A Reflection for Feria IV Cinerum – I Classis
Ash Wednesday dawns with austere majesty. The Church, clothed in penitential violet, summons her children with the solemn cry of the prophet Joel: “Convertimini ad me in toto corde vestro, in jejunio, et in fletu, et in planctu” — “Be converted to Me with all your heart, in fasting, and in weeping, and in mourning” (Joel 2:12).
This is no mere seasonal exhortation. It is a trumpet blast to the soul.
Rend Your Hearts
Joel’s command pierces deeper still: “Rend your hearts, and not your garments.” In ancient Israel, the tearing of garments signified grief. Yet the Lord demands more than outward signs; He seeks the interior rupture of pride, the tearing away of sin, the breaking of the hardened heart.
St. Jerome comments that true repentance is not found in external demonstrations alone but in “the inward wound of compunction.” For Jerome, the torn heart is the heart that feels its distance from God and sorrows for having offended Love itself. Without this interior conversion, ashes remain dust upon the skin.
St. Augustine echoes this truth: “Let your heart be bruised with contrition, that it may be healed by mercy.” The ashes imposed upon our foreheads signify mortality—“Memento, homo, quia pulvis es”—but they also signify hope. Dust, when touched by divine breath, may live again.
Thus the Church begins Lent not in despair, but in confidence: “Because He is gracious and merciful, patient and rich in mercy” (Joel 2:13). The severity of penance rests upon the tenderness of God.
The Fast That Pleases God
In the Gospel (Matt. 6:16–21), Our Lord deepens the prophetic call. He does not abolish fasting; He purifies it.
“When you fast,” He says—not if. The Christian life presumes ascetic struggle. Yet He warns: “Be not as the hypocrites, sad.” The Pharisee disfigures his face to display his sacrifice; the disciple anoints his head and washes his face. Why? Because penance is ordered toward the Father who sees in secret.
St. John Chrysostom explains that fasting is medicine, not theatre. “The fast,” he writes, “is not for display, but for the healing of the soul.” To parade one’s mortification is to exchange eternal reward for fleeting admiration. The applause of men is a thin substitute for the smile of God.
True fasting, according to St. Leo the Great, must extend beyond abstinence from food. “Let us abstain from sin,” he exhorts, “for in vain is the flesh restrained if the mind is not bridled.” What profit is there in reducing bread if anger, vanity, and impurity feast without restraint?
Thus, Ash Wednesday places before us a hierarchy of treasures.
Where Is Thy Treasure?
Our Lord concludes: “Where thy treasure is, there is thy heart also.” Lent is a season of relocation. We are invited to examine where our treasure truly lies.
Is it comfort? Reputation? Security? Pleasure?
Ashes declare that all earthly treasure ends in dust. But Christ does not strip away illusion without offering something greater: treasure in heaven.
St. Gregory the Great teaches that earthly goods are not evil in themselves, but dangerous when loved excessively. “When the heart cleaves to passing things,” he writes, “it cannot rise to eternal joys.” Lent loosens these attachments. Through fasting, almsgiving, and prayer, the heart grows lighter—more capable of ascent.
To give alms is to store treasure in heaven. To fast is to reclaim mastery over self. To pray is to anchor the heart in God. These are not arbitrary disciplines but instruments of freedom.
The Church in Penitential Assembly
Joel describes priests weeping between porch and altar, crying: “Spare, O Lord, spare Thy people.” The liturgy of this day places these very words upon the Church’s lips. Lent is not merely individual penance; it is ecclesial supplication.
The Mystical Body enters the desert together.
In the traditional Roman rite, the ashes are blessed with solemn exorcisms and prayers, reminding us that sin is not trivial weakness but a wound within a cosmic battle. We kneel to receive ashes as subjects before a King, acknowledging both guilt and dependence.
Yet Joel promises restoration: the Lord will be “jealous for His land” and will answer His people. The penitent Church does not wander aimlessly in the wilderness; she follows Christ, who Himself fasted forty days and overcame the tempter.
The Joy Hidden in Ashes
Paradoxically, there is joy in this severity.
St. Augustine observes that repentance contains a sweetness unknown to the complacent sinner: “There is a certain sorrow which rejoices.” Why? Because contrition restores communion. The prodigal son’s tears precede the Father’s embrace.
Our Lord’s command to “anoint thy head” suggests not gloom, but quiet confidence. Christian penance is not despairing self-hatred; it is hopeful return.
Ash Wednesday inaugurates a holy campaign. The weapons are prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. The battlefield is the heart. The enemy is sin. The prize is eternal life.
As we bow our heads to receive ashes, let us ask for the grace of true interior conversion. Let us rend not garments but hearts. Let us fast not for display but for purification. Let us relocate our treasure from earth to heaven.
For the One who calls us to repentance is “gracious and merciful.” And if we return to Him with all our heart, the desert of Lent will blossom into the joy of Easter dawn.
“Convertimini ad Me in toto corde vestro.” May this be the prayer that echoes within us throughout these forty sacred days.