Sermons

Dust and Other Symbols

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. 

We’ll hear that line many times today. It’s at the heart of this rite, this season, and maybe even our humanity. But this year, it feels different. 

Because this year, we don’t need much help remembering that we are mortal. We have seen it — too clearly. We have watched videos we can’t unsee, moments of ordinary life that ended in gunfire, two citizens shot, families undone, communities shattered. Mortality is not an idea out there somewhere. It’s right here — in our headlines, in our streets, and in the way our hearts tighten when the news comes on. 

So it might feel unnecessary to come to church and have someone put ashes on your forehead just to remind you that you’re going to die. 

We know. 

So what are we doing here? 

What are we supposed to learn from this symbol of mortality, this cross of dust and oil, when we’re already surrounded by reminders of it? 

I want to tell you a story.

Twenty-three years ago, I volunteered at General Convention. I was a full-time volunteer, which meant long days, sore feet, and exactly one perk: a bad lunch. 

The reason I got that lunch was a small rainbow ribbon on my name badge. I didn’t think much about it; to me, it just meant, “You get fed.” 

That summer, the Church was debating whether Gene Robinson, who was gay and partnered, would be confirmed as Bishop of New Hampshire. It was not an easy time. The conversation was raw and left to a vote. When the decision finally came, and Bishop Gene was confirmed, the conservative folks left the hall for an off-site meeting. 

When they returned, every one of them had a cross of ash on their forehead. 

Now, I can’t always keep my mouth shut. So I asked, “Why the ashes? It’s July.” 

They told me they were wearing them as a symbol of repentance — repentance for having a “sodomite” as a bishop. 

And I said, not at my best, “Well, it seems to me you’re misusing a symbol of mortality.” They pointed to my badge, to the rainbow ribbon, and said, “And what does that mean?” And I said, “It means I get lunch.” 

That story has stayed with me. Both of us—they with their ashes and me with my ribbon—were carrying symbols of something bigger than ourselves. But in our own ways, we were both missing the point. 

Symbols are powerful. They’re shortcuts to meaning. A smear of ash or a strip of color can hold centuries of theology or a whole human heart. But symbols can also be tricky. They can bless or hurt, include or exclude, build up or tear down. 

And the ashes this ancient sign we wear today are no different. 

When I see those ashes, I don’t see shame. I see a reminder of what we all share: breath and bone, dust and longing. A reminder that we come from the same earth and will return to it. 

When I place ashes on a forehead, I don’t see a mark of punishment. I see connection. I see a reminder that we belong to one another because we belong to God. 

But that day, 23 years ago, the ashes were used as a wall—a way to say who was right and who was wrong, who was pure and who was not. The symbol of mortality turned into a symbol of moral superiority. Since then, I’ve realized how easy it is to take things meant to humble us and use them to set ourselves apart. 

Ash Wednesday is not about that. It’s not about being pious or perfect or proven right. 

Ash Wednesday is about facing the truth of our humanity—our limited, loved, breakable selves—and asking what God might still do with dust. 

The ashes remind us that life is fragile yet also holy. 

They remind us that we don’t have forever, which means what we do with our time matters. 

They remind us that every breath is borrowed, every act of love is sacred, every bit of grace we give or receive is an act of defiance against despair.

If you already know you’re mortal—and who doesn’t this year—then maybe the real question isn’t, Do you remember that you are dust? Maybe it’s, What will you do with the dust that you are? 

Maybe what we give up this year isn’t a thing, but a habit. We let go of the idea that anything—our jobs, achievements, screens, or opinions—can protect us from how fragile life is. 

We give up the posture of pretending we have it all together. 

We give up the idea that Jesus needs our perfect performance in order to love us. 

And instead, we receive something: the gift of presence, the gift of vulnerability, the gift of neighborly tenderness, the gift of compassion for our own imperfect selves. 

We’re invited to see life with new eyes, not by avoiding it, but by paying honest attention. 

This Lent, let the ash remind you: you are mortal, and you are beloved. You are fragile, and you are called to courage. You are dust, and you carry the breath of God. 

And what if that’s not a burden but a liberation? 

Ash Wednesday does not lead us into fear. It leads us into life — grounded in the very earth from which we are made, and carried by the very God who breathed life into dust. 

Remember that you are dust, 

and remember, you are beloved.

Amen