Ash Wednesday
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
Pastor Andrew Courtney
There are not many places left where someone will look you in the eye and say:
“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Try opening a corporate business meeting that way. Try putting that on a campaign banner. Try making that your Instagram or Facebook bio.
But the Church, at least once a year, tells the hard truth.
You are dust.
And strangely, it’s beautiful.
Because in a world of filters and branding and constant self-improvement, Ash Wednesday refuses to flatter us. It doesn’t try to sell us anything. It doesn’t promise optimization. It doesn’t offer a ten-step path to becoming a better version of yourself.
It simply tells the truth.
You are finite. You are fragile. You will not live forever. And somehow, that truth sets us free.
Jesus says in our gospel lesson tonight:
Beware of practicing your righteousness in order to be seen. He doesn’t say don’t give. He doesn’t say don’t pray. He doesn’t say don’t fast.
He says: stop performing it.
The base word is hypocrite is actor. When it comes to religion and spiritually, don't be an actor. Don't be fake.
Close the door. Give quietly. Wash your face. Let God see what the world doesn’t.
Because if applause is your reward, applause is all you’ll get. And applause fades even faster than ash.
Pete Seeger understood something about this.
In If I Had a Hammer, he sings:
“If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning, I'd hammer in the evening all over this land… it’s the hammer of justice… it’s the bell of freedom… it’s the song about love between my brothers and my sisters.”
Seeger wasn’t a soloist in the flashy sense. He was famous for something almost old-fashioned: he wanted everyone singing.
If you watch videos of him, he isn’t performing at a crowd. He’s conducting them. He’s lowering his voice so theirs rises. He believed the song didn’t belong to him — it belonged to the people.
That’s different from celebrity culture. It’s communal.
In the gospel reading, faith is communal too. It’s not about being the most righteous person in the room. It’s about building a life together where justice, freedom, and love ring out — even when no one is watching.
Not solos. But Choirs.
Not platforms. But Communities.
There’s a man many of you may not know —the Rev. John Perkins.
He’s in his nineties now. He grew up in Mississippi under Jim Crow. His brother was killed by a town marshal. After being drafted and serving in the military, Perkins left the South for California, became a Christian, and felt called to return to Mississippi — the place he had every reason to avoid.
He didn’t go back to become famous. He didn’t go back to build a brand.
He went back to live among the poor and work for justice.
He taught what he called the three R’s:
Relocation. Redistribution. Reconciliation.
Relocation meant, live close enough to love people. Redistribution meant, share what you have. Reconciliation meant, repair what has been broken.
During the fight for civil rights, he was arrested and beaten nearly to death in a Mississippi jail. Lying on the floor, he says he felt God’s love for the very men beating him. That moment didn’t go viral. There were no cameras.
It was hidden.
It was Matthew 6 lived out.
That’s treasure that doesn’t rust.
He went on to build food cooperatives for poor blacks and found the Christian community development association. He keep preaching and building community and he wouldn't let the hate his oppressive opponents infect him.
Ash Wednesday says something that sounds harsh but is actually clarifying:
You are dust.
It levels the field.
No royalty. No celebrity. No curated identity.
Just dust.
But here’s the part we sometimes forget.
The first time a cross was traced on you, it wasn’t with ash. It was with water. At baptism, someone traced a cross and said you belong to Christ.
Water first. Then ash. The same shape.
The cross of water says: you are claimed. The cross of ash says: you are mortal.
Put them together and you get this: You are mortal and beloved.
And that changes how you live.
Because if you are dust and deeply loved, you don’t have to perform your righteousness. You don’t have to store up treasure in applause. You don’t have to become royal.
You can pick up a hammer.
You can ring a bell.
You can sing a song.
Not alone. But together.
Seeger knew that the power wasn’t in his solo voice — it was in thousands of ordinary voices singing.
Perkins knew that the power wasn’t in a spotlight — it was in neighborhoods rebuilt quietly over decades.
Jesus knew that the power wasn’t in public piety — it was in secret faithfulness.
So here is the invitation of Ash Wednesday.
Not self-improvement.
Not religious performance.
Not spiritual branding.
The invitation is this:
Tell the truth. Receive love. Share it.
Relocate toward someone. Redistribute what you have. Reconcile what is broken.
Because love kept to yourself shrinks. Love shared multiplies.
You are dust.
But dust held together by love can build something beautiful. As we move into Lent, let's get to building. Amen.