Pastoral Letter: The Mark of Dust, the Grace of Returning Home

“Let us remember that we are dust, and to dust we shall return.”

On Ash Wednesday, ashes touched our foreheads—and within that ash, the shape of a cross. The ashes speak plainly: we are finite. The cross speaks just as plainly: even here, God does not let us go. This is not a mark meant to frighten us. It tells the truth, and in telling the truth, gives us our name again.

I often say, “One day, we will return to the embrace of God.” I use the word return because it carries a confession: we come from God. Created by God, we live by breathing in and breathing out. We share life alongside other creatures. We move through days shaped by relationships, responsibilities, and the places God has entrusted to us. And when our breathing is complete—when this body, like a garment, has finished its work—when God calls our name, we come home.

The life between our first breath and our final breath is a gift. God entrusts us with days, and within those days we choose and stumble and begin again. We taste surrender and courage, disappointment and renewal, setbacks and small joys. Yet beneath it all runs a steadier truth: before we hold on to God, God holds on to us. In Wesleyan language, prevenient grace goes ahead of us, opening the way. We respond by turning—sometimes slowly, sometimes suddenly—toward the One who has already been faithful.

Lent invites us to notice where our love has been headed. To respond more fully to the risen Christ, we stand before our Creator and listen for our true name. We are human. We are made in the image of God. We are dust—and yet, through the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, we are welcomed into life with God.

Each year, the Spirit meets us with questions that feel less like examination and more like mercy: “Who are you?” “What is giving you life?” “What are you holding as you walk?” The Spirit does not come with a measuring stick. The Spirit opens a door. We do not find our way home because we have performed well enough to be loved. We find our way home because we are loved.

As Lent unfolds, how are you walking with the Lord in the steady hours of your days?

I’m writing from a retreat in upstate New York, gathered with clergy colleagues and our families. We worship, listen to Scripture, pray, and reflect on how we will serve together in the year ahead. The children are at the waterpark—laughing, splashing, fully alive. In one direction, prayer and Scripture. In another, water and laughter. And I’m brought back to a simple truth: God is present not only in moments we label “holy,” but in the ordinary hours that shape most of our lives.

One theme that stayed with me here is calling. We spoke about ordained ministry, of course. But the deeper beginning point was this: calling is not reserved for pastors. It is a gift given to all who follow Christ. Before I was ordained, I lived as a layperson—called as God’s child, formed as a disciple of Jesus, growing within the life of the church. The Spirit still builds up the body of Christ through the gifts entrusted to each of us. When our attention drifts, the Spirit gently brings us back to center—back to loving God, and loving one another.

In our conversations, we kept returning to a simple rhythm: resting in the Word, delighting in the Word, and letting our souls be renewed by the Word. Delight does not mean distraction. It means holy ease—letting the clenched places in us soften, learning again to live in God’s presence without pretending we are machines.

We need this rhythm because we are dust. Within our bodies, minds, and souls, a longing to bear God’s image lives alongside human fragility. We know love—and yet we miss love. A desire to follow God’s will can collide with the impulse to center everything on my thoughts, my feelings, my way. Some days, the noise of the world crowds out the quieter conversation of God.

Lent does not ask us to add more weight to already full lives. It draws us toward presence. It brings us back to breathing. It steadies us before the Word. It clears a small space where the Spirit’s voice can be heard. Repentance is not the anxious work of scanning for more failures. It is the grace of turning our love back toward God.

Being here has given me space to become more attentive to God and to my own soul. I’m grateful for that gift at the beginning of Lent. And from a place a few hours away, I find myself thinking of you. Where are you today, and what kind of day are you carrying? In a quick greeting at work, in a glance across the table, in a quiet pause before beginning again—perhaps you can remember God’s breath. With a cup of tea, coffee, or even a sip of water, you might notice the God who is near, without fanfare and without hurry.

We do not know how much time we have been given on this earth. And precisely for that reason, today matters. Today is open toward eternity. An ordinary, dust-like day can shine within God’s life. Lent presses that truth gently back into our hearts.

Beloved Simsbury UMC family, Lent does not ask us to exhaust ourselves into perfection. It opens a way back to God. The Spirit speaks first. Christ walks ahead. And God’s love remains steady—knowing we are dust.

So let the pressure to be flawless loosen its grip. The Spirit, who knows you through and through, stays close—keeping time with your breath and your steps. Rest your life in that hope. The Spirit does not turn away from our fragility, but turns us toward love—sometimes with tenderness, sometimes with clarity—so that when we fall, we can rise and keep walking.

I look forward to seeing you in worship this Sunday, and to meeting you in the place where you are. May we come before the God who gives us life—breathing a little deeper, finding our center, and moving, unhurried, into love.

With many blessings,
Pastor DH Choi