[Sermon] Dust, Honesty, and the Courage to Look at Death

Pastor Hector Garfias-Toledo

February 18, 2026 + Ash Wednesday

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SC8bc8pKVZM

Ash Wednesday confronts us with a hard truth: we cannot talk about life without talking about death. Pastor Hector explores how we tend to see death as something that happens to others—until the moment it becomes our own. The “shock of the break” awakens us from illusions of control and perfection. In naming our fragility, we begin to live more honestly. The ashes do not mark us with despair, but with clarity. And in that clarity, we discover that our cracks are already embraced by God’s steadfast love.

Sermon Transcript

From YouTube's automatic captions, lightly edited by AI for readability.

Grace to you and peace from God our Father, Mother, Creator, and the Lord Jesus Christ, who creates in us a new and clean heart. And we said, Amen.

It may be because I have been walking with several members of the congregation who have lost loved ones in the past few weeks. Or perhaps it is because I have seen my parents' lives and health declining slowly and gradually, almost as a slow leak that cannot be stopped. Or maybe it is because, in my own life, I am entering the last lap of my journey on this earth. I'm getting old.

These things about life, these are the things that bring meaning and purpose. And I think that at my age, where I am now, or maybe where some of us are, we are becoming aware of the illnesses, the losses, the aging shock. I believe that in 10 more years, I will probably continue to discover more about the realities, the meaning of life, the purpose of life, and I will still be shocked by the things that I'm learning and the things that I have not learned in many years of my life.

Last Sunday, we were talking about the disciples, their journey following Jesus to the top of the mountain, where each one of them, both Jesus and the disciples, experienced a transformation. I said last Sunday that this story of the Transfiguration, in my view, is a portrait of our spiritual journey, our own life journey as ordinary people who go to the top of the mountain with Jesus and come down from the mountain as ordinary people in an ordinary world. But the question, perhaps, is: What does it mean to be ordinary people in an ordinary world that is obsessed with creating a life that is sinless perfection in every aspect of life?

Today's readings, I believe, reorient us and recenter us by pointing out that what gives true meaning to our lives on earth and to our death on earth is not what we look like or the perception that we have of ourselves. What gives meaning is when we become transparent, honest, and truthful to one another and to God. There is no place and no need for sinless perfection in this for us as Christians, as followers of Jesus—just a reckless love that we are to embrace in our journey.

I have shared with many of you that I grew up in a community, in a society, where we, as Christians, did not celebrate Ash Wednesday, mainly for two reasons. First of all, it was Catholic, and second, because it was a little superstitious. That’s the context where I grew up. Whether I agree with that now or not, that was where I grew up at that time. There was no need for ashes for Ash Wednesday because, after all, it was just about feeling guilt, feeling remorse, and the need for repentance for the bad decisions that I made.

It was enough for us at that time that we were unpleasable, that we didn't deserve it, that we were guilty, and that we probably should be ashamed of that.

If I were going to ask you tonight, if we had the time, probably we would hear about 50 or 60 different stories. You have your own story. You have your own journey. We all struggle embracing the aspects of life that make us perceive ourselves as imperfect.

And one of the things that I believe we struggle with the most is death—both the physical death of our bodies, but also the ongoing death that you and I experience in terms of relationships, in terms of dreams and hopes.

Death, as ending our journey, becoming dust that goes back to dust, has become something threatening for us in our society for two main reasons. One is that we are brainwashed through our lives by corporations that try to sell everything possible to make us believe that you and I can exist forever, that you and I can reach a point of perfection, and that you and I are going to look nice and beautiful forever.

And that, to me, makes it more difficult for us to accept the reality of death, of brokenness. Because we start seeing death, physical death, as something threatening that will prevent us from reaching the point of becoming perfect, beautiful, or immortal.

It's hard for us to accept the reality that there is an end to our lives on this earth and that, regardless of how long that is going to take, if we do not become perfect, we are still embraced by the reckless love of God.

Years ago, I had the opportunity to meet in person a very famous writer, a Uruguayan writer. His name is Mario Benedetti. I don't know if you have ever read any of his work, but he is one of my favorite Latin American writers. And sometimes I wonder why, because I don't like poetry, but he writes poems, and I like the poems. I don't know—something is wrong with me.

One of his poems that I want to share with you today is titled in Spanish “Pasatiempo,” which can be translated into English as “Pastime” or “Hobby.” As I was trying to understand the title of the poem, I realized that the translation “hobby” in English doesn't sit well, because hobby comes from an old word that had to do with a wooden pony. It referred to an activity done for enjoyment rather than work, for entertainment and for playfulness. But the word “pasatiempo” in Spanish can convey something deeper. It is the time passing and involves taking steps, a journey. It implies what happens as time passes by.

So the poem goes like this—again, “Pasatiempo.” Mario Benedetti says:

When we were children, old people were about 30.

A puddle was an ocean.

Plain and simple, death did not exist.

Later, when boys, teenagers, the old people were in their 40s.

A pond was the ocean, and death only one word.

When we got married, adult life, the elderly were in their 50s.

A lake was an ocean.

Death was the death of others.

But now, as veterans, as elderly, we have finally caught up with the truth.

The ocean is finally the ocean, and death begins to be ours, our own.

I believe that this poem describes how our view and experience of life and death changes in the journey. It is a time to reckon, to become honest with ourselves. One aspect of this journey is to become and to be honest. And to be honest is the recognition of our own wounds, cracks, and hurts, our limitations, and our own finitude.

We cannot talk about life without talking about our own death. We tend to see death as others' death until the day when we realize that death is real and it starts to be our own. And in order to embrace the wholeness of life, we need to be honest with ourselves. Because in being honest with ourselves, we will be honest toward others. And we will be able to accept others' honesty as a gift that is given to us in the journey that we walk together.

So the shock of the break tonight, my siblings in Christ, is that we are dust, and eventually to dust we will return.

When we recognize our cracks, when we also see the scars of life in each other, and together we can journey on this path, in this journey, taking steps to learn to embrace death, cracks, and hurts as our own—and despite that, to be assured that we are embraced by the reckless, never-ending love of God for us—that is the good news of Ash Wednesday.

Amen.