Ash Wednesday — Naming the Problem Before Seeking the Cure

Lent is a season of honest preparation. From Ash Wednesday to Easter, believers intentionally practice fasting, simplicity, and repentance, not to earn God’s favor, but to stop pretending we don’t need His mercy. Lent slows us down long enough to face what we often avoid: the condition of the human heart apart from God. The shape of Lent is meant to mirror the pattern we see throughout Scripture: before God heals, He exposes; before He restores, He brings us to truth; before we celebrate resurrection, we admit the reality of death in us. If we skip that honesty, we don’t truly understand what we’re asking God to save us from. So today is not about the “steps” of change yet. Today is about naming the problem—our depravity—so we will stop managing symptoms and begin seeking the only cure. 

 

David models this posture of truth-telling: 

 

“Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin my mother conceived me. Behold, You desire truth in the inward parts, And in the hidden part You will make me to know wisdom. Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Make me hear joy and gladness, that the bones You have broken may rejoice” Psalm 51:5–8 (NKJV). David does not treat sin as a minor mistake or a surface issue. He speaks of it as something woven into him—deep, inward, present from the beginning. And notice the tenderness inside his confession: God doesn’t merely demand external behavior; He “desire[s] truth in the inward parts.” Lent calls us to that same inward truth—because what we refuse to confess, we will never truly repent of. 

 

Paul speaks the same diagnosis when describing life before Christ: 

 

“Among whom also we all once conducted ourselves in the lusts of our flesh, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, just as the others” Ephesians 2:3 (NKJV). This is not simply “bad habits.” It’s nature. Scripture confronts us with the uncomfortable reality that sin is not only what we do; it is what we are apart from divine intervention. Lent begins here because spiritual renewal cannot be built on self-flattery. 

 

And Scripture ties this condition to a universal human source:

 

“Therefore, just as through one man sin entered the world, and death through sin, and thus death spread to all men, because all sinned” Romans 5:12 (NKJV). Sin is not an isolated personal glitch; it is a shared human catastrophe. Death spreads because sin spreads. David’s confession is not unique to David; it is the story of humanity. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” Romans 3:23 (NKJV). Lent cuts through the instinct to compare ourselves to others. “All” means none of us stands outside the need for repentance. The ash on the forehead is a sermon without words: we are dust, and we cannot rescue ourselves. 

 

Even when we want to do right, Scripture exposes the war inside us:

 

“For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice. Now if I do what I will not to do, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me” Romans 7:18–20 (NKJV). This is the misery of depravity: not only guilt for wrong actions, but helplessness to consistently produce what is truly good. Paul’s words dismantle the fantasy that we can fix ourselves by stronger willpower, better intentions, or improved routines. 

 

And Jesus names the root distinction underneath it all: 

 

“That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit” John 3:6 (NKJV). Natural birth produces what is natural, and the flesh cannot generate spiritual life. Lent begins with this sober truth: if our deepest problem is inward and inherited, then our deepest need is not mere improvement, but transformation that must come from God. 

 

Ash Wednesday Closing Thoughts 

 

Today, Lent asks you to stop negotiating with sin and start agreeing with God about it. Repentance begins when excuses end. Not because God is cruel, but because He is committed to truth in the inward parts, and truth is the doorway to cleansing, renewal, and joy. You don’t confess depravity to drown in shame. We confess our depravity, so we stop trusting ourselves and start seeking mercy with clarity. The cure will come into focus as we continue, but tonight the first step is this: admit what is true. 

 

Personal reflection questions 

1. When you think about sin, do you treat it mainly as occasional “mistakes,” or as an inward condition that shapes your desires and choices? 

2. Where are you most tempted to manage appearances instead of pursuing “truth in the inward parts”? 

3. What excuses, justifications, or comparisons (“at least I’m not like…”) do you use to soften the seriousness of sin? 

4. In what areas do you relate most to Romans 7:18–20—wanting good, but repeatedly practicing what you hate? 

5. If you truly believed you were “by nature” spiritually helpless apart from God (Ephesians 2:3; John 3:6), what would change about the way you pray, confess, and depend on Him? 

6. What is one honest sentence of confession you can speak to God tonight—without polishing it, defending it, or minimizing it? 

7. David asked, “Purge me…wash me…make me hear joy and gladness.” Which part of that request do you most need to become your own—and why? 

 

We cannot repent seriously if we don’t diagnose ourselves honestly. Scripture teaches that sin is universal, inward, and stronger than mere intention, so Lent begins with realism rather than optimism. Ash Wednesday calls us to face the nature of our full of sin flesh, the reach of Adam’s fall, and the war within our own hearts. The point is not despair; it is clarity. When the problem is finally named, the need for grace becomes undeniable. 

Being Called a Christian Can Mean Being a Follower of God, But What Does It Really Mean to Be a Christian, “In Terms of Counting the Cost of Being a Christian?”

To be a Christian, in terms of counting the cost, is to understand that following Jesus is not an accessory we add to an already-centered life. It is a decisive transfer of ownership, loyalty, and direction, in which Christ becomes first, and everything else becomes secondary. 

