Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”

Psalm 51 | Matthew 6:1–6, 16–21

I wonder if someone has already asked you today what you are giving up for Lent?

Chocolate is usually first.
Then alcohol.
Biscuits.
Social media.

And none of those are bad things.

But Lent can begin to sound like a religious version of “New Year, New Me.”
A reset.
A detox.
A slightly spiritualised self-improvement plan.

And yet tonight – as ashes are placed on our foreheads – the Church invites us somewhere much deeper than self-improvement.

Not “How can I be better?”
But “How can I return?”

Because that is the language of Lent.

Through the prophet Joel, God says:
Return to me with all your heart.
Not polish yourself up.
Not prove your seriousness.
Return.

And Psalm 51 gives us the prayer for how that return happens:
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.

Not: “I will fix myself.”
Not: “I will try harder.”
But: Create in me.

Which means Lent is not about tinkering at the edges of our habits.
It is about allowing God to meet us at depth. We cannot do this without God.

Why ashes?

The practice of ashes is ancient – far older than Christianity.

In the Old Testament, ashes were worn in moments of grief, repentance, and desperate prayer.
Job repented in dust and ashes.
Daniel fasted with sackcloth and ashes as he interceded for his people.
The people of Nineveh covered themselves in ashes when they turned back to God.
Even Queen Esther, facing the possible destruction of her people, laid aside her royal splendour and covered herself in ashes as she prayed.

Ashes mean three things.

They mean mortality –
“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

They mean repentance –
an outward sign of an inward turning.

And they mean intercession –
a people crying out together, “Lord, have mercy.”

So, when we receive ashes tonight, we step into something profoundly biblical.
This is not theatre.
It is memory.
It is honesty.
It is solidarity.

And yes – some people point out that Jesus tells us in Matthew 6 not to parade our fasting in public.

But notice something subtle:
Jesus does not say “Do not fast.”
He says, “When you fast…”

He assumes his disciples will fast.
He assumes we will pray.
He assumes we will give.

The question is not if, but how.

Ash Wednesday is a corporate act – like the great public fasts of Israel.
But Lent itself becomes quieter.
More hidden.
More interior.

Jesus draws our attention to the secret place –
the room with the door closed,
the prayer no one else hears,
the generosity no one else sees.

Because the heart of Lent is not display.

It is relationship.

What is Lent actually for?

The Church gives us forty days – not including Sundays – echoing Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness.

Forty days in which Jesus faced the deepest human temptations:
the temptation to comfort,
the temptation to power,
the temptation to prove himself.

And instead of grasping,
he trusted.

Lent is not punishment.
It is training in trust.

Through prayer, fasting, and generosity, we loosen our grip –
on comfort,
on control,
on image.

And in doing so, we create space for God.

But here is where I want to be particularly gentle tonight.

The work of Lent is not only about chocolate or coffee.
For many of us, the deeper work is interior.

The stories we tell ourselves about who we are.
The self-criticism that never quite quietens.
The unresolved grief.
The exhaustion we carry.

Psalm 51 does not say, “Make yourself pure.”
It says, “Create in me.”

There is humility in that prayer.
And relief.

Because perhaps the most radical thing Lent invites is not harsher discipline –
but deeper honesty.

Not indulgence.
But kindness.

Not self-absorption.
But attentiveness.

Sometimes the truest fast is fasting from self-contempt.
Sometimes the most powerful almsgiving is generosity toward someone we have quietly resented.
Sometimes the hardest prayer is simply sitting still long enough to let God love us.

As a parish

This year, as a community, here at St. Andrew’s will journey intentionally through Lent toward Holy Week in our sermons each Sunday we will think more deeply about why we do what we do in Lent and Holy Week.

Ash Wednesday and Lent

Palm Sunday.
Maundy Thursday.
Good Friday.
Holy Saturday.

These are not services we attend merely to remember what happened once.

They are days we enter.
Liturgies that shape us.
Mysteries that form us.

If you are able, make room for as much of the journey as your life allows.
Not out of obligation,
but out of desire.

Because when we walk the path slowly, Easter ceases to be an idea and becomes an encounter.

And tonight?

Tonight, we come forward to receive ashes.

Not to be shamed.
But to be named.

Dust.
Yes.

But also beloved.

The ashes mark our mortality –
but they are traced in the shape of a cross.

Mortality held within mercy.
Dust held within love.

And so, we begin.

Not with grand declarations.
Not with spiritual bravado.

But with a prayer whispered honestly:

Create in me a clean heart, O God.
Renew a right spirit within me.

Return us, Lord –
not to performance,
But to relationship.

Not to self-improvement,
but to communion and community.

Not to fear,
but to love.

Amen.