Wicker Park Lutheran Church
Rev. Jason S. Glombicki
February 18, 2026
Jesus’ words from the Sermon on the Mount were deceptively simple. He said, “Beware of practicing your righteousness before others in order to be seen by them.” Notice that he did not criticize prayer, generosity, or fasting. He assumed them. Instead, what he exposed was something deeper — the human desire to be seen as good, to be admired for our faithfulness, to measure our worth by how we are perceived. Jesus suggested that faith can become performance. That prayer can become display. That generosity can become reputation. That devotion can become appearance.
If we are honest, we recognize this instinct. We live in a world shaped by performance. We curate our images. We polish our lives. Even goodness can be staged for approval. We learn how to manage impressions, how to appear strong, composed, and faithful.
And yet tonight, after weeks of bitter cold and a snowy winter, we gather in air that feels almost like spring. It is a welcome relief that will end too soon. And, as the snow melted, what was hidden was revealed — the trash along the curb, the grit and salt, and the small blemishes winter covered over. This last week, I found myself picking up debris that had been buried for weeks. For weeks, the snow made everything look clean, but the thaw tells the truth.
Ash Wednesday is like that. It reveals what we would rather keep hidden. It refuses to let us pretend we are invincible simply because today feels manageable. So, tonight, we receive ashes — not as decoration, not as enhancement, not as a spiritual accessory. After all, ashes do not flatter. They do not impress. They tell the truth. They tell us we are fragile. They tell us we are finite. They tell us we are dust.
So too the winter cold has and will remind us of that. Bodies tire. Pipes freeze. Ice falls. The cold settles into our bones. We are reminded quickly that we are not as strong as we imagine. This reminder is not humiliation. It is honesty. That’s because ashes strip away the illusion of self-sufficiency and return us to the truth of our humanity.
And notice that the ashes will be traced in the shape of a cross. Not a smudge. Not a mark of shame. A cross. And remember that the ashes are put on the same place where oil is traced in the sign of the cross at baptism.
You see, on this same skin, your own skin, two truths are spoken: Tonight, we hear, “Remember you are dust.” At baptism we hear, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.” Tonight, on your forehead, mortality and belovedness meet.
For, back in tonight’s gospel, Jesus said that God delights in those who practice their faith not for show, but in sincerity. And this is not about earning a reward. It is about being known. God sees beneath the roles we play, beneath success and failure, beneath the image we present to the world. We do not need to perform holiness to be seen. We are already seen. Already known. Already loved. We rest in this assurance, and we are simultaneously invited into something new.
That is why Jesus named the acts that have become central in the Lenten season — prayer, fasting, generosity. They are not spiritual performances. They are practices that reorient the heart. Prayer quiets our need to impress and returns us to God’s presence. Fasting reveals our dependence and our connection to all who hunger. Giving loosens our grip on what we imagine we control. And in this season, as we continue the work of making this building accessible, we are reminded that bodies have limits — and dignity. We belong to one another not because we are strong, but because we are loved. These practices do not make us worthy. They make us open. Tonight, we begin with truth.
Friends, in the weeks ahead, we will journey through Lent together, focused on seeking God with honest hearts. But tonight, we begin here: dust on our skin, breath in our lungs, the cross traced upon our foreheads. We are fragile. We are mortal. We are beloved.
And that is enough to begin our journey …