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Ash Wednesday
Rev. Dr. Les Martin
Ash Wednesday 2025
Rev. Dr. Les Martin
Isaiah 58:1-12, 2 Corinthians 5:20-6:10, Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O God, our strength and deliverer. Amen.
Ashes are what’s left. At the end of the night around the campfire, when the marshmallows are all gone. Ashes. When the wildfire is quelled, revealing the destruction of forest, property, and lives. Ashes. The ashes we use at this service tonight are made from the Palm Sunday branches. And so they speak to us in a parable: of how human cries of “Hosanna” can so quickly turn to screams of “Crucify him.” They are in some sense the ashes of our religious projects. In my own mother’s urn, as I lowered her into the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In the good things of life, the terrible, in our religion, and ultimately in our lives, ashes are what’s left.
In a few minutes time, when the sermon is concluded, we will begin our Lenten observance with what is known as “the Imposition of Ashes.” Imposition is a word with two different definitions: on the one hand, it means simply “to put on.” We will put the ashes on your forehead. On the other hand, the word imposition suggests something stronger: to impose is to introduce or establish a law that must be obeyed.
And so, the word serves a double purpose tonight. As we crush the gritty, dirty reminders of what’s left onto your foreheads, I want to suggest that what God is imposing upon us with these ashes is reality. Jesus lives in reality. God lives in reality, not in falsehood. It’s the devil that’s the father of lies, and lies are his native tongue, the Bible says. He deals in unreality. As children of God, we are invited to live in reality. To speak the language of reality. Ash Wednesday – and indeed the whole of Lent- invite us to reflect on the things that are real about human beings. We do nobody any favors by ignoring these things, or by minimizing them, or by pretending they are not real. The ashes tonight speak the truth of the way things are with us.
At some point in our lives, our appetites and striving pay off. They come to their logical conclusion, and we get what we deserve, the fruit of our labor: ashes. Like the son in the parable of the prodigal, we have wandered far in a land that is waste and are dissolute, exhausted, seemingly hopeless. This is the reality of all human existence when it is driven by our appetites. However, like the prodigal, if we repent, it is not the end of the story.
Repent. Here in East Tennessee that word carries a lot of emotional freight. It often involves shouting and fear. But what repent really means is this: the Greek word is metanoia, and it means to change one’s mind. To have a change of perspective, turn around and walk in a new direction. The prodigal son, we are told, “comes to his senses.” He says to himself “I will arise and go to my father.” To repent- to come home- is the reality we are invited to participate in by the imposition of ashes tonight. Unreality will whisper that we’re not really that bad, like those who nowadays mix glitter in the ashes to make them more cheerful. But we know the truth, don’t we? Unreality will also try and convince us that we have gone so far, that our acts are so bad, that there is no forgiveness for us. This, too, is a lie. Our Psalm tonight tells the truth:
He has not dealt with us according to our sins, nor rewarded us according to our wickedness… For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is his mercy also
As theologian Peter Leithart reminds us:
To observe Lent rightly, we have to be persuaded that we already stand in God’s favor.
The truth of repentance is what is imposed on you tonight. It doesn’t matter if all that’s left is ashes, you can still come home.
Unreality will also speak to us in terms of the manner of our repentance. This is where our Lenten disciplines come in. We may hear a whisper calling us to try to make amends for how far we have wandered away from God. We may feel that old, religious urge to “do something for God.” To improve our situation through our own efforts. Unreality promises us that if we just try hard enough in our Christian walk, we can be the kind of people we’re supposed to be. The young ruler of Luke 18 comes to mind. Since his youth, he has treated other people exactly the way the commandments would have him do- something I cannot claim. And yet, despite this, he goes away from Jesus sorrowful- for it is not enough. Good works never are.
What’s the reality of our Lenten discipline? Don’t get me wrong, it is fruitful. Just not in the way we think. See, it’s not about success or failure. Both are beneficial. It’s more about letting Christ instruct our mind and heart.
The traditional practices of Lent—fasting, prayer, and giving—aren’t obligations, but invitations. Invitations to understand the true nature of our attachments, and of ourselves. It’s the same with more modern or tailored ones we may choose. Their purpose is to remind us who we are, and whose we are.
Paradoxically, both success and failure in our Lenten discipline can do this. Both can point to our disordered desires. If you fast, you will soon find that you are obsessed with what you’ve given up. You will see how disordered your desires are. If you fail at fasting, in your failing you’ll also realize how disordered they are.
The reality concerning spiritual disciplines is imposed upon you tonight: they are never an end in themselves. The goal is actually what the tradition calls Vacare Deo, a Latin phrase that means to empty oneself for God. To make a space, through both success and failure, wherein the truth about ourselves can set us free, and God can get to work. It doesn’t matter if all that’s left of our Lenten practices by the end of this season is ashes, as Lutheran author Chad Bird reminds us:
Not on your good days or bad days or worst of days was sanctification up to you. It was always up to Jesus alone.
