as a theological concept to be explored during
the Lenten season. This body, the one you dressed
this morning, the one that drove here, here,
the one sitting in the pew right now, this body
will fail. And you cannot outwork this. You cannot
outfaith this. You cannot schedule around it.
And I'm not saying this to shock you. I'm saying
this because for one honest moment, maybe, You
and your body might be on the same page. And
the ashes don't need you to agree. They're not
requesting your theological endorsement. They
already know what they are. The question is whether
tonight you're willing to know too. And there's
a reason why this comes before Lent and not after.
Lent is 40 days of intentional sustained return,
the slow walk back towards the center, the practiced
disciplines, the journey towards Holy Week. But
you cannot begin a return until you know where
you are right now and where we are, many of us.
Somewhere between denial and distraction. And
not because we're faithless. Because we're human.
Humans are very good at building lives that feel
permanent. The ashes interrupt that feeling.
They don't destroy it. You'll feel that way again
by Thursday. But for one evening, the interruption
is available to you. This is what the ashes already
know. That you are made of something ancient
and humble. The same God who breathed life into
the dust of the ground breathed life into you
too. And that this body that you have been carrying
through your days is not an inconvenience to
your spiritual life. It is your spiritual life
right up until the moment that it's finished.
And it will be. The church has put ash on skin
for over a thousand years, not to frighten people,
but to orient them. To say, you are here. This
is real. This time, you have actual time. Live
it accordingly. And underneath that, underneath
the weight of those handful of words is the oldest
theological claim the church knows how to make.
Despite all the doom and gloom that I am presenting
to you tonight, you're not alone in this. The
one who said, to dust you shall return, also
is the one who said, I will be with you. The
one who knelt in the garden sweating blood also
said, I go to prepare a place. Same hands that
press ash into your forehead on Tuesday will
break bread and hand it to you on a coming Thursday.
We don't mark mortality to leave you there. We
mark it to make sure you don't accidentally live
your entire life without ever actually standing
inside of it. So, come. Not because you're ready.
Not because you've bribed the right feeling about
it. Just come. Let seven, eight, nine words be
those words. Let ash be ash. Let your body know
what it already knows. Come to receive it. You're
dust. You are beloved. Both of those are true.
And you know what? Neither cancels the other
out. Go into the night wearing what you received.
Don't rush to wash it off. Let it stay a little
bit longer than feels comfortable. And when you
do finally wash it off, when that water runs
gray down the drain and your skin is clean again,
remember that the truth it carried doesn't have
to wash off with it. You're made of something
ancient and holy. You will return to the ground
from which you came. And between here and there,
you're not alone. So depart from here in peace,
and remember the darkness is not empty. Amen?
Amen. So, as we conclude, let me say, invite
us to communion and the imposition of ashes.
Let me also say that Neither of these things
are required of you tonight. But the invitation
for both. To experience the Lord's table and
his elements. And to experience the reality of
your own mortality. The choice is yours that
I invite you. Because you've come here tonight
knowing something was required of you. You may
not have known it exactly. The ash already knew.
In a moment, you'll come forward and you'll hear
that handful of words, friend, that does not
flinch. Remember that you are dust. To dust you
shall return. You do not need to feel ready.
You do not need to feel solemn. You do not need
to understand it all fully. Just come. Let ash
be ash. Let your body hear what it already knows.
Then, having stood inside that truth, come to
the table. For this is the table where the one
who knelt in the garden and sweated blood said,
Take, eat, this is my body. And take, drink,
this is my blood poured out for you. He said
it knowing what was coming. He said it from dust
to dust. So come to this table not because you've
mastered mortality, but because you've admitted
it. Come because you're hungry. Come because
you're mortal. Come because the table was set
for exactly the person you actually are. Receive
the ash. Receive the bread. Receive the cup.
And then go, marked, fed, and not alone. This
is the Lord's Table, friends. All are welcome.
All will be fed. Ash Wednesday doesn't shout.
It settles. And if something in tonight's homily
stayed with you, not loudly, but steadily, that's
not by accident. That is the Spirit doing what
she does best, whispering truth into places we
usually keep busy. You heard words about dust,
about mortality, about hunger, and maybe just
maybe. You felt that quiet alignment between
your body and your soul. Hey friend, that's holy
ground. Don't rush past it. Let it work on you.
Let it interrupt you a little bit. Let it slow
you down enough to remember your days are not
disposable. They're given. And if something you
heard tonight met you in a way you didn't expect,
if a phrase lodged itself in your chest and shifted
the way you've always thought about this night,
would you let us know? Throw a little like in
the offering plate. Drop a comment. Send a note.
Just say I was here and it mattered. And if you
want to keep walking with us through Lent, step
by step towards Jerusalem, on towards Resurrection
Sunday, make sure you tithe your subscribe. That
way, you'll know when we start moving again.
And until then, as always, be blessed.