Jesus said that when “great multitudes” were following Him, He turned and clarified what real discipleship requires: “If anyone comes to Me and does not hate his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and his own life also, he cannot be My disciple” (Luke 14:25–26). In the same breath, He repeated it in another form: “He who loves father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me… and he who loves son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me” (Matt 10:37). So, when we count the cost, we are not being told to despise our families; we are being told to settle the question of supreme love and ultimate allegiance. Jesus will not accept being second place in our hearts. 

Then He presses it further: “Whoever does not bear his cross and come after Me cannot be My disciple” (Luke 14:27). Christianity is not merely admiration of Jesus; it is following Him on a path that includes suffering, rejection, and death to self. “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me” (Matt 16:24). And Luke adds a word that makes it intensely practical: “take up his cross daily” (Luke 9:23). That means our discipleship is not only a moment of decision; it is a daily posture of surrender. 

Jesus then explains what “counting the cost” looks like using two pictures: a builder and a king. “For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not sit down first and count the cost… whether he has enough to finish it… lest… all who see it begin to mock him” (Luke 14:28–30). And again: “Or what king… does not sit down first and consider whether he is able…?” (Luke 14:31). In other words, Jesus does not want us to enter discipleship casually, emotionally, or impulsively. He wants us to think, to consider, to weigh what it will require because starting and not finishing brings shame and exposes that we never truly surrendered. 

So, what is the “cost” Jesus is naming? He states it plainly: “So likewise, whoever of you does not forsake all that he has cannot be My disciple” (Luke 14:33). This is the heart of it. The cost is not merely that we might lose things; the cost is that we must release our claim to own things. We no longer treat life as “mine.” We are not in charge. The same theme appears in the call to self-denial: “Whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it” (Matt 16:25). Mark adds, “for My sake and the gospel’s will save it” (Mark 8:35). And Jesus makes the logic unavoidable: “For what profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?” (Matt 16:26; Mark 8:36–37; Luke 9:25). 

Counting the cost also includes the cost of public loyalty. “Whoever is ashamed of Me and My words… of him the Son of Man also will be ashamed” (Mark 8:38; Luke 9:26). Jesus said, “Whoever confesses Me before men, him I will also confess before My Father… but whoever denies Me… him I will also deny” (Matt 10:32–33). Discipleship is not secret allegiance. It is confession, witness, and endurance even when the world pushes back. 

The Word of God, the Scriptures, does not hide what that pushback looks like. “If the world hates you, you know that it hated Me before it hated you… because you are not of the world… therefore the world hates you” (John 15:18–19). “If they persecuted Me, they will also persecute you” (John 15:20). Paul is blunt: “All who desire to live godly in Christ Jesus will suffer persecution” (2 Tim 3:12). The early church taught new believers, “We must through many tribulations enter the kingdom of God” (Acts 14:22). And Jesus told His followers ahead of time: “In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). 

Sometimes that cost lands inside our own homes. Jesus warned, “A man’s enemies will be those of his own household” (Matt 10:36), and again, “brother will deliver up brother to death… and you will be hated by all for My name’s sake” (Matt 10:21–22). That is why Luke 9 shows Jesus refusing, “I’ll follow You, but first…” “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God” (Luke 9:62). Counting the cost means we stop negotiating with Christ. 

But it also means we count honestly what we gain. Peter once said, “See, we have left all and followed You” (Matt 19:27; Luke 18:28; Mark 10:28). Jesus did not rebuke that; He confirmed it. “Everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or lands, for My name’s sake, shall receive a hundredfold, and inherit eternal life” (Matt 19:29). Luke says that those who leave things “for the sake of the kingdom of God… shall receive many times more in this present time, and in the age to come eternal life” (Luke 18:29–30). Mark adds the line we need to remember that “hundredfold” comes “with persecutions” (Mark 10:30). So, the gain is real, but it is not a promise of ease. It is the promise of Christ’s provision, Christ’s people, and eternal life without pretending the road is comfortable. 

We also see in Paul’s life what counting the cost looks like in the soul. “What things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ… and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ” (Phil 3:7–8). That is not loss for loss’s sake; it is loss because Christ is worth more than what we surrender. Paul’s aim becomes knowing Christ, “the fellowship of His sufferings,” and being “conformed to His death” (Phil 3:10–11). And that’s why he can speak as a man who understands the price: “none of these things move me; nor do I count my life dear to myself, so that I may finish my race with joy” (Acts 20:24). 

This is where the New Testament helps us interpret the cost correctly: Christians are not simply people who endure hardship; we endure it as those who belong to Another. “He died for all, that those who live should live no longer for themselves, but for Him who died for them and rose again” (2 Cor 5:15). “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Gal 2:20). And we present our whole lives to God: “a living sacrifice” (Rom 12:1–2). That is why discipleship feels costly because it truly is a death to self-rule. 

