Readings: Joel 2.1-2, 12-17, Psalm 51, and John 8.1-11
There
is something very bracing about this liturgy.
We have sung, “Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.” We have
prayed, “We have wounded your love and marred your image in us.” Shortly, we
shall hear the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall
return.”
Ash Wednesday – or in our case,
Ash Thursday – does not flatter us. It strips us down. It takes away our
pretensions. It reminds us that without God we are dust and ashes. And yet, if we are not careful, we can hear
all of this in a very narrow way. As though sin were simply a matter of my
private moral failures. My impatience. My sharp tongue. My envy. My laziness.
Those things matter. Of course
they do. Psalm 51 is deeply personal: “Against you only have I sinned.” The
woman in the Gospel is told, “Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”
There is no escaping personal responsibility. But the Gospel reading refuses to
let us stop there.
Because when the scribes and Pharisees
drag that woman into the Temple courts, what we are seeing is not simply one
woman’s moral lapse. We are seeing a system.
For a start…where is the man?
Adultery is not a solo activity. The Law of Moses, which they quote so
confidently, required both parties to be held accountable. And yet only she is
paraded in public, humiliated, weaponised as a theological test case.
This is not just personal sin.
It is institutional sin. It is a structure of power in which a group of
religious men can imagine that stoning a woman in the street is an act of
righteousness. Jesus does not excuse the
woman. He does not say, “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” But his anger – his
challenge – is directed first at the crowd. “Let anyone among you who is
without sin be the first to throw a stone.”
He exposes not only their
hypocrisy, but the machinery of accusation itself.
And that is where Joel speaks
with such urgency. “Blow the trumpet in Zion… sanctify a fast… gather the
people.” This is not a call to a few individuals to tidy up their private
spiritual lives. It is a summons to a nation. “Rend your hearts and not your
clothing.” Even the priests are to weep between the vestibule and the altar.
Ashes, then, are not only about
my temper or my prayerlessness. They are about the ways in which we participate
– knowingly or unknowingly – in systems that diminish others. If we are honest, that feels uncomfortably
close to home.
We live in a nation where
foodbanks are no longer an emergency measure but an embedded feature of
community life. Where the language used about refugees can make them sound less
than human. Where economic decisions made far away ripple down into real
anxiety for families here in Havant.
On an international scale, we
inhabit a world in which war is once again spoken of casually, almost as
background noise. Where whole populations are displaced. Where the climate
crisis – which affects the poorest first and worst – is discussed endlessly and
addressed hesitantly.
None of us, individually, may
have intended any of that. But we are part of it. We vote. We consume. We
benefit from structures that advantage some and disadvantage others.
Ash Wednesday asks not only,
“What have I done wrong?” It asks, “What are we part of?” And that can feel overwhelming. Because if
sin is structural as well as personal, what can we possibly do?
The answer is not despair. Nor
is it self-righteousness. The crowd in the Gospel had plenty of that already. The answer is repentance – but repentance
understood properly. Not grovelling. Not vague guilt. But a turning. “Return to me with all your heart,” says the
Lord in Joel. “Rend your hearts and not your clothing.”
To
rend your heart is to allow it to be broken open. To allow the suffering of
others to disturb you. To refuse the easy stone.
On a national level, that might
mean refusing dehumanising language. It might mean paying attention to policies
and priorities. It might mean asking hard questions about where our money goes,
what our pensions invest in, how our habits affect the earth.
On a parish level, it certainly
means creating a community in which nobody is paraded in shame. Where those who
fail are not turned into cautionary tales. Where safeguarding is real, not
performative. Where power is handled gently.
And on a deeply personal level,
it means looking at the stone in our own hand. The sharp comment. The silent
complicity. The convenient blindness.
When Jesus bends down and
writes in the dust, we are not told what he writes. Perhaps that is deliberate.
Because the dust is where we all begin. “Remember that you are dust.” But dust, in the Scriptures, is also where
God kneels to create. Into dust he breathes his Spirit. From dust he raises new
life.
So when we come forward to
receive these ashes, we are not simply confessing that we are sinners. We are
acknowledging that we are part of something broken – and that we long to be
part of something healed.
The crowd walked away, one by
one, beginning with the elders. The machinery of accusation fell silent.
And there, in the dust, stood a
woman who had encountered mercy.
May our repentance this Lent be
large enough to match that mercy. Personal, yes. But also communal. Not only
about our private failings, but about the kind of world we are helping to
build.
And may the mark of ash upon
our foreheads not be a badge of private piety, but a sign that we have laid
down our stones. Amen
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