Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

‘Beware of practicing 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.’

Some years we need Ash Wednesday more than others, it seems to me. We always need it, don’t get me wrong – this day that marks the beginning of this season; this season when we lament and repent; these days when we acknowledge and confess our sins; when we are reminded of our mortality by these ashes on our heads; when we hear this simple, profound – sometimes sad and scary – promised refrain: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

But this year … today … because of all that’s transpired and is still unfolding in Ukraine, I hear those words … that warning … this ominous, woeful promise – “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return” – and I think, “No kidding.”

As we watch, again, but somehow anew, this war unleash itself with all the fear and anxiety and uncertainty that that kind of violence and evil and inhumanity and sinfulness heap upon our hearts and minds and souls and spirits… with all of that swirling around and within us, this very timely, obvious reminder is hard to deny, difficult to dismiss, impossible to ignore: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

And many of us don’t need the global calamity of a war to find this reminder timely. “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” It comes by way of the diseases that sicken us – “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” (No kidding.) It comes by way of the sins that burden us – “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” (No kidding.) It comes by way of the grief that has found us this past year – “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” (No kidding.)

These reminders of my mortality are relentless and many, these days. I’m not sure I need this smudge of ashes on the ever-increasing real estate of my forehead to be reminded, yet again. Thank you very much. (My oldest son turned 18 today, which is its own kind of mortality reality check, I have to say.)

But last night at 11 o’clock, I was watching Anderson Cooper, live from Lviv, Ukraine, interview Clarissa Ward, live from Kyiv, Ukraine. (These journalists who hurry into war zones are a special kind of crazy courageous, if you ask me.) Anyway, at 11 p.m. here, it was 6 a.m. there – and already Ash Wednesday, in Ukraine. And Anderson Cooper and Clarissa Ward were having perfectly ashy conversation, if you will.

They talked about the war games of closing off air spaces and attacking civilians; about sanctioning oligarchs and elites; about marching, launching, upping the ante in this “continued bloody onslaught”; about striking and hitting civilian targets; about how all of this could or would likely get much worse, sooner rather than later; that we are facing a potentially major humanitarian disaster in the days ahead. Another reporter, Jim Sciutto, even got Biblical and called it all a “David and Goliath conflict,” in which the math does not add up in support of the Ukrainians. And, of course, it’s all layered with the not-so-existential-again threat of nuclear war.

“Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” No kidding.

But just as Clarissa Ward wondered about the what, the when and the how of a 40-mile column of tanks and armory and heavy Russian weaponry cutting off and laying siege to the capital of Kyiv – where she was standing as she spoke, remember – she said without a hint of irony – “and God only knows what will happen next.” And just as she said it … no kidding … the church bells somewhere near to her location started to chime, as if the Holy Spirit herself had blown in to affirm the truth of what she had just said: “and God only knows what will happen next.”

I’m not saying it was a miracle. The clock in that church’s bell tower had just struck 6 a.m. But it was Ash Wednesday, remember. Which is why it got my attention, moreso than it did Anderson and Clarissa, I have to say. They didn’t miss a beat.

But those church bells ringing, on Ash Wednesday, in the midst of that conversation – and all of their grim reporting – in the very valley of the shadow of death? – sounded like a measure of truth and hope to me … and, I hope … for anyone else who heard them ring, on their TVs, or in their homes or hospital beds, in their bunkers or bomb shelters, in their tanks or trenches, too. “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

See, these ashes we wear on our foreheads and these words we hear from Jesus and the promises we read in Scripture remind us that we need not fear the sin and death that send us running and reeling, dodging and denying, scurrying and scared and sad so much of the time.

Instead, in the midst of it all, Jesus calls us to tend our faith. We practice our piety, faithfully and quietly – not before others, in order to be seen by them. We give our offering without expecting applause or accolades for being generous. We pray, we fast, we worship, we learn, we serve.

And there’s more. We love our enemies and we pray for those who persecute us. We love the Lord our God with all of our hearts, minds, souls, and strength. And we love our neighbors as ourselves, too. All of which is a little easier, I think, when we remember more often that we are all dust – each and every one of us – and to dust we shall return.

And we live this way, with hope, in spite of these ashes and all they represent – but because of them, too, these damned ashes. Because it is by way of ashes … dust … dying … and death that God does God’s best work, remember.

Our God looks forward to repairing what is so broken in our lives and in this world.

Our God has plans to redeem the ashes and the stain of our sinfulness.

Our God promises to breathe life into the dust and dirt of our dying.

Because our God makes beautiful things – even out of the dust from whence we’ve come and of the dust we will one day be again.

No kidding.

Amen