On Ash Wednesday we step across the threshold into Lent with a sign as ancient as Scripture itself: ashes upon the head. The sign is both sobering and consoling. It tells the truth about our mortality — thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return; and, at the same time, it tells the truth about divine love and mercy: that God does not wish us to perish, but to live. To live, not by denial of reality, but by the grace which transfigures it.
The ashes we receive are, traditionally, the burnt palms of last year’s Hosannas: yesterday’s triumph reduced to dust. It is as though the Church were saying: do not build your life upon applause, whether the applause of the crowd or the applause we give ourselves. The crowd that cries “Hosanna” can, with frightening speed, find its voice again and cry “Crucify.” Lent is an antidote to fickleness. It returns us to what endures.
As we cross the Lenten threshold we enter forty days and nights to be seasoned and flavoured again in the life of faith; to ask — quite concretely — what grace we need from God, so that our discipleship may recover its savour. God is never absent, but our palate can become dulled. We can grow used to living superficially: to scrolling rather than contemplating; to reacting rather than discerning; to busyness rather than faithfulness. The ashes are, in a sense, the Church’s wakeup call: a small, visible jolt to enliven the soul.
And the soul must be wakened, because the Gospel of Ash Wednesday is a call to conversion. “Return to me with all your heart, “says the Lord through the prophet Joel. The Lord asks first not for a performance, but for a heart: not torn garments, but a rent spirit; not theatre, but truth. The point is not to appear religious, but to become and be holy. About this the Lord Jesus is clear: pray, fast, give alms — and without the little itch to be noticed. Your Father sees in secret.
Yet this raises an important question: If the Lord warns against being seen, how can we give Christian witness? The answer is not complicated, but it is demanding: it is a question of motive. The issue is less about being visible and more about not being vain. The Gospel does not require invisibility; it requires purity of intention. We do not hide our faith; we hide our self-importance. In this, we can take instruction from St Paul when he says, “we are ambassadors for Christ.” We do not speak our own message; we bear another’s word, with fidelity and with restraint. We do not seek attention for ourselves, but to make present the mind and purpose of the one who sends us. And the message entrusted to the Church and, therefore, to us, is “be reconciled to God.” This is the Church’s evangelical urgency, and it belongs in the places where decisions are made, where laws are framed, where the vulnerable are defended, and where truth needs to be spoken.
Lent helps us to loosen the grip of what is unnecessary, so that we might hold on to what is essential. We fast from food, but, also, from the petty angers we enjoy; from the gossip that makes us feel included; from the self-pity that excuses our negligence; from the indulgences that keep us numb. And we do this, not grimly, but willingly: so that prayer may deepen; so that generosity may become possible; so that attention to poverty and injustice may cease to be an abstract concern and become a practical habit.
And so, we return to the ashes: not as a gloomy badge, but as a pledge of hope. For the ashes tell us, not only that we are dust, but that we are dust breathed upon by God; matter touched by spirit; creatures made for communion. If we are honest about what we are, we can become what we are called to be. The Church’s genius is that she dares to tell the truth about sin without ever losing confidence in grace; she dares to name death, while proclaiming Resurrection. With evangelical witness, Christians must be a living message. In many cases, we are the only Gospel of hope that people will encounter. It is a sobering thought, but also a profound privilege and opportunity.
So, as we begin Lent: ask for a specific grace that will “season” your discipleship. Choose one concrete act of prayer that is faithful rather than grand; one act of fasting that loosens a real chain; one act of almsgiving that costs you something, whether time, money, or comfort. Keep it simple, keep it steady, keep it hidden enough that it remains pure; and let it be real enough that it changes you.
And when you receive the ashes, do so as a quiet commissioning. You are not marked for embarrassment, but for mission; not for a season of endurance, but for a life that has found its centre again in Christ. May these forty days be, for you and for those whom you serve, a pathway of conversion; may the Lord create in us a clean heart, and renew within us a right spirit as pilgrims towards the light of Easter.
The Most Reverend John Wilson is the Metropolitan Archbishop of Southwark