Most of us begin important things gently.

The Church does not.

She begins Lent with dust
and a command. “Return to me with all your heart.”

All of it.

Joel says: “Tear your hearts, not your garments.”

In the ancient world, tearing your clothes was dramatic repentance.
It was visible sorrow.

But you can tear your clothes
and leave your heart untouched.

You can change your appearance
without changing your loyalties.

God is not impressed by torn fabric.
He wants a torn heart.

The heart is where desire lives.
Where decisions are made.
Where loves are ordered — or disordered.

You can rearrange your habits without conversion.
But you cannot change your heart without changing everything.

And why does God command this?

“Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.”

We return because God is good.

Repentance is not crawling back to a tyrant.
It is coming home to a Father.

That is the tone of Lent.

St Paul says: “Be reconciled to God.”

Reconciliation assumes something has been broken.

Sin is not just rule-breaking.
Think of a cracked mirror.
It still reflects — but distorted.

Sin does that to the soul.
It bends love out of shape.

We were made to love God first,
others rightly,
and ourselves properly.

Sin twists that order.

We love ourselves first.
We use others.
We sideline God.

And the distortion spreads quietly.

A small crack, if left alone, widens.

Paul then says: “Now is the acceptable time. Now is the day of salvation.”

Not next week.
Not later in Lent.
Not when life calms down.

Now.

Ash Wednesday exists to interrupt delay.

We are experts at postponing conversion.

“I’ll pray when things settle.”
“I’ll confess when I feel worse about it.”
“I’ll change when I have more time.”

But grace does not live in yesterday or tomorrow.

If your house were on fire, you would not say,
“I’ll deal with it next month.”

The soul is not less important than the house.

Now is the day.

The Gospel shows us what return looks like.

Jesus speaks of three practices:

Almsgiving.
Prayer.
Fasting.

He does not suggest them.
He assumes them.

“When you give…”
“When you pray…”
“When you fast…”

These are not spiritual extras.
They are medicine.

But there is a danger. “They do all their deeds to be seen by others.”

Religion can become a performance.

It is possible to pray and be thinking about reputation.
To give and be thinking about praise.
To fast and be thinking about appearance.

Like polishing the outside of a cup
while the inside is still dirty.

Jesus insists on secrecy
because what is done only for God
purifies intention.

Prayer reorders our love for God.

When we pray, we admit we are not self-sufficient.

Fasting reorders our love for self.

When we deny ourselves something lawful,
we remind the body it is not master.

A river is powerful when it flows within its banks.
When it overflows, it destroys.

Desire is the same.

Fasting strengthens the banks.

Almsgiving reorders our love for neighbour.

We loosen our grip on what we call “mine.”
We remember that everything is gift.

Think of a three-legged stool.

If one leg weakens, it wobbles.

If prayer weakens, God becomes distant.
If fasting weakens, appetite rules.
If almsgiving weakens, generosity shrinks.

Together, they steady the soul.

And now we come to the ashes. “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

These words do not flatter us.

Power fades.
Beauty fades.
Reputation fades.
Achievements fade.

Death is certain.

The world avoids this truth.
We hide ageing.
We hide dying.
We hide weakness.

The Church does the opposite.

She places dust on our heads.

She says: this is what you are made of.

There is no hierarchy in dust.

The successful and the struggling.
The priest and the people.
The young and the old.

All dust.

But the ashes also carry another sentence: “Repent, and believe in the Gospel.”

Dust is not the end of the story.

The One who formed us from dust
has entered dust Himself.

Christ has taken on our mortality
in order to redeem it.

He entered our weakness
so that weakness would not be the last word.

The ashes say two things at once:

You will die. And you can be forgiven.

You are dust. And you are loved.

Ash fertilises soil.

It looks lifeless.
But it prepares for growth.

If received honestly,
these ashes will do the same.

Before we can rise,
we must repent.

Before we can celebrate Easter,
we must face sin.

Before we can be healed,
we must tell the truth.

Lent is not self-improvement.

It is not “I will fix myself.”

It is “Lord, heal me.”

It is not “I will try harder.”

It is “Lord, change my heart.”

God is not asking for gestures that cost nothing.

He wants conversion.

That costs pride.
It costs excuses.
It costs self-deception.

But it leads to freedom.

Because the heart cannot heal what it refuses to admit.

Tonight, the Church does not ask you to feel guilty.

She asks you to be honest.

Honest about sin.
Honest about mortality.
Honest about your need for mercy.

We will come forward not because we are holy. But because we need to be.

And as the ashes are placed on our heads, the Church is not shaming us.

She is reminding us:

We are dust.

But we are dust that God desires.

We are sinners.

But we are sinners Christ has died to save.

Now is the day. Return with all your heart.