lent – The Rev. Eric Mancil

Come Home to God

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
February 18, 2026

Texts: Joel 2:1-2,12-17; 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6; 16-21

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Today, we begin the season of Lent in the most honest way the Church knows how. Not with a checklist of things to do or a special program that will make us better Christians.

We begin by telling the truth.

We begin our journey through Lent with a cross of ashes on our foreheads.

We come to the altar with open hearts and hear words that have been passed down from generation to generation: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

That sentence can sound harsh if we hear it the wrong way.

It can almost sound like God is angry with us and standing over us with his arms crossed, reminding us of all the ways we’ve messed up.

But Ash Wednesday isn’t a time for shame or punishment.

It’s a time for compassion and mercy.

The ashes don’t tell us we’re worthless.

They tell us the truth of who we are.

We are fragile.

Our lives are short.

We can’t control or fix everything.

And we were never meant to carry the weight of the world alone.

The ashes are the Church’s way of saying, “Let’s take a look at where we are and be honest with ourselves.”

Let’s stop pretending everything’s okay.

And instead—just for a moment—let’s stand in the presence of God with nothing to prove.

That’s why Lent begins here—on Ash Wednesday.

Because if we don’t begin with truth, it’s easy for Lent to become just another self-improvement project—another season where we try harder to prove ourselves worthy of God’s love and end up either proud or disappointed.

But God isn’t asking for us to prove ourselves.

God is asking for our hearts.

In the readings appointed for this day, we hear the same message repeated again and again—come home to God.

The prophet Joel says it this way: “Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and merciful.”

Paul writes to the church in Corinth, “We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God.”

And in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus warns us against turning faith into a performance and invites us to come home to God through prayer, fasting, and acts of generosity.

Not “get your act together.” Not “try harder.”

But come home to God.

Lent isn’t a competition or a test we’re trying to pass.

It’s a time for us to turn back.

And to do that—to come home to God—we have to be willing to take stock of our lives.

To tell the truth about where we are.

To be honest about the ways we’ve turned away from God.

Because the truth is, most of us are walking around with heaviness in our hearts and burdens we don’t want to carry.

Unhealthy habits that have changed us.

Old resentments we hold on to and refuse to let go.

Worries that keep us up at night.

Ways of coping with life that numb us instead of making us whole.

Patterns in our relationships that keep us from being fully present.

Lives that are so busy and full of noise and obligations that we’ve stopped making God a priority—and started squeezing God into whatever time is left.

That’s probably the one I struggle with the most.

Ash Wednesday invites us to wake up and pay attention.

Not because God wants to shame us but because God wants to set us free from what’s weighing us down.

Now, when a lot of us hear the word “Lent,” we immediately think: “What am I giving up this year?”

Maybe chocolate.

Or sweets.

Or soft drinks.

Or social media.

Or something else we enjoy.

And sometimes giving something up can be a helpful practice.

It can open our eyes and help us see those material comforts we’ve leaned on to try and fill the empty spaces in our hearts.

And giving up something for a while can also open up more time and space for prayer.

But, I want to offer you another way to think about Lent this year—because it might be what some of us need to hear the most.

I recently came across a story by an Anglican priest, and she wrote about a time in her life when she honestly didn’t know what to give up for Lent.

Life was hard.

She had just had her first child.

She was exhausted all the time. Her body was still recovering from pregnancy, and life was out of control.

She said it felt like her life already involved plenty of sacrifice—like she had already “given up enough.”

So she did what a lot of us do when we’re trying to be faithful and we’re not sure what to do next.

She went and talked to her priest.

And he listened.

And he said something that may surprise you.

“You don’t need to give anything up,” he said. “Your whole life is Lent right now.”

In other words—life is already asking a lot from you.

You’re already carrying enough.

You’re already learning self-denial in ways you didn’t choose.

And then, instead of giving her one more burden to carry, he gave her an invitation—to make space in her life to be restored and renewed by God.

To take up what he called a “practice of pleasure”—not to escape from life but as a holy discipline: intentionally receiving small, life-giving gifts with gratitude.

So that year, during Lent, she started walking to her favorite coffee shop once a week to sit down with a hot drink and a novel—something simple and quiet—to help her feel alive again.

When I read that story, it made me wonder if Lent isn’t just about, “What do I need to give up?”

Maybe it’s also about, “What do I need to receive?”

“What do I need in order to come home to God?”

Because here’s something we often forget: joy is not the opposite of repentance.

Repentance, at its heart, means turning—turning away from what holds us back toward the one who brings us life.

