From Ashes to Hope

Joel 2:28–32 NRSV

Then afterward I will pour out my spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even on the male and female slaves, in those days, I will pour out my spirit. I will show portents in the heavens and on the earth, blood and fire and columns of smoke. The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes. Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved; for in Mount Zion and in Jerusalem there shall be those who escape, as the Lord has said, and among the survivors shall be those whom the Lord calls.

Introduction: Lessons in the Ashes

There’s something sacred about the ashes we hold on All Saints Sunday. They remind us that we are dust, and to dust we shall return—but that’s not the whole story. They also remind us that every ending in God’s story is also a beginning.

If you’ve been with us these past few weeks, you know we’ve been walking through the book of Joel— a book that begins in disaster but ends in renewal. A book that moves from lament, to repentance, to hope.

Joel begins with ashes, but he doesn’t stay there. And neither do we.

Because the ashes we grieve in today are the same ashes God uses to grow something new. The same ashes out of which resurrection hope takes root.

From Ruin to Renewal: Joel’s Prophetic Vision

By the time we reach Joel chapter 2, everything the people of Israel knew had been stripped away. The locusts had devoured their crops. The economy had collapsed. Worship had ceased. It felt like the end of the world.

But then Joel speaks this small, stunning word: “Afterward.”

“Afterward, I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.”

It’s as if Joel is saying—this is not how the story ends. Yes, there is loss. Yes, there is grief. But there is also “afterward.” And in the afterward, there is renewal.

Joel paints a picture of a world remade by the Spirit— sons and daughters prophesying, elders dreaming, the marginalized rising. The Spirit doesn’t just patch the world back together—it transforms it into something better than before.

Joel’s promise echoes through generations until it finds its fulfillment at Pentecost, when Peter stands in Jerusalem and quotes this very passage.

The fire of God falls again— but this time not on an altar or a mountain, but on people. Ordinary people. The Spirit of God poured out on all flesh.

It’s a resurrection moment—the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead now raising the human heart to new life.

Illustration: The Phoenix Tree

In 1945, when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, everything within miles of the blast was reduced to ash. But months later, something remarkable happened.

At ground zero, among the rubble, a charred stump began to sprout green leaves. It was a camphor tree—today known as the Phoenix Tree.

You can still visit it. Its trunk is hollowed out by fire, its bark permanently scarred, but it stands tall and vibrant, covered in leaves each spring. Japanese citizens tend it as a living monument—a symbol of peace, resilience, and life out of death.

That tree preaches a sermon all by itself. It says that even when everything seems lost, even when the landscape of our lives feels scorched beyond recognition— God’s creative Spirit is still at work beneath the ashes.

The fire may change the landscape, but it cannot destroy the roots of hope.

All Saints: The Communion of Love

That’s what today is about. On All Saints Sunday, we look back and remember those who have gone before us. We light candles, we whisper names, and we feel the ache of absence.

But we also remember that their story isn’t over—because neither is ours.

The saints of God are not gone. Their love still lives in us. Their faith still fuels us. Their prayers still surround us like a great cloud of witnesses.

The lessons they taught us—through their patience, their generosity, their steadfastness—those lessons become the living roots of our own faith.

Every time you offer kindness the way your grandmother did, every time you serve quietly like that mentor or friend, every time you choose love instead of bitterness— their life continues to echo through yours.

That’s resurrection hope. That’s the Spirit poured out on “all flesh.”

God is not only raising the dead in the life to come—He’s raising up new life in us here and now. The saints live on in the way we live out their love.

The Transformation of Grief

When Joel says that God will pour out His Spirit on “sons and daughters,” “young and old,” he’s describing a community that’s learned something from their pain. They’ve been through loss, and now they live differently. They see differently. They love differently.

That’s what grief can do when we let God meet us in it.

It can harden us—or it can soften us into healers. It can close us off—or open us to the pain of others. It can isolate—or it can ignite compassion.

When we allow God to teach us through our grief, we become living witnesses to resurrection hope. People who don’t just believe in new life—we embody it. We carry it into the world as healers, reconcilers, restorers.

The saints we remember today were those kinds of people. And now it’s our turn.

The Ashes Journal – From Memory to Mission

This week, for the final entry in The Ashes Journal, write the name of someone whose faith has shaped your own—someone who taught you something about love, grace, or endurance.

Step 1: Remember — What did they teach you? Step 2: Reflect — How has their example helped you endure your own seasons of loss? Step 3: Respond — Ask God: “How can I live out what they’ve passed on to me?”

Then pray:

“God of life, thank You for those who have gone before me. May their love take root in my heart, that I might bring hope and healing to others.”

That’s what it means to turn ashes into hope— to let our grief shape us into people who heal the world with love.

Communion Lead-In: From Table to Hope

In just a moment, we’ll come to the Lord’s Table together. It’s fitting that we do so on All Saints Sunday, because at this table, heaven and earth meet.

When we break the bread and share the cup, we’re not just remembering Christ’s sacrifice— we’re remembering the communion of saints. We are united with believers of every time and place, with those who once sat beside us in these pews and now sit in the presence of God.

The table reminds us that death does not sever the bonds of love. The same grace that raised Jesus from the grave now gathers us together—past and present—into one body.

As we come to the table, we bring our grief, but we also bring our gratitude. We bring our sorrow, but we also bring our hope.

And as we prepare to receive the bread and the cup, we join the church throughout all generations in confessing our sin and our need for grace— not as a people defeated, but as people being made new.

Let us now pray together the prayer of confession from Word and Table II as we prepare our hearts for the feast of resurrection: