The Gospel Reading: Matthew 6:19-21
‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
The Sermon: The Rev. Dr. Maryann Amor
I am blessed to have a clergy mentor—an experienced priest who has been in ministry for over 40 years. Every couple of weeks, we meet to talk through the struggles of parish life. It’s reassuring to have someone who understands, who has been there, done that, and can remind me that so much of what I’m facing…things I never expected…is normal.
Recently, we were discussing the challenge of our roof and bell tower project and brainstorming ways to raise the necessary funds. My mentor, who was in charge of a multimillion dollar building project at St. Pauls Bloor Street in Toronto, suggested that we incorporate Lent into our approach…not just as a time of sacrifice, but as a season of forward-thinking and hopefulness. Almsgiving is a core Lenten practice, and he proposed that each of us set aside some money for the project, making it part of our collective legacy for the future. That conversation is what inspired the Lent packages that I created for us.
Then, in passing, he said something that I haven’t been able to get out of my mind: “There are never U-Hauls at funerals.”
And that was the moment the lightbulb switched on.
Like many of us, I value what I have—the money I work hard to save, the possessions that give me a sense of security. But none of it will come with me when I die. As today reminds us so vividly, one day we will return to the dust from which we were formed, and our belongings will remain behind.
Some days, this reality hits me in unexpected ways. I look at the teddy bear I received on my 10th birthday, who has been with me to India, to Scotland, and now sits on my bed, and I wonder what will happen to him when I’m gone. Likely, he will end up in a landfill, his significance in my life lost. The same is true of my academic robes—symbols of years of hard work to complete my PhD. The same is true of every single thing I own. And the same is true for you and all that you own.
So if none of the stuff can come with us—if there are no U-Hauls at funerals—then we are left with an important question: What actually matters? Is it the things we accumulate, or is it something more? As Jesus challenges us to ask ourselves today: Where is our treasure? Where is our heart?
And this is where the connection to legacy, to the roof and bell tower, and to our Lenten journey becomes clear. If we know we won’t be here forever, then we need to shift our focus from what we own to what we leave behind. Asking ourselves, who is coming after us and what kind of future do we want for them?
I think about my young nieces and the ways I set aside for them. And I think about our church—the generations that will gather here long after we’re gone. Do we really believe our church will still stand in the years to come, and if we do, how are we preparing for those who will worship here when we are no longer around?
I can’t help but wonder: If we, as a world, had thought this way—if we had cared more about our legacy than our possessions—would climate change be the crisis it is today? Would we have less waste? Would we have built something more lasting, something truly worth leaving behind?
The stuff we cling to will one day end up in landfills…but the love we share, the generosity we practice, and the legacy we build—those are the things that last. There are no U-Hauls at funerals. Nothing we have will come with us. So this Ash Wednesday, this Lent, we must honestly ask ourselves: Where is our treasure? Where is our heart?
Amen.
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