And sometimes the thing that holds us back isn’t chocolate or screen time.

Sometimes it’s the constant pressure of life.
The constant noise.
The constant self-doubt.
The constant feeling that we’re not enough.

Sometimes what we really need to turn away from is the lie that God only meets us when we’re successful or have everything together, when, in fact, God also meets us in stillness, in beauty, in times of rest and quiet, in moments of gratitude, and in the simple joy of being loved.

So today, I want to offer you an invitation—similar to the one I mentioned earlier.

What if this Lent, instead of focusing on “giving something up” you focused on making space for God?

Maybe it’s an hour a day.
Or maybe it’s thirty minutes.
Or maybe it’s an hour a few times a week.

What would that look like for you?

What would it look like to set aside time for God each week during Lent?

I’m not talking about giving God the leftovers. I’m talking about giving God the priority.

Maybe it’s sitting in a chair with no phone or any other distraction and simply praying, “Lord, have mercy.”

Maybe it’s a walk on the nature trail at LBW, paying attention to the beauty of God’s creation.

And who knows? You might even see your priest along the way.

Maybe it’s coming into church when it’s quiet and sitting in a pew all by yourself.

Maybe it’s reading a psalm or some other verse of Scripture—not to study it, but to listen for God’s voice.

Maybe it’s playing music, working with your hands, cooking a meal with gratitude, calling someone you love, or watching the sunset—anything that helps you find new life as God’s beloved.

And then let that space become a meeting place with God.

The season of Lent is all about restoring and renewing our relationship with God.

It’s about making room to be honest with God.

To listen.
To return.
To be healed.
And to be made new.

And yes—Lent is a time for us to take stock of our lives. It asks us to name what needs to change, to face what we’ve done and left undone.

But it also reminds us that God is compassionate and merciful, waiting for us to come back home.

When we come to the altar to receive ashes, we’re not coming to show how holy we are. We come forward as human beings—dust and breath—marked with the sign of the cross.

The ashes remind us that life is short.

But the cross reminds us that love is stronger than death and that we are God’s beloved.

So come as you are.

And as we begin this holy season, let us consider a Lent that’s more than just giving things up for the sake of suffering.

Instead, let us draw closer to God and be intentional about making room for God in our lives—no matter what that looks like—where God can meet us with mercy and compassion and the joy of being made new.

Amen.

Christ Be With Me

A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent (Year C)
March 9, 2025

Text: Luke 4:1-13

I spent the summer after my first year of seminary participating in a program called Clinical Pastoral Education, or CPE for short. Basically, it’s pastoral care boot camp for those who are training to be priests.

It’s where we go to learn how to be pastors and how to listen and care for people who may be going through difficult times in their lives.

Most of the time, it’s done in a hospital or some other kind of healthcare facility.

I was fortunate enough to do my chaplaincy work at a hospital right down the road from my seminary, not far from where my family and I were living at the time.

On my first day of CPE, I showed up to the hospital, eager and ready to learn all that I could.

There were actually two of us there from the same seminary.

We both walked into the chaplain’s office, and Pat, the director of pastoral care, began explaining some of the things we were going to be doing over the next few months and orienting us to the hospital.

As she was talking, the phone rang.

She picked it up and started talking to the person on the other end of the line.

My friends and I just sat there and waited until she was done with the phone call.

When she was done, she hung up the phone, looked at both of us and said, “Follow me.”

As we were walking, she told us we were headed to the emergency room, but she didn’t tell us anything else.

When we got there, we heard loud cries coming from one of the rooms, and when I say “room,” what I really mean is a small area separated by a curtain.

We walked over to where the cries were coming from.

They were coming from a woman who had just unexpectedly lost her husband due to a heart attack.

Pat told us to wait outside of the room and listen to what was going on.

She drew back the curtain and walked in and immediately started caring for the grieving wife.

The woman was hysterical.

She was crying and kept saying over and over again, “He wasn’t supposed to die today. He wasn’t supposed to die today.”

Pat wrapped her arms around the woman and began to comfort her, and I’ll never forget the words she said to the wife.

Softly, she said to her, “Just imagine it’s Jesus holding you.”

It was a sacred moment, and even though my friend and I were standing on the other side of the curtain, we knew that God was there.

After some time passed, Pat came out of the room, and we walked back to the chaplain’s office, where we had a conversation about what happened.

She told us that things happen like that from time to time, and when they do, it’s our job to show up and do the best we can to offer care and support.

Well, needless to say, I walked away from my first day of CPE less excited than I was when I got there.

