Ash Wednesday 2026 – Revd Jaime Roberts
Joel 2:1–2, 12–17
Matthew 6:1–6, 16–21
Loving God, as we open your Word to our hearts we pray that you open our hearts to your Word. Amen.
Today we begin again.
There’s something about Ash Wednesday that feels different from other days in the church calendar. There’s no big celebration, no bright banners, no triumphant music. It feels quieter, slower and more honest somehow. The tone shifts. The pace changes. We are invited to stop pretending that we are limitless and in control.
We come forward and receive ashes and as we do so we hear the words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
It’s not the sort of sentence we would choose for ourselves. We spend most of our lives trying not to think about that reality. We plan. We build. We achieve. We curate how things look. We worry about how we are perceived. We try to secure our futures and protect ourselves from uncertainty.
And then, gently but firmly, the Church places ashes on our foreheads and says: remember.
Remember that you are dust.
Not as an insult. Not as a way of shaming us. But as a way of grounding us, steadying us, bringing us back to what is true.
We are not self-sufficient.
We are not invincible.
We are not eternal on our own.
We are dust — and breath — held together by the mercy of God.
There is something deeply humbling about that. But there is also something strangely comforting. Because if I am not self-made, then perhaps I do not have to carry everything alone. If I am dust held together by God’s breath, then my life is gift before it is achievement. I do not have to prove that I deserve to be here. I am here because God has willed it.
Into that honesty comes the voice of the prophet Joel: “Blow the trumpet in Zion… call a solemn assembly… return to me with all your heart.”
Joel speaks into a time of devastation. The land has suffered. There has been loss. Things are not as they should be. He describes darkness and thick clouds. The future feels uncertain.
But at the centre of Joel’s message is not threat — it is invitation.
“Yet even now,” says the Lord, “return to me.”
Even now.
That may be one of the most hopeful phrases in Scripture.
Even now — when faith feels distant.
Even now — when our hearts feel divided.
Even now — when we are more aware of our failures than our strengths.
Return.
Not perform.
Not impress.
Not fix yourself first.
Return.
Joel adds a line that cuts straight to the heart: “Rend your hearts and not your garments.”
In those days, tearing your clothes was a public sign of grief or repentance. It was visible and dramatic. Everyone could see it. But Joel says: let it go deeper than that. Tear your hearts. Let repentance reach the inner place — the place where pride hides, where resentment lingers, where fear quietly shapes our decisions.
That is not comfortable work. It is slow. It is unseen. No one applauds a softened heart. No one congratulates you for letting go of bitterness or choosing humility over defensiveness. But that quiet inward turning — that is the heartbeat of Lent.
And notice something else. Joel does not say, “Each of you, go home and sort yourselves out privately.” He says, “Gather the people. Assemble the aged. Gather the children.”
This is communal. We return together.
That’s important, because our culture often tells us that faith is private: my spirituality, my beliefs, my inner journey. But Scripture keeps drawing us back to something shared.
We stumble together.
We confess together.
We pray together.
We learn together.
We return together.
In the Gospel reading, Jesus speaks about giving, praying and fasting. These were — and still are — central practices of God’s people. And he offers a warning: “Beware of practising your piety before others in order to be seen by them.”
When you give, don’t do it to be noticed.
When you pray, don’t turn it into performance.
When you fast, don’t make a show of it.
Jesus is not dismissing these practices. In fact, he assumes we will do them. He does not say if you give, but when you give. The question is not whether we practise spiritual habits, but why.
Three times he says: “Your Father who sees in secret…”
God sees in secret.
He sees the quiet prayer before a difficult meeting. He sees the struggle to forgive someone who hurt you. He sees the small act of generosity that no one else notices. He sees the effort to turn off the noise and open Scripture instead.
Lent is not about spiritual showmanship. It is about reordering the heart.
And then Jesus says, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
That is a searching statement. Whatever we treasure — whatever we treat as ultimate — will shape us. Our calendars reveal our treasures. Our bank statements reveal our treasures. Our anxieties reveal our treasures.
If we treasure success above all, we will be restless and competitive.
If we treasure comfort above all, we may avoid costly love.
If we treasure approval above all, we may never risk obedience.
Ash Wednesday asks us a simple but unsettling question: What do I really treasure?
Not what I claim to treasure. Not what sounds good in church. But what actually directs my energy, my affection and my worry.
This year our Lent course is called Draw Near: Life-Giving Habits for Lent.
Notice those words: life-giving habits.
Not life-draining. Not joy-stealing. Life-giving.
Because the practices Jesus names — giving, praying and fasting — are not punishments. They are pathways. They loosen the grip of false treasures and re-anchor us in what truly lasts.
We often focus heavily on giving something up for Lent, and that can be wise. Fasting has always been part of Christian life. Giving something up can reveal what has too strong a hold on us. It can expose how quickly we reach for distraction or comfort. It can create space.
But Lent is not only about giving up.
It is also about taking up.
Taking up habits that draw us nearer.
Taking up practices that form us slowly, deeply and quietly.
Taking up shared commitments that reshape our hearts.
And that is where the word sharing becomes central in our course.
Each week we will focus on sharing in a particular aspect of Christian life — because faith deepens not only in secrecy, but in community.
This first week we begin by sharing in worship.
Worship is not something we consume but something we share. When we gather, we are not an audience but participants — confessing, singing, listening and receiving together. Week by week, worship trains our hearts, reminding us who God is — holy and gracious — and who we are — dust, forgiven, beloved. Slowly, it reorients our treasure.
In the weeks ahead we will also share in prayer, learning to dwell honestly in God’s presence; in Scripture, allowing God’s word to form us; in Communion, coming to the table as one body; in service, turning outward toward our neighbour; in sharing the good news, letting mercy overflow; and in Holy Week, walking together towards the cross and resurrection.
Today ashes mark us with the cross and hold together two truths: you are dust, and you are loved. You are not self-sufficient, and you are not alone.
So perhaps the question this Lent is not only “What will I give up?” but “How will I draw near?”
Because where our treasure is, there our hearts will be also.
And the good news at the start of Lent is this: the God who calls us to return is already near.
“Yet even now,” says the Lord, “return to me.”
Even now — with distracted hearts.
Even now — with mixed motives.
Even now — with ashes on our foreheads.
We do not begin this season because we are spiritually impressive. We begin because we are invited.
So let us enter these forty days not in dread, but in hope. Not as a test to pass, but as an invitation to accept.
Let us rend our hearts — and trust that they will be met with mercy.
Let us practise life-giving habits.
Let us draw near — together — and discover that God has been drawing near to us all along.
Amen.