Ash Wednesday is probably one of the most well-known Catholic days of the year. And yet, it always feels a little strange—especially walking around here on campus. There’s nothing subtle about a dirty ashen cross on your forehead. You can’t pretend it’s not there. People will ask about it. Some respect it, some might joke, but everyone notices.
Then we hear this Gospel, where Jesus says: “When you pray, go to your inner room; when you fast, do not look gloomy; when you give, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing.” At first, it sounds like the opposite of what we’re about to do. So, which is it—public ashes or private conversion? The answer is both; that tension is actually the point. Ash Wednesday invites us to live with this tension: the outward sign of ashes and the inward call to conversion. In a world full of noise and distraction, that call can feel challenging—sometimes even confusing. We’re asked to balance what’s visible with what’s hidden, what’s public with what’s deeply personal.
That tension reminds me of a conversation I had a couple of weeks ago while catching up with an old friend over dinner. Somehow, we got on the topic of podcasts—and we both laughed when we realized we’d been listening to Joe Rogan for a while. It’s been fascinating to hear these long-form conversations with people from every background—athletes, comedians, actors, scientists, inventors, politicians. Rogan has this easygoing, curious, conversational side that makes him a great interviewer. I don’t agree with everything I hear—who does, really?—but I appreciate hearing different perspectives. It stretches you.
Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for ASH WEDNESDAY – February 18, 2026 – Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.
And for those who prefer listening, you can find the audio version on SoundCloud HERE or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes HERE. Your comments, messages, and the way you’ve embraced these homilies continue to inspire me. Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim
Lately, there’s been one name that keeps surfacing in conversation after conversation: Jeffrey Epstein. The scandal, the revelations, the speculation. It’s been this avalanche of information, and the reactions have been as polarized as everything else lately. Some people weaponize it for political purposes. Some are obsessed with every possible new detail. Some are numb, overwhelmed, and just want to ignore it.
What surprised me on a recent episode was when Rogan himself admitted he sometimes has to mentally check out from the story for his own well-being. Even for someone who doesn’t consider himself religious, Rogan saw it as “diabolical” and said he has breaking points where he just has to shut it off. That stuck with me—not because accountability doesn’t matter (it does), and not because justice or transparency shouldn’t matter (they do)—but because there’s something about immersing ourselves in darkness, over and over again, that does something to us. It changes us. It weighs us down. It makes us restless, suspicious, anxious.
If we’re honest, it’s not just the Epstein scandal. It’s the constant outrage, the doomscrolling, the algorithms pushing us anger, fear, and shock. We’re bombarded by the world’s worst sins in high definition 24/7, right on our phones. And eventually, we either get enraged, or we go numb. You know what never happens? Peace.
That’s why it’s kind of a miracle that we’re here today. Despite all that noise, and schedules, and to-do lists—something made you come to Ash Wednesday Mass. Maybe you’re one of our students who’s here every Sunday. Maybe you saw an email, an Instagram ad, or chalk on the sidewalk and thought, “Oh, I have to go…”—that was a nudge from the Holy Spirit. And then, what did we just hear God say to us?
“Even now… return to me with your whole heart.”
“Rend your hearts, not your garments.”
“Behold, now is a very acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”
God Himself is calling all of us to repent—to turn away from any and all darkness, to turn away from another news cycle, another podcast, from our political tribes, and return to Him. Because the problem isn’t just “out there.” The evil we see and hear and discuss over and over—why does it shock and horrify us? Because it shows just how far humanity can drift when it’s untethered from God, disconnected from the source of life and love. But Lent isn’t about pointing fingers at the darkness out there. It’s about asking: Where has darkness crept into my own heart? Where have I drifted? Where have I rejected God? How have I replaced Him with something or someone else? Where have I numbed myself? Where have I let noise replace prayer?
Tragically, just a week ago, actor James Van Der Beek passed away. Many grew up watching him on Dawson’s Creek or Varsity Blues—or at least knew who he was. But maybe you didn’t know he’d been battling cancer. In a video that has gone viral from less than a year ago, looking straight into the camera—you could still recognize him, but you could see the toll cancer had taken—he said:
“This year, I had to look my own mortality in the eye. I had to come nose to nose with death.And all of those definitions that I cared so deeply about were stripped from me. I was away for treatment, so I could no longer be a husband who was helpful to my wife. I could no longer be a father who could pick up his kids and put them to bed and be there for them. I could not be a provider because I wasn’t working. I couldn’t even be a steward of the land because at times I was too weak to prune all the trees during the window that you’re supposed to prune them.
