Ash Wednesday (Fr. Guiliano)

This sermon was preached at the 6pm service. The sermons at 7:30am and 12:15pm were extemporaneous.

“Where do you come from?” When I worked at Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford, I was asked this question almost every day. “Where do you come from?” The question usually arrived when I stood at the door, greeting people as they left Choral Evensong. They had heard me speaking or singing during the service, and were surprised to find me ministering in the heart of the Establishment. The English frequently assume that all Americans sound like New Yorkers or Texans, so a Midwestern accent was stupefying to them. 

Over 13 years in England, I gave an account of my origin many times. I used to frustrate people by cheeky responses like, “I’m from right here. I have lived here for years.” Right at the end, I could even say, “I’m British” because I am a citizen of the UK. (This amused no one but me.) Once or twice, I tried something grand and theological, meant to spur reflection on why they needed to know where I was from: “I am a child of God.” 

For the Christian, that origin is the most salient part of our identity. It reflects the view from on high and the view from the Scriptures. As the Psalm puts it, God “knows whereof we are made; he remembers that we are … dust.” 


Creation and redemption are remarkable. God has raised children for himself from the stones, from the earth, from dust. The creation account in Genesis 2 imagines God as a kind of potter, molding us from clay and putting us where he wishes. Adam was made for the Garden. The story is not to be taken literally. God has no hands, after all. But it focuses our mind. We have one origin in God; God is intimately involved in our being. So, on the one hand, we have an incredible dignity: we are made in God’s image and after his likeness. On the other hand, we are poor creatures, made of common stuff. 

“Our days are like the grass; we flourish like a flower of the field. When the wind goes over it, it is gone, and its place shall know it no more.” 

In a few minutes, Deacon Chris and I will repeat these words dozens of times: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Remember. 

Remember that any time you want to exalt yourself over another person. Remember, you’re just one mobile pile of mud talking to another one. Enlivened by the Spirit of God? Yes! But at the end of the day, still mud. 

If you ever feel accusatory toward your neighbor, made of better stuff, more perceptive, apparently blameless, remember: you’re just the pot calling the kettle black. You are a sinner. Do not be a hypocrite, do not make a show of arrogance, do not practice your piety before others. Be humble. 

“We brought nothing into this world, and we will take nothing with us when we go,” as St Paul says in 1 Tim 6:7. 

Something else to consider: The sign of ashes on our foreheads is not just a sign of humility, though it is that. It is not just a sign of mortality, or limitation, or sinfulness, though all these things are reinforced by it. The sign of ashes is also a sign of mercy -- in at least three ways: it speaks of the grace of our condition, it shows forth the instrument of our salvation, and it retraces for us our baptismal identity. In all these ways, it is a sign of our renewal, our re-creation.

The Lord “knows whereof we are made. He know we are … dust.” God’s grace and mercy have been present with you your entire life. The wonderful thing about being a creature is that your life is all gift.

The ashes on your forehead will remind you of your creation, and they tell the truth: they remind you that the breath in your lungs is the gift of God, the experience of your senses is the gift of God, the whole surrounding world that nourishes and protects you, whether it is your food, your water, your shelter, your friends, family, or chosen society, the neighborhood in which you live, the invisible helpers, that is, the angels and saints who encourage us day by day -- they are all the gift of God, without which life would be impossible. We came from nothing, we brought nothing to the table. Nonetheless, we have been given life, breath, and all things. We have become God’s children. 

Consider, too: After this rite, you will bear on your forehead the saving symbol of the Cross. That mark on your body will declare to everyone you meet that Christ Jesus came into the world to save. It will even tell you that truth when you look in the mirror: saying that by his Cross and Passion, Christ has redeemed the world. Your life will be knit into the story of God’s love, and so you will become a walking parable. You may not be carrying a cross on your shoulder through the streets of Champaign – that would be a show of piety – but you will embody it. 

And as we trace that cross on you, as we mark that place, the action should remind you of baptism, either that moment when you were baptized or, if you not yet entered those waters, the moment you will be baptized and you will be “Christ’s own forever.” The minister pours the water over your head, and anoints your head with the oil of chrism, the seal of the spirit. It is the same place you are marked at confirmation. It is the same place where you may be marked at last rites. It is a site of grace.

These ashes, then, are a sign of your re-creation, a sign that you are being renewed after the image of your Creator, a sign that you were once falling into nothingness, and your dust was being scattered in the wind, but this baptismal water has come, and God’s hands have reached out to you again. Your dust, your dry soil is becoming clay, moldable, capable of being heated in the kiln and made imperishable.

“Where do you come from?” God. Of what are you made? Dust. What holds you in life? God’s mercy. 

Oh,“the Lord is full of compassion and mercy, slow to anger and of great kindness… As the heavens are high above the earth, so is his mercy great upon those who fear him. As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our sins from us.” 

Thanks be to God.