Loss and death are a hallmark of human life. They not only limit our hopes and plans, but the fear of them also comes to define the kind of lives we lead- nasty, brutish and short, as opposed to blessed. Grasping and striving, as opposed to free.
The ashes will go on our heads tonight accompanied by words that remind us of the grave. For the reality is that death is quite real and, sadly, quite inevitable. We need to learn to live our lives in light of this truth, loving God and one another accordingly. Our time in this life is far too short.
Unreality will tell us that we have got to get “ours” while the getting is good. Mountains of things that will insulate us from loss. Unreality also promises us that with diet, exercise, the right mix of traditional and alternative medicine and a good dose of cosmetic surgery, death can be forestalled, if not outright evaded. This is also the “Babel-project” of the techno-utopianism that seems to be making a comeback these days.
The book of Ecclesiastes names this for what it is: sheer futility, like trying to catch the wind. Denial of loss and death doesn’t bless us. Consider Jesus’ friend Lazarus. He didn’t need a bigger house, more investments, a better healthcare plan, or to use some essential oils- what he needed is resurrection. And so do we. The good news is this: that is precisely what is promised. For Christians, death is not the final word, Jesus is. So, reality rejects not just the lie that we can somehow avoid the grave, but also the lie that death still has the same kind of sting, it once did.
Consider, if you will, Lazarus after he came out of the tomb. Seeing loss and death disarmed, how would his hopes and values have changed? What might have been important to him in his new life? We don’t know, but I think it just might have looked a lot like the kind of life the book of Isaiah was urging us towards in our reading.
The reality about death- and therefore life- is imposed upon you tonight. If our treasure is indeed in heaven, we are free to live fearlessly and in a self-forgetting fashion. To love God and our neighbors as ourselves without counting the cost. If life and death are not a zero-sum game, we are free to actually be grace-filled ambassadors for Christ, as opposed to fearful hustlers for ourselves. We can discover the faith, hope, and love to live as if the Kingdom is real.
It is time, I believe, to submit to the imposition- of the ashes and of reality. Ashes are indeed what’s left, beloved, when we come to the end of ourselves in our lives, our disciplines, and our graves. But ashes in the sign of the cross speak a deeper truth. That beyond all our ends, there is in Christ, a new beginning. That Christ, as Isaiah foretold, is giving us beauty instead of ashes.
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By Rev. Doug FloydRev. Dr. Les Martin
Ash Wednesday 2025
Rev. Dr. Les Martin
Isaiah 58:1-12, 2 Corinthians 5:20-6:10, Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O God, our strength and deliverer. Amen.
Ashes are what’s left. At the end of the night around the campfire, when the marshmallows are all gone. Ashes. When the wildfire is quelled, revealing the destruction of forest, property, and lives. Ashes. The ashes we use at this service tonight are made from the Palm Sunday branches. And so they speak to us in a parable: of how human cries of “Hosanna” can so quickly turn to screams of “Crucify him.” They are in some sense the ashes of our religious projects. In my own mother’s urn, as I lowered her into the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In the good things of life, the terrible, in our religion, and ultimately in our lives, ashes are what’s left.
In a few minutes time, when the sermon is concluded, we will begin our Lenten observance with what is known as “the Imposition of Ashes.” Imposition is a word with two different definitions: on the one hand, it means simply “to put on.” We will put the ashes on your forehead. On the other hand, the word imposition suggests something stronger: to impose is to introduce or establish a law that must be obeyed.
And so, the word serves a double purpose tonight. As we crush the gritty, dirty reminders of what’s left onto your foreheads, I want to suggest that what God is imposing upon us with these ashes is reality. Jesus lives in reality. God lives in reality, not in falsehood. It’s the devil that’s the father of lies, and lies are his native tongue, the Bible says. He deals in unreality. As children of God, we are invited to live in reality. To speak the language of reality. Ash Wednesday – and indeed the whole of Lent- invite us to reflect on the things that are real about human beings. We do nobody any favors by ignoring these things, or by minimizing them, or by pretending they are not real. The ashes tonight speak the truth of the way things are with us.
At some point in our lives, our appetites and striving pay off. They come to their logical conclusion, and we get what we deserve, the fruit of our labor: ashes. Like the son in the parable of the prodigal, we have wandered far in a land that is waste and are dissolute, exhausted, seemingly hopeless. This is the reality of all human existence when it is driven by our appetites. However, like the prodigal, if we repent, it is not the end of the story.
