Ash Wednesday from a Pastor's Perspective

Reminding people they are going to die...

I don’t like giving people bad news.

One of my parishioners died on Monday. I had to tell a few people the bad news. Then write a letter to the congregation informing them. It’s easily one of the worst things about being a pastor.

Ash Wednesday was yesterday. Ash Wednesday is sharing that bad news. With the very person in front of you. Dozens of times in a row.

As people come forward to have ashes imposed on their forehands or hands, it is my job to tell them bad news. “Remember, you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

I’d imagine it’s something like a doctor giving a terminal diagnosis. The difference being, a doctor can give more details. A diagnosis of what the problem is. A timeframe perhaps. What treatments and medications that will be a part of the journey toward the valley of the shadow of death.

Well, I guess I have a diagnosis. Sin is the cause of death. But I don’t have a timeframe. And I that’s hard for me.

As I trace ashes in the sign of the cross upon my people’s foreheads, I don’t know if this is the last time I’ll do that for some of these people. Perhaps some will not make it to Ash Wednesday 2026. The parishioner who died on Monday was certainly in church last Ash Wednesday. She heard the news that she was dust. And now she has returned there.

Perhaps some of the people gathered yesterday will find other church homes in the next year. Perhaps some will become lost sheep. We had at least six first-time guests this Ash Wednesday. How many will I never see again?

Another hazard of being a pastor is thinking about funerals. This amplifies on Ash Wednesday. Who knows how many years I’ll be in this call? I can’t help but wonder, of the 60 or so people attending our Ash Wednesday services, how many funerals will I be doing for these dear people? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard people say (in the kindest way possible) that I can’t take another call until I officiate their funeral. I don’t really want to officiate anyone’s funeral. I’d prefer people stay alive. But I don’t have that power.

But I think the most challenging thing of all is tracing ashes upon a child. This year, one of the children recoiled when I went to put ashes on her forehead. I don’t disagree with her. But even this two-year old is marked with the bad news of being dust and returning there.

And then, for the remainder of the service—as I read, preach, and pray—I look out upon the congregation and see their ash-marked foreheads and remember again and again the dreadful news: that person is going to die.

Lent is really a journey from death to death. It is a journey from our own death to Jesus’ death on Good Friday. It is a journey of that ashen cross to Jesus’ cross. That ashen cross is one aspect of what it means to pick up our cross and follow Jesus. We pick up the reality that we are going to die, and we follow Jesus anyway.

We follow Jesus because He is the only one who knows His way out of the ash heap, out of the dust. He is the only one who knows the path of life, for He is the resurrection and the life.

And as we pick up our cross of mortality, Jesus yokes Himself to us. He bears the burden with us. He bears death for us. And we rise from the dust with Him as He brings us into eternal life. Into our very own Easter.

Blessings on your Lenten journey.

Andy