And yet, the Scriptures also teach us how to walk through that cost without collapsing. We are told to rejoice in trials and see them as purposeful. “Do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial… but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ’s sufferings” (1 Pet 4:12–13). “If anyone suffers as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God in this matter” (1 Pet 4:16). “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake… rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven” (Matt 5:10–12). Trials test and refine faith “to praise, honor, and glory” (1 Pet 1:6–7). They produce endurance and maturity (James 1:2–4). And they fix our eyes on eternity: “our light affliction… is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory… the things which are seen are temporary” (2 Cor 4:16–18).

 

So, when we ask, “What Does It Mean to Be a Christian in Terms of Counting the Cost?” the Scriptures answer like this:

 

It means we deny ourselves, take up the cross daily, and follow Him without turning back (Luke 9:23; Luke 9:62). It means Jesus is worth more than our closest relationships, our safest comforts, our private ambitions, and even our own life (Luke 14:26; Matt 10:37–39). It means we forsake all that we have as owners so that we can belong wholly to Him as disciples (Luke 14:33). It means we refuse to trade our soul for the whole world (Matt 16:26). It means we confess Christ without shame and endure hatred, persecution, and tribulation as part of the narrow way (Matt 10:32–33; John 15:18–20; Matt 7:13–14). It means we suffer with Him and follow His steps, because “to this we were called” (Rom 8:17; 1 Pet 2:21). It means we endure like soldiers and runners who live for a coming reward (2 Tim 2:3–4; 1 Cor 9:24–27). It means we do not love our lives “to the death,” because Christ is more valuable than self-preservation (Rev 12:11). And the hope that steadies us when the cost feels heavy is also in our Scriptures: nothing “tribulation, or distress, or persecution… or sword” can separate us “from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom 8:35–39). We endure because He is worth it, because He has overcome the world (John 16:33), and because those who are “faithful until death” receive “the crown of life” (Rev 2:10). 

What Is the Most Interesting Fact I Know About the Life of Jesus of Nazareth?

What stands out to me most about the life of Jesus of Nazareth is not simply what He taught, but how His love is revealed through His sovereign, providential hand guiding our lives toward a redemptive end. When I read Scripture, I see that His love is not abstract sentiment; it is purposeful, patient, and active, directing even suffering and injustice toward a result that honors God and brings life to others. Jesus’ own life shows this clearly. He did not avoid suffering; He walked through it with obedience and trust in the Father. In doing so, He revealed the heart of God, a love that forgives, redeems, and transforms what seems tragic into something eternally meaningful. When He prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” (Luke 23:34), He was not excusing evil; He was demonstrating that divine mercy can coexist with human injustice and overcome it.

One of the earliest biblical pictures of this providential love is found in the life of Joseph. What his brothers intended for evil, God intended for good, “to save many people alive” (Genesis 50:20). Joseph’s suffering was not wasted. It became the means by which God preserved His covenant people. When I look at Joseph’s story through the lens of Christ, I see the same redemptive pattern: betrayal, suffering, unjust suffering, and then salvation flowing outward to others. That same trajectory appears in the New Testament in the account of Stephen, the first martyr of the church (Acts 7). As stones struck his body, Stephen echoed the mercy of Christ: “Lord, do not charge them with this sin” (Acts 7:60). Yet even in that moment of violence, God was at work. Those who stoned Stephen laid their garments at the feet of a young man named Saul, the very man who would later become the Apostle Paul, through whom God would spread the gospel across the Roman world and inspire a significant portion of the New Testament. What looked like defeat was part of a sovereign design. Stephen’s faithfulness became a witness that echoed far beyond his death.

When I step back and look at these lives, Joseph, Stephen, Paul, I see a pattern: God weaves suffering, obedience, and mercy together to accomplish purposes far beyond what any one person can see in the moment. That pattern ultimately finds its fulfillment in Christ Himself, who is “the image of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15) and the one in whom the Father is fully revealed (John 14:9–11). But what makes this truth most compelling to me is not only what I see in Scripture; it is what I recognize in my own life. There were seasons when darkness seemed overwhelming, and I believed life was not worth living another day. Yet looking back, I can see that I was not abandoned. God carried me when I could not walk, preserved me when I could not see a future, and prepared me through hardship for the person I am and the work I now do. What once felt like chaos now appears as careful preparation.

Because of that, when I am asked what is most remarkable about the life of Jesus, my answer is deeply personal: His love, grace, and mercy did not remain distant truths. They pursued me. His sovereign hand guided my life through pain, confusion, and brokenness toward a purpose that I might honor Him with my life. I do not believe I would have come to Him any other way than the way He brought me. And that realization fills me with humility and gratitude. The same Lord who guided Joseph, sustained Stephen, transformed Saul into Paul, and revealed the Father through His own suffering has patiently guided me. That, to me, is astonishing. The life of Jesus reveals a love that does not merely comfort us; it redeems us, reshapes us, and leads us toward a life that reflects His glory, even through suffering, even through loss, and ultimately, through grace.