Because, to be very honest, I didn’t think there was any way I could do what Pat did that day.

I walked away from my first day of CPE thinking, “There’s no way I can do this.”

“I don’t have what it takes.”

“I’m in way over my head, so I might as well give up now.”

But, what I eventually came to realize is that I was there for a purpose.

I was called by God to go to seminary and be formed as a priest, and part of that call meant going through hospital chaplaincy and learning how to be a pastor.

I wasn’t always going to get it right.

But, I had to trust that, if God was calling me to be a priest and pastor, then God would be with me through it all, including the hard parts.

What I also came to realize is that those thoughts of self-doubt were not from God.

They were from the tempter—the one who uses subtle lies and deception to make us doubt ourselves and think we aren’t good enough or capable enough to do what God has called us to do.

For me, hospital chaplaincy was definitely a time in the wilderness with God.

Most of the time, I really had no idea what I was doing, but I could trust that God was with me through it all, leading me and guiding me and giving me the strength that I needed.

When God calls us to do something, he doesn’t leave us to do it alone.

God empowers us and gives us strength and wisdom by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Eventually, over time, I gained confidence in my ability as a chaplain and pastor, and every time I got anxious or nervous about a situation, I had a prayer that I would pray as I walked to a patient’s room.

I kept it in a little green book of prayers that was given to me on my very first day of CPE, and It goes like this:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

Anytime I needed to be reminded of the fact that God was with me wherever I went, I would always return to that prayer.

And, even now, to this day, I return to it from time to time, and I’m reminded that God is always with me, even in those moments when it feels like I’m walking through the wilderness, unsure of where I’m going or what I’m being called to do.

Because, that’s the thing about walking through the wilderness as a follower of Jesus.

Often, we really have no idea where we’re being called to go.

But, we can trust that if we put our faith in God, we can face any challenge that may come our way.

We can trust that God will always be with us.

The reason why I wanted to share this story with you today is because it’s easy to think that the only temptations we face in our lives are external.

In other words—those things we do or say to make ourselves feel better or to satisfy some hunger we have or to fill that God-shaped hole in our hearts.

And, it’s true that sometimes they are.

Sometimes, we indulge in material things that make us feel better, at least for a short time.

But, often they’re things that cause us to turn away from God or things that prevent us from living more fully into who God created us to be.

Sometimes, we turn to things like alcohol to dull the emotional pain we’re feeling over a loss or heartbreak or to make life a little more bearable when times are hard.

Sometimes, we lie, cheat, or steal in order to get what we want.

Sometimes, we turn to gossip or talk about other people behind their backs because it makes us feel better about ourselves.

There are lots of ways we’re tempted by external things.

But, I’m convinced that perhaps something even more destructive are those internal temptations we face—those subtle whispers or thoughts that the tempter uses to make us feel like we’re worthless.

The subtle whispers that cause us to wonder whether or not we’re worthy of God‘s love or whether or not we’re good enough or capable enough.

The tempter—whether you call him Satan or the devil or any other name—will use deception and subtle lies to make us believe these things are true.

But, I’m here to tell you today, friends, that all of these things our lies.

You are the Lord’s possession.

God has called you by name for a purpose, and he will never leave you.

God will send his Holy Spirit upon you to lead you and guide you in your life and to give you the strength and will to persevere in your walk with Christ.

That doesn’t mean it’ll always be easy.

There will be temptations along the way, but with Christ, we know that we have an advocate and guide—someone who will take us by the hand and never let go.

In our Gospel lesson for this morning from Luke, we hear the story of our Lord’s journey through the wilderness, where he was led by the Spirit and tempted by the devil for forty days.

There’s a reason why this story comes right after the story of Jesus‘s baptism.

And, I think this has a lot to do with us as well in our own lives in Christ.

To be baptized means to be set apart for a special purpose.

It means renouncing the ways of the world—the ways of sin and death—and giving our lives over to Christ and serving only him.

When we do that, we will be tested.

Our lives will be tested.

Our faith will be tested.

Our trust in God will be tested.

That doesn’t mean that God is the one testing us or waiting for us to fail in some way.

It means that every day when we wake up, we have to make the choice of whether to follow Christ or follow our own selfish ways.

We have to make the choice of whether to serve others or serve ourselves.

We have to make the choice of whether to put our trust in the Lord or to put our trust in material things.

These are the temptations we face in our lives every day.

Some are external. Some are internal.

But, they all threaten to make us lose sight of who we are as God’s beloved.

