From. In. Through.

Pastor Chris' sermon from Ash Wednesday:

SCRIPTURE

Jesus replied, “A certain man hosted a large dinner and invited many people. When it was time for the dinner to begin, he sent his servant to tell the invited guests, ‘Come! The everything is now ready.’ One by one, they all began to make excuses. The first one told him, ‘I bought a farm and must go and see it. Please excuse me.’ Another said, ‘I bought five teams of oxen, and I’m going to check on them. Please excuse me.’ Another said, ‘I just got married, so I can’t come.’ When he returned, the servant reported these excuses to his master. The master of the house became angry and said to his servant, ‘Go quickly to the city’s streets, the busy ones and the side streets, and bring the poor, crippled, blind, and lame.’ The servant said, ‘Master, your instructions have been followed and there is still room.’ The master said to the servant, ‘Go to the highways and back alleys and urge people to come in so that my house will be filled. I tell you, not one of those who were invited will taste my dinner.’”

SERMON

Ash Wednesday always tells the truth.

It tells the truth about who we are:

 that we are dust, fragile and finite.

It tells the truth about our lives:

that they are beautiful and broken, fleeting and precious.

And it tells the truth about God: that even dust is loved.

Deeply loved. Forever loved.

Tonight we hear a story from Luke about a banquet.

A feast already prepared. A table already set. A host already waiting.

And invitations—so many invitations—sent out into the world.

But when the time comes, the invited guests begin to make excuses.

“I just bought a field.”  “I just bought some oxen.”  “I just got married.”

All reasonable things. All ordinary things. All the stuff of everyday life.

And yet… they miss the feast.

Not because they were evil. Not because they were unworthy.

But because they were distracted. Busy.

Certain there would always be another invitation, another time, another chance. Ash Wednesday interrupts that illusion.

Because ashes whisper what excuses try to hide: There may not always be another time.

Life is brief. Love is urgent. Grace is now.

And still—still—the story does not end with rejection.

The host sends the servant back out.

Into the streets. Into the alleys. Into the roads and country lanes.

To gather the poor. The crippled. The blind. The lame. The overlooked. The forgotten. The ones who never expected to be invited at all.

Which is to say… people like us.

Because the truth Ash Wednesday tells is not only that we are dust.

It is that dust is invited to dinner.

Dust is welcomed. Dust is called beloved. Dust is gathered into joy.

That is the good news.

And Lent is the season that helps us believe it.

Lent gives us practices—prayer, fasting, generosity—not as punishment, not as spiritual self-improvement projects,

but as ways of clearing space at the table of our lives.

Because the tragedy in the parable is not that the guests were sinful.

It’s that they were too full of everything else

to receive the feast already given.

Too full of possessions. Too full of plans. Too full of themselves.

So Lent gently asks:

What is filling us that keeps us from the feast?

What excuses do we rehearse instead of receiving grace?

What noise is so loud that we cannot hear the invitation: “Come, for everything is now ready"?

Ashes mark the moment we stop pretending we can save ourselves.

Ashes mark the moment we stop delaying joy.

Ashes mark the moment we tell the truth:

We are hungry. We are weary. We need mercy. We need God.

And the good news is this:

God is not waiting for us to become worthy guests.

The table is already set. The feast is already prepared.

The invitation is already spoken.

All that remains is to come. To show up.

But here is the mystery of the gospel:

The ones who know they are dust are the ones most ready to believe the good news.

Because when you know life is fragile, you stop wasting time on illusions.

When you know you cannot hold everything together, you finally open your hands.

When you know you are dust, you are free to receive love as gift.

That is why Ash Wednesday and good news belong together.

Because the ashes do not say, “You are nothing.”

They say,

“You are loved in your nothingness.”

“You are held in your fragility.”

“You are invited in your unfinished, imperfect, ordinary life.”

And nothing—not failure, not fear, not even death—

can cancel that invitation.

So tonight we come forward.

Not because we have it all together.

Not because we kept our promises.

Not because we earned a seat.

We come forward because we were invited.

We come forward because grace went looking for us

in the streets and alleys of our real lives.

We come forward because the host will not rest

until the house is full.

And we hear again the simplest, most beautiful truth:

There is still room. Still room at the table. Still room in the heart of God.

Still room for you. Still room for me. Still room for all this dust God loves.

And so, as we begin this Lenten journey,

marked with ashes and hope,

let this be the rhythm that carries us:

From dust, we are loved.

In dust, we are called.

Through dust, we are welcomed home.

From dust, we are loved.

In dust, we are called.

Through dust, we are welcomed home.

Say it when the days feel heavy.

Say it when repentance feels hard.

Say it when you wonder if grace could really be for you.

From dust, we are loved.

In dust, we are called.

Through dust, we are welcomed home.

Because the feast is ready.

The table is set.

And the Host is still inviting.

Come, for everything is now ready.

Amen.