Repent. Here in East Tennessee that word carries a lot of emotional freight. It often involves shouting and fear. But what repent really means is this: the Greek word is metanoia, and it means to change one’s mind. To have a change of perspective, turn around and walk in a new direction. The prodigal son, we are told, “comes to his senses.” He says to himself “I will arise and go to my father.” To repent- to come home- is the reality we are invited to participate in by the imposition of ashes tonight. Unreality will whisper that we’re not really that bad, like those who nowadays mix glitter in the ashes to make them more cheerful. But we know the truth, don’t we? Unreality will also try and convince us that we have gone so far, that our acts are so bad, that there is no forgiveness for us. This, too, is a lie. Our Psalm tonight tells the truth:
He has not dealt with us according to our sins, nor rewarded us according to our wickedness… For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is his mercy also
As theologian Peter Leithart reminds us:
To observe Lent rightly, we have to be persuaded that we already stand in God’s favor.
The truth of repentance is what is imposed on you tonight. It doesn’t matter if all that’s left is ashes, you can still come home.
Unreality will also speak to us in terms of the manner of our repentance. This is where our Lenten disciplines come in. We may hear a whisper calling us to try to make amends for how far we have wandered away from God. We may feel that old, religious urge to “do something for God.” To improve our situation through our own efforts. Unreality promises us that if we just try hard enough in our Christian walk, we can be the kind of people we’re supposed to be. The young ruler of Luke 18 comes to mind. Since his youth, he has treated other people exactly the way the commandments would have him do- something I cannot claim. And yet, despite this, he goes away from Jesus sorrowful- for it is not enough. Good works never are.
What’s the reality of our Lenten discipline? Don’t get me wrong, it is fruitful. Just not in the way we think. See, it’s not about success or failure. Both are beneficial. It’s more about letting Christ instruct our mind and heart.
The traditional practices of Lent—fasting, prayer, and giving—aren’t obligations, but invitations. Invitations to understand the true nature of our attachments, and of ourselves. It’s the same with more modern or tailored ones we may choose. Their purpose is to remind us who we are, and whose we are.
Paradoxically, both success and failure in our Lenten discipline can do this. Both can point to our disordered desires. If you fast, you will soon find that you are obsessed with what you’ve given up. You will see how disordered your desires are. If you fail at fasting, in your failing you’ll also realize how disordered they are.
The reality concerning spiritual disciplines is imposed upon you tonight: they are never an end in themselves. The goal is actually what the tradition calls Vacare Deo, a Latin phrase that means to empty oneself for God. To make a space, through both success and failure, wherein the truth about ourselves can set us free, and God can get to work. It doesn’t matter if all that’s left of our Lenten practices by the end of this season is ashes, as Lutheran author Chad Bird reminds us:
Not on your good days or bad days or worst of days was sanctification up to you. It was always up to Jesus alone.
Loss and death are a hallmark of human life. They not only limit our hopes and plans, but the fear of them also comes to define the kind of lives we lead- nasty, brutish and short, as opposed to blessed. Grasping and striving, as opposed to free.
The ashes will go on our heads tonight accompanied by words that remind us of the grave. For the reality is that death is quite real and, sadly, quite inevitable. We need to learn to live our lives in light of this truth, loving God and one another accordingly. Our time in this life is far too short.
Unreality will tell us that we have got to get “ours” while the getting is good. Mountains of things that will insulate us from loss. Unreality also promises us that with diet, exercise, the right mix of traditional and alternative medicine and a good dose of cosmetic surgery, death can be forestalled, if not outright evaded. This is also the “Babel-project” of the techno-utopianism that seems to be making a comeback these days.
The book of Ecclesiastes names this for what it is: sheer futility, like trying to catch the wind. Denial of loss and death doesn’t bless us. Consider Jesus’ friend Lazarus. He didn’t need a bigger house, more investments, a better healthcare plan, or to use some essential oils- what he needed is resurrection. And so do we. The good news is this: that is precisely what is promised. For Christians, death is not the final word, Jesus is. So, reality rejects not just the lie that we can somehow avoid the grave, but also the lie that death still has the same kind of sting, it once did.
Consider, if you will, Lazarus after he came out of the tomb. Seeing loss and death disarmed, how would his hopes and values have changed? What might have been important to him in his new life? We don’t know, but I think it just might have looked a lot like the kind of life the book of Isaiah was urging us towards in our reading.
The reality about death- and therefore life- is imposed upon you tonight. If our treasure is indeed in heaven, we are free to live fearlessly and in a self-forgetting fashion. To love God and our neighbors as ourselves without counting the cost. If life and death are not a zero-sum game, we are free to actually be grace-filled ambassadors for Christ, as opposed to fearful hustlers for ourselves. We can discover the faith, hope, and love to live as if the Kingdom is real.
It is time, I believe, to submit to the imposition- of the ashes and of reality. Ashes are indeed what’s left, beloved, when we come to the end of ourselves in our lives, our disciplines, and our graves. But ashes in the sign of the cross speak a deeper truth. That beyond all our ends, there is in Christ, a new beginning. That Christ, as Isaiah foretold, is giving us beauty instead of ashes.