Wednesday February 18, 2026

What am I Holding onto?

This Ash Wednesday service paused the More Than a Feeling series to ask a different kind of question: What am I holding onto?

Pastor Joel opened with something he noticed on a recent walk. A young tree, maybe five to ten years old, had started angling its trunk toward the south, bending its whole body toward the sun. Next to it was a yard anchor and a ratchet strap. The homeowner wasn't punishing the tree for bending. They were redirecting its growth. Gently. Firmly. Over time.

That image stayed with him. Tonight we receive ashes. We hear the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Those words remind us that we are mortal. Fragile. Bent in ways we don't always notice. But the ashes are not the final word. They mark the beginning of something. A turning. A season of letting God redirect our growth.

Psalm 51 anchors the service. It's David's prayer after the prophet Nathan confronted him about Bathsheba. For nearly a year, David had hidden what he had done. He rationalized it, pushed it into the background. Then Nathan came with a story about a rich man who stole a poor man's only lamb. David's anger flared. "That man deserves to die." And Nathan replied, "You are the man." Everything David had been holding onto collapsed. Out of that collapse came this prayer.

David doesn't open with excuses. He leads with need. "Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love." He appeals not to his own goodness but to God's character. He knows that if there is any hope, it will come from God's mercy, not his own effort.

Verse six names what God desires: "You desire truth in the inward being." God is not interested in surface compliance. He desires truth in the hidden places. The places no one else sees.

Then comes the cry for renewal. "Create in me a clean heart, O God." The word "create" is the same Hebrew word used in Genesis 1. This is not a request for improvement. David is not asking God to help him try harder. He is asking for something only God can do. A new creation. This is not self-help. This is surrender.

Verse seventeen is the center of the psalm: "The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise." God is not waiting for us to get ourselves together before he will receive us. The offering God accepts is the heart that comes honestly. Broken. Open. No longer hiding.

The Wesleyan tradition calls this sanctification. We believe God is not finished with us, that the Spirit is at work shaping us into the image of Christ. But we cannot create a clean heart in ourselves. Our part is to come honestly, to stop pretending, and to trust that God's grace meets us where we are.

That tree wasn't being punished for bending. It was being redirected. Gently. Firmly. Over time. That's what Lent is. That's what tonight is. God doesn't despise the bend. God meets us in it and offers to redirect our growth.

You are dust. And you are held. You are mortal. And you are loved. You are bent. And God is not finished with you.