Remember Who You Are

This sermon was preached at the Inter Church Service for Ash Wednesday.

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Before I begin my reflection, I feel I need to provide a trigger warning: this homily contains references to John Calvin.

I know that invoking Calvin at an ecumenical service might raise a few eyebrows, but maybe an ecumenical service is exactly the place to hear from his voice. His insight speaks to the heart of what this day is about: repentance—not as condemnation, but as a call to return home.

Right at the beginning of his Institutes, Calvin offers an insight I return to often:

“Without knowledge of self, there is no knowledge of God.”

And if that is true, then the reverse must also be true: without knowledge of God, we cannot truly know ourselves.

Calvin’s insight confounds the stereotype of his theology as overly bleak. Instead of mere condemnation, he offers an invitation: true knowledge of God and true knowledge of self are intertwined. And if that’s true, then repentance is not just turning from sin—it’s a return to who we are meant to be. It is a homecoming. It’s a remembering of who we are.

And while it was Calvin who helped me put the pieces together, I realize now that my thinking had already been shaped by another great theologian from my youth. I am referring, of course, to The Lion King’s Mufasa.

There’s a moment in the film when Simba, having run away from his past, is confronted by the voice of his father in the night sky:

“Simba, you have forgotten me… You have forgotten who you are, and so have forgotten me. Remember who you are. You are my son.”

Simba thought his mistakes had defined him. He believed he could never go home. But his father’s words remind him: he is more than what he has become.

Simba’s journey home is a kind of repentance—not merely a rejection of his past, but a reclaiming of his true identity. And that is what Lent invites us to do.

Tonight, as our foreheads are marked with ashes, we are reminded of who we are: we are dust, and to dust we shall return.

But if that sounds a little too bleak—perhaps a little too Calvinistic—let me offer another voice from the Reformed tradition. The novelist and Presbyterian minister Frederick Buechner once wrote:

“The ashes mean that we are dust, and if dust, then at least holy dust, beloved dust, the dust into which God has breathed life again and again.”

And so, I want to suggest that Ash Wednesday holds a paradox. We are dust, yes—but we are beloved dust.

And to explore this mystery further, I would like to reflect briefly on three key symbols of this night: the ashes, repentance, and Lent.

The Ashes: A Mark of Mortality and Mercy

And we begin with the ashes that will mark our foreheads. We have said already that these ashes, mixed with oil, are a stark reminder of what we read in Genesis 3, that from dust we are and to dust shall we return.

But the ashes also take the shape of a cross. And this is to remind us that there is mercy inscribed upon our mortality.

These ashes are not just a smudge of sorrow; they are a sign that even in our dust-ness, we are not abandoned. They whisper the truth that grace meets us in our frailty.

We are beloved dust—the dust into which God has breathed life, the dust Christ thought was worth redeeming.

And I think that is especially good to remember in these days of uncertainty. We are all full of fear at what the future holds for Europe, the Middle East, the United States of America. These ashes tell us the truth that while the world is broken, it is also being redeemed—not by power or might, but by grace.”

Repentance: A Homecoming, Not a Burden

Secondly, repentance.

When we hear the word repentance, we often think of guilt. We picture bowed heads, heavy hearts, a list of wrongs to be made right. But the Gospel tells a different story. Repentance is not a burden—it is a homecoming.

Jesus paints this picture in the story of the Prodigal Son. The younger son has squandered everything—his wealth, his dignity, his sense of self. He reaches the lowest point of his life, sitting in filth, longing for scraps of food. And then the moment of repentance comes—not when he wallows in guilt, but when he remembers who he is.

The Gospel says: “He came to himself.”

He remembers his father, his home, the love that is still waiting for him. And so he turns—not just away from his sin, but toward the one who has never stopped loving him.

As Frederick Buechner puts it:

“To repent is not to look back with regret but to look forward with hope. It is not to feel bad, but to come alive.”

This is what Lent invites us to do—not to dwell in shame, but to wake up. To remember who we are. To return home.

Lent: The Wilderness Where We Are Found

If repentance is a journey home, then Lent is the wilderness road that leads us there.

At the other St. John’s, where I minister on the Ormeau Road, we have been reflecting on the wilderness wanderings of the people of Isreal. And we have realised that this sojourn in the desert place was somehow necessary to liberate the imaginations of Israel from captivity in Egypt. In other words, they need to trust God in the wilderness in order to remember who they were.

Lent is our wilderness. It is not a season of mere self-improvement or spiritual willpower. It is an invitation to see ourselves truly—not defined by our failures, nor by our achievements, but by the God in whose image we are made.

In the wilderness, we are stripped of illusions. And there, in the quiet, we hear the whisper of grace.

Conclusion: A Whisper of Grace

Tonight, as the ashes are placed upon our heads, we hear the ancient words:

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

But listen closely—because beneath those words, another voice is speaking.

A voice that called the Prodigal home.

A voice that spoke over Jesus in the Jordan River: “You are my beloved.”

A voice that whispers to you now: “Remember who you are. You are more than what you have become. You are more than dust. You are beloved.”

This is the invitation of Lent—a journey into the heart of grace.

So let us begin the journey together. Let us remember who we are. Let us come home.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Pictured: Rev Dr Harold Good, Rev Paul Lutton, Canon Tracey McRoberts and with Fr Martin Magill.