Just as Jesus was tested in the wilderness, we also will be tested.

And, just like Jesus, we can make the choice to put our trust in God and to always remember that God will be with us no matter where we go or what we do.

If you ever need to be reminded of that, I know a great prayer you can use:

Amen.

Sometimes, We Kneel

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday
March 5, 2025

Text: Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

There are so many things I love about being a priest. I love getting to walk alongside people in their journeys with Christ, to see them grow in their faith, and to remind them that God loves them more than they can possibly imagine.

I love getting to celebrate the sacraments and to share them with God’s people, those outward and visible signs of God’s inward and spiritual grace, like Baptism and Eucharist.

They remind us that God is always at work in our lives, leading us and guiding us with his Spirit and giving us the strength we need to continue our walk with Christ.

I love getting to pronounce God’s blessing over God’s people and to assure penitent sinners that they are indeed forgiven by a merciful Lord who wants nothing more than for all of us to be in right relationship with him.

But, if I’m being completely honest—and Ash Wednesday seems like a good day to do that—there are some things I miss about being a layperson.

One of the things I miss most is being able to simply sit in the presence of God in worship and not have to focus on anything but participating in the service.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

It’s an incredible blessing and privilege to be called by God to lead worship, and I try my best never to take that for granted.

Because it really is a wonderful gift to be able to serve as a priest in God’s church.

But, sometimes…I really do miss being able to just soak it all in, without any responsibility of leadership or making sure the service runs smoothly.

Sometimes, I miss the rhythm of sitting in a pew, holding my Prayer Book and hymnal, and waiting for someone else to direct the congregation on what to do next.

Sometimes, I miss being able to walk up to the altar rail during Communion and kneel alongside everyone else, waiting expectantly to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

To me, there’s something special about being able to just worship—to simply sit in God’s presence without any other responsibilities or thoughts running through my mind.

It’s hard to explain, but I think it has something to do with getting back in touch with who I really am at the center of my being.

On those rare occasions when I do get the chance to just sit in a pew and participate in the service, I’m reminded of the fact that, first and foremost, I am a child of God—just like everybody else.

And, just like everybody else, I’m in desperate need of a Savior.

That’s the power and beauty of our worship.

It humbles us and reminds of who we are and who we were created to be as God’s beloved.

In our liturgy, in our prayers and every time we confess our sins to God, we’re reminded that, without him, we are helpless.

We feel it in our bodies every time we stand to sing God’s praises and every time we sit to hear the Word of God proclaimed in Holy Scripture.

And we feel it, especially, when we kneel.

Sometimes, we kneel to pray and confess our sins because it’s the only posture that seems appropriate.

Sometimes, we kneel, not because we’re afraid of God, but to show our love for God and express our gratitude for all the many blessings we’ve been given.

Sometimes, we kneel to receive the Body and Blood of Christ and to recommit our lives to serving only him.

And sometimes, we kneel to receive a cross of ashes on our foreheads, not because we’re worthless, but because we realize that, sometimes, we need to be reminded of our own mortality and need for repentance.

Sometimes, we need to be reminded, once again, that our lives belong to God and that we need to make amends, for things done and left undone.

That’s why we’re gathered here today as we mark the beginning of our journey through Lent.

It isn’t to beat ourselves up or to dwell on past mistakes.

It’s to be reminded of who we are and to be reconciled with God, to confess our sins and acknowledge that our only help is in the Lord our maker.

The prophet Joel put it this way in his call for repentance to the people of Israel:

“Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

It was a practice in ancient Israel for people to mourn their sins and express their grief through outward signs like wearing ashes on their heads, wearing sackcloth, and tearing their clothes.

But, to me, what Joel is really saying in this passage is that God doesn’t care so much about outward signs if they’re not also expressing a deep, inward desire to change one’s life.

So, on this day, we come forward and kneel at the altar rail to receive a cross of ashes on our foreheads.

Not just for the sake of doing it.

And not because it’s something we’re obligated to do once a year.

We do it because we know we’ve fallen short of our call to walk in love as Christ has taught us.

We do it because, deep down, we long to be reconciled with our Father in heaven.

We receive the ashes on our foreheads because we know that God is our God, and we are his forever.

From the dust of the earth we were created, and to dust we shall return.

On this Ash Wednesday, be comforted in knowing that God loves you and cares about you in more ways than you can imagine.

But, also know that God cares deeply about the way you live your life and wants nothing more than for you to draw closer to him.

Listen once again to the prophet Joel and his call for repentance:

“Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

Amen.