when ruins remain…
The Lenten season begins with ashes.
Not celebration.
Not certainty.
Just us, and the realization of our humanity.
“You are dust…and to dust you will return.”
Ash Wednesday is not about dramatic repentance. It is about honest recognition.
And whether we would like to admit it or not, much of the American Church feels like it is in ruins.
Cracked walls. Roof broken open.
What once felt solid, now in disrepair.
Not the physical buildings, of course. At least not in America currently.
But trust has been eroded. Stories of abuse are now normal to hear about. Ethical pillars are hidden under the rubble.
All because of a culture war we have willingly participated in. A war that ended up harming our very selves.
Our own souls. Our own families. Our own faith communities.
And in the center of the ruins: an ash cross.
No crowd.
No stage.
No branding.
No production.
Just the aftermath of the ruins.
before we critique, we confess
This Lenten journey is not about “them.”
It begins with me. It begins with us.
It begins with the uncomfortable admission that idolatry – the wandering of our own hearts – is rarely as obvious as we’d like it to be. Instead, it disguises itself as loyalty. As strength. As religious fervor. As pragmatism. As protecting what matters most.
It can happen when I tell myself I am “defending the faith” but find myself in fact defending something else entirely.
Too easily I can fall into the trap of my own self-righteousness. Telling myself things about me, and about others, that are simply not true.
the stories we tell
The core focus of this series of reflections will explore is simple, but deeply personal:
How does the temporary nature of my life inform how closely I hold to my earthly identities?
Have my earthly identities begun to replace my eternal identity in Christ as primary to how I see myself and how others see me?
What happens when the temporary narratives I’ve been taught about my national identity quietly reshape the eternal narratives of the identity of the Kingdom of God?
Ash Wednesday refuses to let us answer those questions quickly.
It should force us to slow down long enough to embrace a deep wrestling with our identity, that requires being shaped by a deeply theological reality of life:
From the dust we were formed. To the dust all things always return.
a theology of ruin
Throughout the Bible, God’s people too often confuse “winning” with faithfulness.
Descendants of Abraham wanted a king like the nations.
The Temple realigned its sacrifices with economic growth.
Each new Empire promised security to those who bow their knee.
But again and again, generation after generation, the prophets stepped forward to say:
You have forgotten who you are. You have forgotten where you come from.
This image of church in ruins is not a declaration of defeat.
It is in fact an invitation.
To return to where God has always started. With dust.
Because before God rebuilds, He tears down.
Before He restores, He reveals.
Before He resurrects, He lets death run its course.
If we are to be purified, acknowledging the ruins caused by our participation in the war will not be enough. We must willingly allow the fire of God to consume us.
The dust caused by our own doing is not the same as the dust created by God’s purifying flames.
The ashes of Ash Wednesday are an invitation for us to willingly enter into those flames.
judgment must begin with us
It is almost too easy to critique “secular” philosophies, or political systems, or those who simply don’t see the world as we see it.
It is much harder to examine our own hearts.
And it is even harder to explore the ways we’ve collectively gone astray.
How have we accepted “lesser evils” as unavoidable, rather than asking if siding with any sort of evil is necessary at all?
How have we allowed political narratives about “choosing sides” to shape our understanding of our faith and faith communities?
How have we assumed that whatever benefits our nation will always align with the values of the Kingdom of God?
The most difficult idolatry to identify is that which we have inherited without questioning.
Ultimately Lent is not about accusing a world we already know is full of idols of forcing idolatry upon us.
It is about asking whether we have embraced those idols in ways we never intended to.
defining a nation
The Scriptures defines a nation not primarily by military might nor government structure, but by belonging – a people called by God’s name, a people shaped by God’s will, a people identified by God’s ways.
Because that is true, then our deepest citizenship is not earthly. It is not temporary.
It is formed by taking up a cross and forged by an empty tomb.
That cross and that tomb stand in tension with every earthly empire that seeks our ultimate allegiance. No matter how “good” it may present itself to be, it will always fall short of the goodness of God.
Even the nation we were born into. After all, this is why we must be reborn into the Kingdom.
And if we are to be honest then we must admit: many of us hold too tightly to both allegiances.
The invitation of today is for us to loosen our grip on everything we hold too closely to in this life. Even the earthly blessings we’ve gained, and especially the earthly entities we’ve pledged allegiance to. Because, after all, everything will eventually become dust…
the dust as prayer
Christians surrounded by ruins need not cry persecution.
Instead, the ruins should cause us to listen.
Listen to the ashes as they speak a reminder to us:
Repentance is not about shame.
It is about remembering.
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life.”
Not search others.
Not point out the offenses of those people.
Know me. Lead me.
If I am unwilling to confess the harm that I have participated in and that I have allowed to happen around me, the ruins will remain. If I continue to place my earthly allegiances above my allegiance to the Kingdom, no restoration will come.
But if I am willing to admit:
I may have mistaken strength for faithfulness.
I may have defended what Christ would condemn.
I may have confused empire with Kingdom.
Then I can return to where I began…
the road to resurrection
In the Gospels, Jesus speaks of two roads. One that is narrow. And one that is wide.
Over the coming weeks of Lent, this series will invite us to move thru multiple stories from the Bible that will cause us to ask which road we are currently on.
From the wilderness temptation, to the welcoming of children, to neighbors we pass by, to leaders being confronted, to a table being overturned, and finally to a cross that is born as a symbol of an empire’s might.
But none of that journey can happen if we do not begin here.
In the quiet.
In the ruins.
In the dust.
With the ashes before us.
Because God only rebuilds when we surrender.
And He only resurrects those who have laid down their lives.
Ash Wednesday is an invitation to start again. To believe again. To follow Jesus again.
From the dust we have come. And, if we are to become like Jesus, to the dust we must return.
Repent and believe the Gospel.
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