Have Mercy On Me - Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday

Tonight, as we gather here we come together as a unique body of Christ—a small but powerful reflection of the church universal. This is a season where the church takes a hard look at itself, where we as individuals are called to deeper self-examination, to a time of prayer, preparation, and openness to the Holy Spirit’s guidance.

That means being honest—honest about where we’ve fallen short, where sin has taken root in our lives. But this practice isn’t new. Around 230 AD, early Christians began fasting for 40 hours leading up to Easter, preparing their hearts for what was to come. The idea spread, and soon they extended it to seven days—what we now call Holy Week. By 325 AD, the church expanded it to 40 days, mirroring Jesus’ time of testing in the wilderness.

And now, here we are, continuing that tradition. Not just as a ritual, but as a way of preparing our hearts. Of making room. Of letting the Holy Spirit do what only the Spirit can—lead us to repentance, to renewal, and ultimately, to resurrection.

Psalm 51 gets us. It speaks to the mess we find ourselves in, but also to the hope we cling to.

“Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing spirit” (Ps 51:12). That’s a powerful request, right? A desperate, hope-filled cry. But let’s be honest—this psalm is drenched in guilt, in brokenness, in confession so raw it almost drowns out the possibility of redemption.

It reminds me of “When you lose something that you can’t replace.”

Tradition says David wrote this after Nathan called him out over the whole Bathsheba mess. Others think he wrote it after their child died, when the weight of his choices really hit him. Either way, this psalm isn’t just poetry—it’s anguish. Real, human regret.

And yet, we relate to it, don’t we? Maybe we haven’t done what David did—surely not. Surely! But somehow, his words echo something in us. That deep need for a fresh start. For a clean heart. For a second chance. That’s why we’re here, especially on Ash Wednesday. We want to begin again.

But then there’s verse 4: “Against you, you alone, have I sinned.” Hold up. Just God? What about the others that David hurt? Sin doesn’t stay contained—it spills over, it leaks into the lives of others. We like to tell ourselves, “It’s just between me and God. My issue, my soul, my consequences.” But that’s never true, is it?

So why does David say he’s sinned only against God? Maybe because he knows where to start. If we’re going to fix what’s broken, we need the strength to do it. Maybe we begin with God so that we can then go further—so we can make things right with others.

That’s why we’re here. Where else can we go to be restored? Where else can we go to be made new? Worship. Not just because God deserves it—but because we need it. Because in worship, we realign ourselves. We let God cleanse us, restore us, heal us. And when that happens, when we’re made right with God, it actually becomes possible to be made right with each other.

And that’s what we forget when we skip worship, when we disconnect. That’s that off feeling we get when we’ve been away too long. But let’s be real—it’s possible to be in worship and still feel disconnected. Just showing up isn’t the same as coming hungry. And we are hungry—even if we don’t realize it. Hungry for acceptance, for love, for meaning, for hope.

But deep down, we worry, don’t we? What if God doesn’t offer what we need? What if we’re too messed up to be cleaned, too broken to be put back together? That fear isolates us, makes us believe we’re beyond saving.

But Psalm 51 won’t let us stay there. It reminds us—there is hope. There is a way back. So we pray:

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.

That’s why we worship. That’s why we gather. Because when we do, our lips will open, and our mouths will declare praise. Because when we do, we start to heal. We start to make things right—not just with God, but with those we’ve hurt.

Lent is often seen as a season of repentance—a time to take stock of our sins, ask for forgiveness, and try to walk a different path. And yes, confession and repentance matter. They’re at the heart of this season. But here’s the thing—if we just focus on what we’re trying to stop doing without thinking about what should take its place, we miss the point. Real change isn’t just about letting go; it’s about being transformed.

So, what does that look like? What practices can actually move us forward? What can we model in worship to help reshape our hearts?

Maybe it’s the discipline of silence—making space to listen instead of filling every moment with noise. Or fasting—not just from food, but from distractions, from the things that numb us rather than nourish us. Maybe it’s practicing gratitude, intentionally naming the good in our lives instead of always dwelling on what’s missing.

And what if we leaned into confession not just as an individual exercise but as a communal one? What if we recognized that our sins don’t just affect us—they ripple outward? What if repentance wasn’t just about saying, “I’m sorry,” but about asking, “How can I make this right?”

Lent isn’t just about leaving things behind. It’s about stepping into something new. And maybe, just maybe, worship is where we start practicing that new way of being. We bring ourselves to God, the sacrifice that we offer to God that is acceptable.

So come. Come as you are. Come broken. Come hungry. Come seeking. Come ready to be changed. Because that’s the only way to begin again.