2 Corinthians 5.20b – 6.10 – We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. As we work together with him, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain. For he says, ‘At an acceptable time I have listened to you,    and on a day of salvation I have helped you.’ See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation! We are putting no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with our ministry, but as servants of God we have commended ourselves in every way: through great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger; by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, holiness of spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; in honour and dishonour, in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Matthew 6.1–6, 16–21 – ‘Beware of practising your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. ‘So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Sermon

Ash Wednesday always begins by telling the truth.

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

There’s no softening that. No euphemism. No pretending. We come to church today knowing that life is fragile, time is limited, and that we are not as self-sufficient as we like to believe. The ash on our foreheads doesn’t flatter us. It doesn’t show us at our best. It tells the truth about who we are.

And that, strangely enough, is where grace begins.

In our reading from Corinthians, Paul pleads: “Be reconciled to God… now is the acceptable time; now is the day of salvation.”
Not tomorrow. Not once we’ve sorted ourselves out. Not when we feel more impressive, more faithful, more put together. Now. As we are.

Paul describes the Christian life in a way that feels deeply Ash Wednesday-shaped: sorrowful yet always rejoicing, poor yet making many rich, having nothing yet possessing everything. It’s a life that holds contradictions together. Weakness and hope. Loss and gift. Dust and glory.

Ash Wednesday invites us to stand honestly in those tensions — not pretending we are better than we are, but also refusing to believe that our brokenness is the final word.

That honesty matters because, as Jesus reminds us in the gospel, it’s very easy to perform religion rather than live it. To polish the outside while leaving the inside untouched.

Jesus talks about giving, praying, and fasting — all good things, all holy practices — and warns how easily they can become ways of managing appearances. Ways of reassuring ourselves, or others, that we’re doing rather well spiritually, thank you very much.

But Ash Wednesday cuts through that. The ashes are not a badge of achievement. They’re not a spiritual gold star. In fact, they undo performance altogether. Everyone comes forward the same. Everyone receives the same sign. Ashes don’t distinguish between the confident and the unsure, the regular and the occasional, the saint and the struggler. They level us.

And that’s exactly the point.

Jesus says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth.” Not because treasure is bad, but because earthly treasure is fragile. It rusts. It breaks. It doesn’t last. Ash Wednesday is the day the Church gently but firmly says: don’t build your life on things that can’t hold you.

Instead, Jesus invites us inward — into prayer that happens in secret, into fasting that makes space, into generosity that doesn’t need to be seen. Not because God prefers secrecy, but because that’s where honesty lives. That’s where we stop pretending.

And Paul’s words help us see what happens when we do stop pretending. “We commend ourselves… through endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities.” Not by looking impressive, but by staying faithful in the middle of real life. By trusting that God is at work even when the picture looks messy.

Ash Wednesday is not about self-loathing. It’s about truth-telling. And truth-telling is what makes reconciliation possible.

When we come forward for ashes, we’re not saying, “Look how bad I am.” We’re saying, “I need mercy.” And that’s a prayer God never ignores.

Later in the service, we’ll come forward again — this time not to receive ashes, but bread and wine. And that matters. Because the Church never leaves us with dust alone. The same hands that mark us with ashes also place in our hands the gift of Christ’s own life.

We move, in one service, from remember you are dust to the body of Christ, given for you. From mortality to mercy. From repentance to nourishment.

Paul says, “As servants of God we commend ourselves… in the Holy Spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God.” Not because we have earned it, but because God insists on meeting us exactly where we are — dust and all.

So as Lent begins, we’re not being asked to perform holiness, or to collect spiritual achievements. We’re being invited to make space. To clear out what distracts us. To let go of what we cling to for security. To allow God to reconcile us — not just to God, but to ourselves, to one another, and to the truth of our own lives.

Now is the acceptable time.
Now is the day of salvation.

Today, we come as we are. Marked, fed, forgiven, and sent — carrying both the ash on our foreheads and the grace in our hands.

Amen.