Lent: A Turning Toward Home

Once again, we stand at the threshold of Lent, much like the beginning of familiar path through a quiet wood. It’s not a path we blaze ourselves, but one walked for centuries, worn smooth by the feet of saints and sinners alike. It leads us, not to some distant, unknown place, but back to ourselves, back to each other, and back to God. It’s a turning toward home.

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of this journey, and it starts with a stark reminder: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (Gn. 3:19). These words, spoken as ashes are traced on our foreheads, aren’t meant to depress us, but to ground us. They remind us of our fragility, our mortality, and our dependence on the One who formed us from the soil and breathed life into our lungs. In a world that so often urges us to strive, achieve, and prove our worth, these words call us to something simpler, something truer: to remember who we are, and whose we are.

Lent is a season of repentance, but repentance isn’t the heavy, guilt-laden burden we sometimes make it out to be. The Greek word metanoia, often translated as “repentance,” means a change of mind, a turning of the heart. It’s not about wallowing in failure, but about turning back toward the love that’s never stopped pursuing us. As St Augustine wrote,

You have become a stranger to yourself. You do not know yourself. Come back to your heart. There you will find God, because you are formed in his likeness.

Lent invites us to turn away from the noise and distraction filling our lives and turn back to the God who waits for us with open arms.

This turning isn’t a grand, dramatic gesture, but a slow and steady recognition of where we’ve gone wrong. It’s a humble admission that we’re not as self-sufficient as we like to think, that we’ve leaned on others, that we’ve been shaped by hands we can’t see. We’re quick, aren’t we, to claim our successes as our own? Yet, when failure comes, we’re just as quick to point elsewhere, to shift the blame, to avoid the hard truth of our own complicity. Lent won’t let us off so easily. It asks us to pause, to look again at how we’re bound together—how our lives are tangled up in one another’s, for better or worse.

As St Paul writes, “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honoured, every part rejoices with it” (1 Corinthians 12:26). This isn’t just a pretty thought; it’s a call to live differently. If we’re truly connected, then our joys aren’t ours alone, and neither are our failures. We share them, bear them, carry them together. Lent reminds us of this—not to shame us, but to free us. It’s a season to lay down our pride, admit our faults, and take up the work of mending what’s been broken. It’s a time to remember that we’re all in this together, stumbling toward grace, leaning on one another, and finding our way home.

The practices of Lent—fasting, prayer, and giving—aren’t obligations, but invitations. They remind us who we are. Fasting, whether from food or from the distractions filling our days, reminds us where our true hunger lies. It’s not for bread alone that we hunger, but for the Word of God (Matt 4:4). Prayer slows us down, reorients us, and helps us see the world as God sees it. And giving pulls us outside ourselves, reminding us that we’re part of something larger, that our lives aren’t our own.

These practices aren’t meant to be grand or showy. Jesus warns against this in the Sermon on the Mount: “When you fast, do not look sombre as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full” (Matthew 6:16). Lent isn’t about proving our piety to others; it’s about turning our hearts back to God. It’s about the quiet, steady work of grace, the kind of work that often goes unnoticed, but shapes us in ways we may not recognise until much later.

One of the beautiful things about Lent is that we don’t walk this path alone. The Church journeys through this season together, sharing in the same prayers, struggles, and hope. We’re all marked with the same ashes, reminded of the same dust from which we came. Yet, even in the ashes, there’s the promise of something new. Lent doesn’t end in sorrow. It carries us, slowly, toward resurrection. As St Bernard of Clairvaux said, "Compunction is the sharp sorrow that purifies, the holy grief that heals, the wound that opens the way to mercy." This is the hope of Lent: that even in our brokenness, failure, and mortality, there’s the promise of new life. As George Herbert wrote,

Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

This hope isn’t just for Easter morning; it’s for every day of our lives. The renewal we seek in Lent doesn’t fade when the season ends. It stays with us, shaping how we live, long after the ashes have been washed away. It reminds us we’re part of a story larger than ourselves, a story that began long before we were born and will continue long after we’re gone. It’s a story of creation, fall, redemption, and restoration. And it’s a story in which we all have a part to play.

As we step into this season of Lent, may we do so with open hearts. May we embrace both the challenge and the grace it brings. May we let ourselves be shaped by its slow, steady work, trusting that even in the quiet, something’s growing. And may we remember that we’re not alone on this journey. We’re surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, by the saints who’ve walked this path before us, and by the God who walks with us still.

Lent is a turning toward home. It’s a season to remember who we are and whose we are. It’s a time to lay down our pride, admit our faults, and take up the work of mending what’s been broken. It’s a time to turn back toward the God who loves us and find our way home.

“Even now,” declares the Lord, “return to me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning.” Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity (Joel 2:12-13).

May this Lent be a season of turning, returning, and renewal. May it be a time to remember that we are dust, and to dust we shall return—but also that we’re beloved and called to something more. May it be a time to find our way home.