Returning to God

Ash Wednesday Mass
Christopher Cobb
Salesianum School 2025 

The passage we heard today from St. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians reminds us of something powerful. God is constantly calling us back to Him. He is not distant, waiting for us to prove ourselves worthy. Instead, He is actively reaching out, offering us the grace to return.

Joel 2:12 states: “Even now, says the Lord, return to me with your whole heart.”

The season of Lent is one of conversion and sacrifice, but more than anything, Lent is about returning.

Returning to God.

Returning to what truly matters.

Returning to the person you were always meant to be.

But returning isn’t always easy—because before you can move forward, you sometimes have to let go of important things in your life.

For a long time, I found comfort in the friendships I had built at my old school, Tower Hill. I mean, yeah, I studied with these friends in school and hung out on the weekends, but they were more than just friends. They were the people I leaned on through some of the hardest moments of my life.

When my dad was diagnosed with Stage Four Colon Cancer, there was really only one person who could empathize with what I was going through, as her dad was diagnosed at the exact same time. Her name was Alex.

For months, we supported each other, sharing fears about the future that no one else could understand. We both knew what it was like to sit in the car and hear your father talk about his funeral plans. We both knew what it was like to see the strongest man in our lives, our role models since we were kids, become weak.

But when I transferred to Sallies, I cut myself off from almost everyone at Tower Hill. Part of me thought it was fear—that I had relied on them for everything, especially when it came to dealing with my dad’s diagnosis. I didn’t know if I could handle going through the thoughts and feelings alone. But a bigger part of me knows that I was just distracted—lost in a relationship that, at the time, I thought was everything.

The relationship consumed me. I let it take priority over my personal confidence, my friends, and my general ability to see things clearly. By the time it fell apart, I looked around and realized I had very little to no one that had been there for me since I was a little boy. The people who had been my closest friends, the ones who had once supported me, had hated the person I became.

Time went on, and I developed and became closer to the friends I have today. I became extremely comfortable with my surroundings. 

Until, one day, somewhat recently, I heard the news—Alex’s father had passed away.

I hadn’t talked to her in so long, but the second I heard the news, I reached out.

When I went to the funeral, I walked up to her and watched the tears fill her eyes as I gave her my warm embrace that had been gone for so long. Not only was the service itself extremely sad, but I was sitting in the back of that church, thinking about my own dad. Thinking about how, at any moment, I could be the one sitting in that front row, burying my own Dad. Thinking about how, for so long, I had pushed my closest friends away, when really, I had needed them the most.

That moment made me realize something: Lent isn’t just about giving something up—it’s about making space for what truly matters.

St. Paul writes, “We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God.” 

That’s what Lent is about—reconciliation. It’s about realizing that, no matter how far we’ve strayed off our path, no matter how lost we feel, God is always calling us to come back home.

With regards to the more vanilla view of Lent though, it can be viewed as a season of sacrifice as well.  But true sacrifice isn’t just about giving something up—it’s about making space for something greater.

When I think about sacrifice, I think about my dad.

Even while going through chemo, he never stopped being my dad. He still went to work. He still coached my lacrosse team at Tower Hill. He still made sure I never saw him break. But I knew. I knew that every time he left the room, every time he was alone, he was and is in pain.

One night, on the way home from practice, he told me, “If it ever gets worse and I pass… I want to be cremated. I will pick a place on earth that I never got the chance to see, and I want each of you to take my ashes and spread them there.

Being that my own dad was talking to me about his eventual passing, I sat there in silence. I sat trying to process the fact that my dad was planning for a future where he wouldn’t be there. And I hated it. I hated how unfair it was. I hated that I couldn’t stop it.

But through all of it, my dad has never stopped choosing to fight.

That’s when I learned something that changed my perspective on sacrifice:

Strength isn’t about how much pain you can avoid. It’s about how much pain you can carry.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to play college lacrosse. It wasn’t just a sport to me—it was a way to prove myself socially and to make my dad proud. It was supposed to be my future.

But my grades from Tower Hill weren’t good enough, and I couldn’t perform when I needed to the most. When recruiting didn’t go my way, I felt like everything had been for nothing.

My confidence disappeared. My mental health got worse. The one thing I had worked toward my entire life felt like it had been ripped away.

Last year was hard on me. I lost my relationship. I lost my childhood dog to a tumor in her hip. I had lost my dreams of playing college lacrosse. I was scared of losing my Dad at times. But more than anything, I lost myself.

I no longer recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror.

But if Lent has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes, we have to let go of the things we cling to the most in order to make space for something greater. 

Just like Jesus’s 40 days in the desert, where He gave up comfort to prepare for what was ahead, I had to step into the unknown, trusting that the emptiness I felt wasn’t the end of my story but the beginning of something new.

Within the new aspects of my life, the most significant thing to me is that I’ve restored the relationship with my parents, with my sister who lives out in Wyoming, and with everyone at Tower Hill that I thought I had lost.

When you let go of what is comfortable, when you trust in God’s plan, when you return to what truly matters, you open yourself up to something greater.

St. Paul reminds us: “Now is a very acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

Lent isn’t just about giving something up.

It’s about stepping into the unknown.

It’s about letting go of the version of yourself that was comfortable and embracing the version of yourself that is capable.

Because you will never grow if you stand in the same place forever.

Seniors, we have 10 weeks of school before everything changes for the rest of your life. These masses where we come together and sing, the small moments in the hallways with your friends, your daily lunch table arguments and discussions will soon become memories. 52 school days left isn’t a whole lot of time.

But 52 days in this building is enough. It’s enough to return—to who we are and to what truly matters. Before it’s too late.

So, as our Mass comes to an end, let us remember—Lent isn’t just about sacrifice.

It’s about returning.

Returning to the pain, not to dwell in it, but to rise from it.

Returning to the unknown, not with fear, but with faith.

Returning to God, not as who you were, but as who you were always meant to become. 

Lent isn’t about what you leave behind,

It’s about preparing for the next chapter in the same book that God has been writing all along.

Brothers Unite.

Live Jesus.