Today, I am leading an ecumenical Ash Wednesday service for our hospital. This is the sermon script I am reading from today. I hoped to integrate our inherit belovedness (dignity) into a traditionally sober and oft dehumanizing sermon tradition. Ash Wednesday often focuses on human wretchedness, but we are not beyond repair. Through the tools of self-compassion, community, kindness, and shared respect, we can approach today somber-yet-beloved, cherished, and dignified.
I don’t know what it is about Lent that always seems to sneak up on me. Maybe it’s because I’m just now getting over the guilty feeling of failing my New Year’s resolutions. Or perhaps it’s the way the world around me whispers of spring—melting snow dripping from the roof, the ever slightly warmer temperatures, the tease of green grass beginning to sprout where the snowy strongholds once were.
And yet, here we are at—at the beginning of Lent. Lent is a 40-day season dedicated to prayer and fasting, either removing practices and behaviors that hinder our sense of self or adding rhythms of kindness and grace.
Given the warmth and light we see today, I would not have believed you that Lent was starting today. A few months ago, yes, when it was colder, darker, and buried under feet of snow. The rivers were frozen over. My favorite fishing spots were closed for the season, the roads not plowed, giving the trout and native whitefish a much-needed break. But soon, as the ice melts, the rivers will swell, the bugs will hatch, and the fish will break the surface to feed once again.
But not without Lent.
Today, we gather for Ash Wednesday, where we hear those ancient, sombering words: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."
Lent is a season that reminds us of our earthiness. And that can be a heavy thing to carry. And here’s the tension—There is the paradox we hold together today: We are dust… and we are also beloved.
Yes, we are finite. Yes, we are good at finding the smallest imperfections within us and desiring change. And we are filled with dignity. Inherent goodness rooted in us because we share in God’s image. Cherished. Beloved.
We are not yet who we want to be. And, who we are—right now, in all our goodness—we held in divine love.
This is the mystery of Lent. It is a season of self-examination, fasting, and prayer. It is a time to let go of the things that keep us from grace. We come together to identify and release bias, pride, and judgment toward ourselves and others.
I think of the trout in winter. When the rivers run slow, and the air turns cold, the trout retreat into the deepest pools, where the water is still and oxygen-rich. It is a season of waiting, a season of preparation. And I wonder—what if Lent is our deep pool of seasonal retreat?
What if this season is less about performance (in effect, what if this season is less about how good we are at not doing the things we say we won’t do) and more about presence (focusing on becoming the type of person we want to be?)? Less about what we give up and more about what we make space for.
Today, we receive ashes. They are a sign of our dustiness, yes, but they are also a sign of our belonging. We are invited to wade into the stillness, retreat, reflect, and prepare for the coming resurrection joy.
The time will come for celebration. But today, we enter Lent. Together.
May we have the courage to go deep. To be still. And trust that even in the waiting, even in the longing, the Spirit of Goodness is already there.
Amen.