Thoughts on Joel 2:1-2, 12-17 on Ash Wednesday

There are moments in life when the warning sirens sound. A storm is coming. A fire is spreading. A crisis looms. And when the siren wails, everything else stops. You don’t keep going about your day as if nothing has changed. You pay attention. You listen. You prepare.

Imagine a fire alarm screaming in the middle of the night. One moment, sleep held us in its quiet grip; the next, we were jolted awake, disoriented, the acrid smell of smoke in the air. In an instant, everything changed. No time to think—just the rush to get out, to make sure everyone was safe. The crackling heat, the frantic search for a way through. And at that moment, nothing else mattered—none of the worries of yesterday, none of the plans for tomorrow. Just the fire, the urgency, and the desperate hope that we had prepared in time.

The prophet Joel begins with such a warning.

Imagine yourself now in Jerusalem, walking through the city just as dawn is breaking. The early morning air is cool, the streets quiet. Merchants are setting up their stalls. The first prayers of the day rise from the temple. And then, without warning, a sound shatters the silence.

A shofar.

A blast from the ram’s horn, long and urgent. Another. Then another.

People stop in their tracks. Mothers pull their children close. Merchants leave their goods. Heads turn toward the temple mount, where the sound is coming from.

The watchmen blow the trumpet in Zion.

The alarm has been sounded.

And the people know what it means. The Day of the Lord is coming.

For generations, the people of Israel believed that this day would be one of triumph—God’s great reckoning, when the enemies of Israel would be judged, and the faithful would be vindicated. But Joel’s message is different. The siren is not for their enemies. It is for them.

That is the hardest truth to hear, isn’t it? It is easy to believe that justice needs to come for someone else. That others need to change. That others need to repent. But Joel’s prophecy forces the people to look inward. This is not about “those people over there.” This is about us.

And isn’t that always the hardest truth to face?  

Someone recently told me of a friend who had given them a ride.  They saw an odd object, an object they did not recognize, in the back seat.  They asked what is was.  It was a shofar.  The friend explained they had been to a political event, rally, and they had taken their shofar.

We look at the world and see its failings. Corruption. Greed. Injustice. We see the things that should change, the people who should do better. But what happens when the sirens are for us? When we are the ones who need to turn?

Joel does not soften the message. “A day of darkness and gloom” is coming. The way they have been living—the ways they have neglected justice, ignored God’s call, lived for themselves—is leading them toward destruction.

But then, in the middle of the warning, comes a whisper of grace.

“Yet even now,” says the Lord, “return to me with all your heart.”

Yet even now.

Despite everything. Despite the way we have strayed. The door is not closed.

Judgment is near, but mercy still stands.

The warning is not the final word.

There is still time.

“Return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning. Rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

Tearing one’s garments was a public display of grief, a ritual of repentance. But Joel calls:  Rend your hearts.

True repentance is not about appearances. It is about transformation. It is about turning from the things that have drawn us away from God and turning back toward the One who gives life. It is not about fear. It is about trust.

Repentance is never just personal. It is communal.

“Blow the trumpet in Zion; sanctify a fast; call a solemn assembly.”

Everyone is included. The elders. The children. Even the infants. Even the bride and groom in the middle of their wedding day. This is not an individual choice—it is a communal cry.

“Spare your people, O Lord!”

This is not just about personal sin, but about the failings of the whole community. It is about the ways they have strayed together. The systems, the structures, the habits of life that have led them away from justice, from compassion, from faithfulness.

It is a call for all of God’s people to wake up.

As we enter this season of Lent, we are invited into a time of self-examination, a time of repentance, a time to ask ourselves:

Where have we placed our trust?

What have we relied on instead of God?

Where is God calling us to turn, to return, to begin again?

But repentance is not just about what we turn from.

It is about what we turn toward.

What does it look like for us to live as people who have truly returned?

Maybe it means releasing an old bitterness, letting go of a grudge that has kept us bound. Maybe it means turning away from a pattern of self-reliance and surrendering control. Maybe it means speaking truth where we have been silent or seeking justice where we have been complacent.

But it is not just about individual choices. What would it mean for us as a church to live into this call?

What would it mean for our community to practice repentance—not just in words, but in action?

What would it look like for us to be a people who rend our hearts, not just our garments?

Joel asks, “Who knows what God will do?”

But this much is certain: the God who calls us to repentance is the same God who holds us in love.

So let us turn. Let us return. Let us trust.

Not just because the sirens are sounding, but because the voice behind them is calling us home.