Ash Wednesday
Last night we ate king cake and gumbo. Tonight we’re here in a very different mood, about to smear ashes on our foreheads.
That’s not a bad summary of what it means to be human, actually. We feast. We grieve. We celebrate. We kneel. Sometimes all in the same week.
I remember the first time I assisted at an Ash Wednesday service. It was in New York City, and a woman came into the church with a baby. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It was striking to say those words to a child who had just arrived in this world. But of course, that’s also the point. The words are true for all of us, from the very beginning.
Many of you know those words from another context, too. We hear them in our burial service. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” And tonight, just as at a funeral, the talk of dust and ashes is accompanied by a promise, a promise of the sure and certain hope of the resurrection. Then as now, we’re called to place ourselves, fragile and finite, into the hands of a God who cares about dust.
Tonight, our liturgy does most of the talking for us. We don’t have to search for the right words. The Church has already found them. In a few minutes, we’ll receive ashes. And we’ll hear those ancient words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” We’ll pray the Litany of Penitence. As we pray, listen carefully. It’s striking in how much of the litany is about the ways we interact with one another.
Ash Wednesday is more than just a reminder that we’re going to die. It’s also a reminder that what we do in the meantime is important. Our lives are finite. But they matter. What we do matters.
That’s why we talk about sin. That’s why the season of Lent calls us to reflect on the ways in which we fall short, the ways in which we hurt one another. It’s not about a guilt trip. It’s about reminding ourselves that we—and all the people we sometimes struggle with—are made in the image of God. That we can do better. And, at the same time, that God loves us even when we fail.
There’s a blessing I use at other times of year that feels appropriate tonight: “Life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love, make haste to be kind.”
Life is short. We are dust. And because we are dust — not in spite of it — what we do with our time and our words and our breath matters.
So be swift to love. Make haste to be kind. And may the blessing of God Almighty — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — remain with you always. Amen.
Cover image: Moyers, Mike. “Ash”, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57140 [retrieved February 21, 2026]. Original source: Mike Moyers, https://www.mikemoyersfineart.com/.