Ash Wednesday - 2025

Sermon for Ash Wednesday, 2025
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
The Rev. Andrew McLarty

I begin my message to you this Ash Wednesday by recalling a hymn written in 1973.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day Fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Ash Wednesday is a day that does not let us escape reality. It confronts us with the truth we often try to ignore: we are mortal. We are dust, and to dust, we shall return. This day is for all of us—no matter who we are, no matter our status, no matter our strength or frailty. Mortality does not discriminate. If we live long enough, we see the lines on our faces deepen, the weight of years accumulating. And yet, we have also seen how life can be cut short too soon. The reminder of our own limits is ever before us.

Some of us come here today might believe that, in some way, we are paying our dues—fulfilling an obligation to God, to the Church, maybe even to ourselves. We may think that by being here, by receiving the ashes, we are somehow hedging our bets against the frailty of life, pushing off mortality for just a little longer.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today And then one day you find ten years have got behind you No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

Ok, so if you are following me, the "hymn" that I am quoting is "Time" by Pink Floyd from Dark Side of the Moon.  But it still bears attention.  It reminds us of our use of time and mortality.

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking Racing around to come up behind you again The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Ash Wednesday interrupts all of our pretending. We are all on the same path. Whether we like it or not, whether we acknowledge it or not, we are journeying toward an end. And today, we hear Jesus' words cautioning us not to be performative in our fasting, not to make a display of our faith. And yet, in a few moments, we will mark our heads with ash. Is this hypocrisy? Are the ashes a show? Or is there something deeper here?

These ashes are not a performance. They are a confession. A confession that we are finite, that we are not all-powerful, that we cannot save ourselves. They remind us that we are not here to earn love or grace. We are here because we are dust—but beloved dust. Redeemed dust. Dust that God has breathed life into and called good.

We do not begin this Lenten journey to earn anything. We do not tell the story of Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection so that God will love us. We tell it because God already does. We do this because it is the story that makes sense of our lives.

So today, we acknowledge our dust-ness. We acknowledge that we are not saviors. We cannot fix everything. We cannot save ourselves. And in place of despair, we are still called to hope -  because of who God is.

We are dust, yes. But we are God’s dust. God’s beloved dust. We were formed by the Creator’s hands, shaped from the earth itself, and given life. And so, as those who bear both the mark of mortality and the love of God, we step forward into Lent once more, telling again the story of redemption, the story of how God saves the world, even now, even here.

Home, home again I like to be here when I can And when I come home cold and tired It's good to warm my bones beside the fire Far away, across the field The tolling of the iron bell Calls the faithful to their knees To hear the softly spoken magic spell...

so, Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.