And so, I was faced with the question: If I am just a too-skinny, weak guy alone in an apartment with cancer, what am I?
I meditated, and the answer came through: I am worthy of God’s love simply because I exist. And if I’m worthy of God’s love, shouldn’t I also be worthy of my own? And the same is true for you.”
“I am worthy of God’s love simply because I exist.” No show of hands, but how many of us sincerely, truly believe that? How many of us have ever even heard that?
Ash Wednesday is the start of this season of Lent—a call to return to Him. Our identity doesn’t come from what we achieve, how we perform, or what others think of us. It comes from being God’s beloved sons and daughters.
It’s sobering to hear those words—“Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return”—as ashes are put on our foreheads. But despite what you may have heard, sobriety isn’t a bad thing. In fact, it’s good in a world that seems to move from one massive hangover to another. In this moment of clarity—faced with the craziness of the world and our own mortality—these ashes are a sign of hope. Our stories are not over. No one is too far gone.
Whatever brokenness or shame you brought in here, whatever feels numb or restless, God already knows. He is our loving Father who rejoices to see His children here—returning.
What do we do with that? Jesus gives us a roadmap in the Gospel today to clear out the noise and make space for God: prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. Not as things to show off, not as religious tasks to check off a list, but as concrete ways to hear His voice clearer in our lives.
Start with prayer—make His voice louder than the world’s. Make Sunday Mass essential, and then carve out some time every day. Imagine, just for Lent, stopping the scroll for a few minutes and listing three things you’re grateful for, or three people you want to pray for.
Fasting isn’t just giving up chocolate until Easter or skipping meat on Fridays. It’s stepping back from things so we remember we’re more than just our wants, and our desires don’t need to be answered every second. Maybe fast from the outrage, from the endless news, from whatever dulls your soul. Do it to pay attention to your soul, and your hunger for God.
Almsgiving—generosity—pulls us out of ourselves. The world teaches us to be cynical, suspicious, self-protective. Giving—your time, your attention, your help—reminds you that there’s still goodness, still light to be shared. You become a living contradiction to the darkness.
One powerful way to confront the darkness that has found its way into our lives is through the Sacrament of Reconciliation. In a world that LOVES to broadcast everyone else’s sins while ignoring their own, confession does the exact opposite. We bring our personal brokenness to Christ, who uses another broken and weak man, a priest – not for judgment or shame, but healing and forgiveness. Think about how much time we spend doomscrolling through the worlds horrors growing numb or angry. But rarely do we confront our role in that darkness – the grudges we hold, the times we’ve put ourselves ahead of others, the ways we’ve given into temptation and sinned. Confession isn’t about beating ourselves up; it’s God’s mercy in action. We offer opportunities every day at the Newman Center for confession and will be available all day between Masses today to offer this opportunity if its been awhile. Don’t let fear or embarrassment keep you away. As they say, the first step is the hardest – but it’s where real heart-rending happens – tearing open the hidden places so God can heal them. It’s the place where God’s mercy and victory over sin and death touches us personally.
This is the path of Lent – real healing, real freedom. Yes, the ashes are public. But the real work is hidden. Lent isn’t about spiritual branding—it’s about letting God do real heart surgery. “Rend your hearts, not your garments.” Tear your heart open, not out of shame, but so it can be healed.
Whatever brought you here today—a sense of tradition, curiosity, a longing for something more—that’s not an accident. That’s grace. The Lord is inviting you: not to obsess over the darkness out there, but to let Him bring light into your heart. Not to run from your weakness, but to let Him meet you in it.
The world doesn’t need more outrage. It needs more saints. And sainthood doesn’t start with fixing everyone else. It starts with ashes. It starts with a heart that says, “Even now, Lord, I return to you. Even now, I trust that I am loved.”
So as you receive these ashes today, let that be your prayer. Return to Him, with your whole heart. Let Him do the healing, the restoring, the transforming. Because you are worthy of His love—simply because you exist. And that is enough.
