Ash Wednesday 2026: Year A - The Grace of Limits - Joel 2:15-17; 3:1-7

(The following was first preached on Ash Wednesday at the 8th Street Church, Oklahoma City, USA)

Joel 2:15-17; 3:1-7

There is nothing romantic about locusts.

Sure, the sound they make might signal that summer is on its way. But in Joel’s opening chapter, when the prophet describes them, they are not beautiful, poetic, or peaceful.

They devour.

They strip bark from trees.

They blacken the sky.

They leave fields skeletal.

Joel says:

“What the cutting locust left, the swarming locust has eaten.”

Layer upon layer of loss.

Land ravaged.

Lives destroyed.

That is the image Joel gives us: locusts devouring, leading to loss.

And when we hear that, we struggle to see grace in it.

Because it sounds like punishment.

Like exile.

Like hunger and poverty.

Like judgment.

It sounds like the images we see coming out of Gaza.

It sounds like those old television commercials—flies on the faces of starving children, the camera lingering just long enough to make you uncomfortable… just long enough to make you look away.

Joel does not look away.

But here is what is strange:

Right in the middle of that devastation, Joel says this:

“Yet even now, declares the Lord, return to me with all your heart…

Rend your hearts and not your garments…

For he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.”

And it got me thinking:

Is this a future threat… or a present invitation?

Because if this is a present invitation rather than a future threat, then what might sound harsh to me might actually be good news for my neighbor.

A few weeks ago, after that ice storm rolled through Oklahoma City, I heard a story on NPR about what happens when disaster is predicted.

The forecast says: snow is coming. Ice is coming. Power outages are coming.

And what do we do?

We rush the store.

Even when the shelves are restocked. Even when there’s enough.

A few of us still go in a frenzy—carts piled high, freezers stuffed full. We ravage the place like locusts.

But the story pointed out something I had never considered:

There is a real economic and social cost to that rush.

Because someone always loses.

The day worker who can’t leave work.

The hourly employee who doesn’t get paid if they clock out early.

The essential worker who finishes their shift and arrives at empty shelves.

The storm is real.

But scarcity is amplified because the privileged take more than they need.

And most of what gets hoarded?

It rots.

Or, like in this last storm, the power goes out—and it all ends up in the landfill, producing methane gas.

And not one ounce of thought is given to the people who grew the food, transported it, stocked it.

Many of the hands that handle the food cannot afford to eat it.

It passes through their hands… but never reaches their tables.

All because the locusts consumed it all.

Joel’s locusts are terrifying.

But sometimes, our consumption behaves like locusts too.

And here’s where grace sneaks in.

Because Joel doesn’t just describe destruction.

He calls for return.

“Blow the trumpet in Zion.

Sanctify a fast.

Call a solemn assembly.”

Not to manipulate God.

Not to prove how spiritual we are.

Not to perform grief.

“Rend your hearts and not your garments.”

Let the tearing happen in here.

And one of the ways we do that is through fasting.

Some of us take on a fast during Lent.

Fasting is about curbing overconsumption.

It is about not buying, using, or eating more than we need.

It is about recognizing how what we consume impacts our neighbor.

It is about confronting our excess.

Most of the world practices fasting.

Not for spiritual discipline.

But because they have no other choice.

Jesus talked about fasting.

And for a long time, I assumed he was talking to people like me—people who eat regularly, who have options.

But when you consider the poverty of the first century world, Jesus was speaking to people who fasted because they had to.

Ash Wednesday and Lent are about sacrifice.

About inconvenience.

Discipline.

Even death.

But they are also about alignment.

I have a friend whose mother died in the Oklahoma City bombing.

Every year when Lent begins, he says it’s his favorite season.

That surprises people.

But he once told me:

“I can only believe in a God who understands my suffering.”

For him, Lent is not theatrical sadness.

It is proximity.

A God who does not stand far from rubble.

A God who knows ash.

Another friend of mine was dying of ALS.

Within months, he was in a motorized chair. He could no longer speak. He could barely breathe.

And when he came forward to receive ashes, the crowd parted so he could make his way to the altar.

He wasn’t being dramatic.

He was saying:

This is where I belong.

This is the place honest enough for my pain.

Last year, after the Ash Wednesday service, two teenagers came into the sanctuary.

They asked, “Are you the priest?”

I said, “I’m the pastor.”

And they said, “Would you mark us with the cross? We don’t want to miss it.”

They came late.

But they came.

They knew their limits.

They didn’t want to miss the grace.

Another friend once told me what he was giving up for Lent:

“Hating my former boss.”

“I’ve decided to release him from my wrath.”

That’s what Joel is doing.

He is not celebrating devastation.

He is inviting us into alignment.

Lent invites us to face mortality.

To face fragility.

To face the truth that we are dust.

But not as self-loathing.

As solidarity.

When we fast, we are not trying to twist God’s arm.

We are not trying to lose weight.

We fast to remember:

We have limits.

We fast to resist becoming locusts.

We fast so our lives are not driven by panic or fear.

We fast so we do not consume what our neighbors need to survive.

We fast so we might learn to live simply enough that there is enough for everyone.

Because the truth is:

Most of us are not on the brink of starvation.

But some are.

Most of us are not wondering if the lights will stay on.

But some are.

Most of us have more than enough.

But some do not have enough.

Lent asks:

What if enough really is enough?

What if we stopped living like locusts?

Joel’s call is communal.

“Gather the people.

Consecrate the assembly.

Bring the elders.

Gather the children—even the nursing infants.”

Because faith is not private.

It is shared responsibility.

The devastation of locusts affects everyone.

And so does repentance.

Ash Wednesday is not about groveling.

It is about clarity.

Clarity about our limits.

Clarity about God’s goodness.

Clarity about who our neighbor is.

You are dust.

I am dust.

Which means we are not God.

We have limits.

But God’s goodness does not.

So Lent is not about pretending life isn’t hard.

It is about turning toward the God who enters it.

The God who understands:

Bombings.

Disease.

Hate.

Ash.

When we receive ashes, we are not rehearsing despair.

We are aligning ourselves with those who already carry it.

And we are remembering that in Jesus, God has already aligned himself with us.

We are saying:

I will not live as though I am immune.

I will not hoard while others hunger.

I will not deny my mortality.

I will not pretend I am invincible.

I will rend my heart.

I will return.

“Yet even now,” Joel says.

Return to the Lord your God,

For he is gracious and merciful,

slow to anger,

and abounding in steadfast love.

Even now.

Amen.