Feb. 18 ~ Ash Wednesday

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/3ef8bd_e3576f1bba8d4de29e97925649c559cf/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

Psalm 51:1-17

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21  

Sermon by Joel Crouse

Ash Wednesday always arrives with a strange honesty. It doesn’t argue with us. It doesn’t flatter us. It doesn’t negotiate. It simply says: Here you are. You are dust. You are breath. You are loved. And you are not in control nearly as much as you pretend to be.

So, we come tonight with our foreheads open—ready to be marked, not because we enjoy being somber, or because we think God prefers gloom, but because truth-telling is a kind of mercy. The ashes don’t say, “Try harder,” or “Prove yourself,” or “Look how spiritual you are.” Ashes say, “You are human.” And then, quietly, “I love you no matter what”

And it’s striking that on a day like this, the Gospel doesn’t give us a hardened theological lecture. Instead, Jesus speaks about something very practical: what we do—our giving, our praying, our fasting—and why we do it.

“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them.”

That line feels more current than ever. We live in an age where being seen is almost a form of currency. We track attention. We measure impact. We curate ourselves. And in fairness, some of that visibility can serve real good. Public witness matters. Naming injustice matters. Solidarity matters. If you show up at a vigil in B.C. or march in Minneapolis or speak up and out—good. We need people willing to be counted.

But Jesus is not warning against public justice. He’s warning against performance that replaces the heart, a spirituality that becomes branding, and about doing “holy things” in a way that quietly turns the self into the center of the story.

Because here’s what happens: even our best impulses can get tangled up with ego. We can give, and still be trying to purchase moral superiority. We can pray, and still be trying to manage God. We can fast, and still be trying to control our bodies, our feelings, our lives—trying to become invulnerable.

Ash Wednesday shows up and says: you can’t.

You cannot out-perform your own mortality, or curate your way out of sorrow, or hustle your way out of grief. You can’t discipline your way into being unbreakable.

So, Jesus says, with that gentle firmness he’s so good at: Don’t do your faith for applause. Don’t turn God into an audience. Don’t turn your neighbor into a mirror. “When you give… when you pray… when you fast…”—notice he assumes these practices will be part of our lives. The question isn’t whether we practice them; the question is what they are doing to us.

And then Jesus offers this repeated phrase: “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”

That’s tender language. The One who sees in secret. Not the God who scans for religious perfection, but the God who notices what no one else notices. The God who sees what we carry quietly. The God who sees the ache we don’t post. The God who sees the burden we don’t explain. The God who sees the prayers we can’t even form into sentences—just breath, just silence, just a kind of reaching.

In other words: the God who isn’t impressed by our display is deeply attentive to our truth.

So, what are these practices for? Giving, praying, fasting—these are not ways to earn God’s favour. They’re meant to help us reorient ourselves toward God.

Giving loosens our grip. It reminds us that our lives are not made safer by hoarding, and our hearts are not made larger by protecting what we have. Giving is practice in trust. It is also practice in repair—because in a world that is unjust, generosity is never just a private virtue. It is the public refusal of a system that says some people deserve abundance and others deserve scarcity.

Prayer, Jesus says, is not a speech for the crowd. It’s not a performance of certainty. It’s an honest turning—sometimes confident, sometimes angry, sometimes numb. Prayer is where we stop pretending we can save ourselves, and we let ourselves be spoken to. Prayer is where God is not used as a prop in our arguments but encountered as a steady patient presence.

And fasting—this one can be tricky. Some have been harmed by the way fasting has been preached, especially when it becomes shame or punishment. But Jesus speaks of fasting as a practice that doesn’t require theatrics. Not because it must be hidden out of embarrassment, but because it’s meant to be real. Fasting, at its best, is not self-hatred. It’s honesty about our attachments. You know, the things we use to numb ourselves and avoid feeling and quiet fear and escape loneliness. Attachments are the stuff we cling to as if it can save us.

Sometimes fasting is food or alcohol or rage. Sometimes it’s cynicism. Sometimes it’s the constant stream of news that leaves us informed but emotionally flattened. Sometimes it’s the need to be right. Sometimes it’s the habit of treating other people as problems instead of neighbors.

Ash Wednesday invites a fast that makes space—not to become impressive, but to become available. Available to God. Available to grief. Available to compassion. Available to the truth.

And then Jesus turns the corner: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… but store up treasures in heaven… for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

That word “treasure” can sound like a religious metaphor, but it’s straight- forward. Our treasure is what we protect, what we prioritize, what gets our best energy. Our treasure is what we think about in the quiet moments.

And Jesus, in his own way, is asking: “What has your heart?”

Not, “What do you claim to believe?” Not, “What would you like to be true?” But, “What actually has your heart?”

Because this is what Lent is: a season of re-orientation. A season of deciding again what matters—of letting God gently challenge the small gods we’ve made for ourselves.

We do not enter Lent to prove we are worthy. We enter Lent because we are already loved, and love calls us into freedom. We do not repent because God is eager to punish. We repent because God is eager to heal. We do not confess our sin because we are obsessed with guilt. We confess because we are done pretending, and because the truth is the doorway to grace.

And sin—let’s be honest—sin is not only the private things we regret. Sin is also the harm that becomes normalized. Sin is also the systems that grind people down. Sin is also the way we participate, knowingly or not, in economies of exploitation, in cultures of contempt, in habits of dehumanizing those we fear or misunderstand.

Ash Wednesday is personal, yes. But it is also communal. It’s the church saying: we want our lives to be different—not just individually, but together. More merciful and courageous and just. More rooted in Christ than in the frantic spirit of the age.

So, when you come forward tonight, and the ashes touch your skin, hear what they are really saying. They are saying: “You don’t have to pretend anymore—you’re not what you’ve done—you’re not what people think of you.”

They are saying: you are dust—and you are free. Beloved dust. Free to store your life in the only place it won’t rot: in the trough of God’s grace—in love that refuses to quit.

In a few moments, you’ll hear the words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” If you listen closely—you’ll also hear the other words underneath: “Remember that you are Christ’s.”

Amen