When No One Sees - But God Sees Everything...
Lenten Reflections "Ash Wednesday."
Jacob Mascarenhas
Dear Readers,
(Ash Wednesday Reflection – Matthew 6:1–6, 16–18)
Today is Ash Wednesday. Today, the Church marks our foreheads with ashes and reminds us of a truth we often avoid: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” These words, drawn into the rhythm of our hearts at the beginning of Lent, are not meant to frighten us but to free us. They strip away illusion. They quiet our pride. They return us to what is essential. The Gospel proclaimed today from the Gospel of Matthew 6:1–6, 16–18 invites us into a spirituality that is hidden, sincere, and deeply personal. Jesus speaks of giving, praying, and fasting, not as performances for others, but as intimate acts offered quietly to the Father who sees in secret.
There is something profoundly comforting in knowing that God sees in secret. He sees what others miss. He sees the silent battles, the unspoken fears, the private tears, the attempts to begin again. Lent begins not with noise but with humility. It begins with the acknowledgement that much of our spiritual life has become external, visible, even performative. We live in a world that rewards exposure, applause, and recognition. Yet Christ gently calls us back into the hidden room. “When you pray, go into your room, close the door.” That instruction alone feels revolutionary. Close the door. Step away from the crowd. Leave behind the need to be seen.
Repentance, at its heart, is not self-condemnation. It is a return. It is turning around. It is realising that somewhere along the journey we may have drifted into distraction, into pride, into self-reliance and choosing to walk back toward God. Today is not about shame; it is about honesty. The ashes on our foreheads declare that we are fragile, temporary, dependent on grace. And strangely, that truth liberates us. If I am dust, then I do not have to pretend to be invincible. If I am dust, then every breath is a gift. If I am dust, then God alone is my strength.
As I reflect on my own journey, I recognise how quietly God has been guiding me. In the seasons when I thought I was simply writing stories, forming ideas, shaping reflections, or learning how to draw and create images, something deeper was happening. He was teaching me patience. He was teaching me discipline. He was teaching me humility. There were moments of frustration when words would not come, when creativity felt dry, when doubt whispered that perhaps I was not capable. Yet even in those moments, something unseen was taking place. Growth often happens in secret, just as Christ describes. Seeds do not sprout in public; they break open underground.
Jesus warns us today about practising righteousness “to be seen.” That phrase touches something uncomfortable in the human heart. How often do we do good while secretly hoping to be acknowledged? How often do we pray, serve, give, or even suffer in ways that we wish others would notice? Lent challenges that subtle desire. It asks us to purify our intentions. When we give, can we give without needing praise? When we help, can we help without recounting it later? When we forgive, can we forgive without announcing our generosity? True charity is quiet. True love does not demand an audience.
Prayer, too, becomes different when we remove the audience. It becomes less about eloquence and more about presence. There have been times in my life when prayer was nothing more than sitting in silence, uncertain of what to say. There were days when I simply placed my confusion before God and admitted, “I do not understand.” Yet even in that simplicity, something sacred unfolded. The closed door becomes a sanctuary. The hidden conversation becomes a transformation. God shapes us not through spectacle but through stillness.
Fasting, which we begin today, is perhaps the most misunderstood ritual of the Lenten practices. It is not a display of endurance or a contest of willpower. Jesus tells us not to look sombre, not to exaggerate our sacrifice. Fasting is about making space. When we voluntarily deny ourselves something, food, comfort, or distraction, we create room within ourselves. Hunger becomes a reminder that we depend on something greater than bread. Emptiness becomes an invitation. The slight ache in the body becomes a prayer of longing.
Yet fasting is not limited to food. This Lent, perhaps we are called to fast from harsh words, from unnecessary arguments, from constant comparison. Perhaps we are invited to fast from scrolling endlessly, from seeking validation, from clinging to resentment. These hidden fasts may be even more powerful than the visible ones. They purify the heart quietly. They soften us in ways no one else may ever notice.
Healing often begins where no one is watching. Lent gives us permission to confront what we have buried. Old wounds, disappointments, regrets, failures, these can surface gently in the quiet of prayer. The Father who sees in secret also heals in secret. He does not humiliate us. He restores us. Looking back, I can see how many of my struggles became the soil from which creativity emerged. Pain refined my voice. Doubt deepened my reflections. Loneliness cultivated imagination. What once felt like emptiness became preparation.
There is a mysterious pattern in the way God works. He allows seasons of wilderness before renewal. He permits silence before clarity. He leads us through humility before exaltation. Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of that wilderness. Forty days stretch before us, not as punishment, but as a pilgrimage. This is a time to let go. To release pride. To surrender control. To detach from the versions of ourselves that are driven by approval or fear.
Letting go is never easy. We grow accustomed to certain habits, certain identities, certain ways of coping. But today’s ashes remind us that everything temporary will eventually fall away. Only what is rooted in God remains. If something within me needs to die so that something holier can live, then Lent is the season to allow that transformation. Death in the spiritual sense is not destruction; it is pruning. And pruning prepares for fruit.
The promise embedded in today’s Gospel is quiet but powerful: “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” The reward is not necessarily visible success. It may not be applause or immediate answers. The reward is intimacy with God. It is the deep assurance that He knows, He understands, He walks with us. There is peace in that. There is freedom in that.
As this Lenten season begins today, I do not want to approach it mechanically. I want to approach it sincerely. If I fast, let it create space for grace. If I pray, let it cultivate trust. If I give, let it purify my love. If I repent, let it draw me closer to the heart of God. This is not merely a tradition repeated each year. It is an opportunity to begin again.
Today, the ashes mark us, but the true work will unfold invisibly in the days ahead. In hidden prayers whispered before dawn. In small sacrifices, no one notices. In quiet acts of kindness that never receive acknowledgement. In the slow reshaping of the heart. The Father who sees in secret is already at work. And if we walk these forty days with honesty and humility, we may discover that what begins in ashes leads, quietly and beautifully, toward resurrection. 🌿
Closing Prayer for Ash Wednesday
Heavenly Father,
Today, as the ashes rest upon my forehead, I stand before You aware of my fragility and my need for Your mercy. I am dust, yet I am loved. I am imperfect, yet I am called. As this Lenten season begins, I ask You to lead me into the quiet places where transformation truly begins.
Teach me to repent sincerely, not out of fear, but out of love. Show me where my heart has hardened, where pride has taken root, where distraction has replaced devotion. Gently turn me back to You. Give me the courage to let go of what is not from You and the humility to admit where I need healing.
Lord, help me to pray in secret, to seek You without needing recognition. Help me to give without counting the cost, to love without seeking applause. As I fast, may it not be an outward display, but an inward surrender. Empty me of what does not serve Your will, and fill me with Your grace.
You have guided my steps more times than I can see. You have inspired my thoughts, strengthened my creativity, and carried me through seasons of doubt and silence. Continue to shape me during these forty days. Refine my intentions. Purify my heart. Deepen my trust.
Father who sees in secret, walk with me through this Lent. When I grow tired, strengthen me. When I stumble, lift me. When I am tempted to perform rather than transform, remind me that Your presence is enough.
May this season prepare me for something new, a renewed faith, a gentler spirit, a heart more aligned with Yours. And when Easter comes, may I rise with Christ, not only in celebration, but in true renewal.
Into Your hands, I place this Lenten journey.
Amen. 🌿
Until next time…
God Bless Us All…
- Jacob Mascarenhas
Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip
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