Pieces of the Puzzle

“Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help.” — Psalm 146:3

That is a clear word. Almost blunt.

The psalmist does not hedge. Do not anchor your hope in human rulers. Do not build your future on breath that fades. Do not expect salvation from someone whose plans perish with them (Psalm 146:3–4).

And yet—if we are honest—that is exactly what we are tempted to do.

When things feel unstable…
When leadership disappoints…
When the future feels uncertain…

Our instinct is to look for someone strong enough to steady it all.

Psalm 146 draws a sharp contrast. Human rulers are temporary. Their breath departs and their plans perish (v. 4). But “the Lord will reign forever” (v. 10).

The psalm invites us to place our hope carefully. It asks us to examine where we instinctively turn when life feels fragile.

But Psalm 146:1–10 was not written in a vacuum. It emerged from a people who had already learned this lesson the hard way.

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When We Demand a King

In 1 Samuel 8, Israel reaches a turning point.

Leadership feels unstable. The prophet Samuel is aging. His sons, who serve as judges, are corrupt (1 Samuel 8:1–3). The future feels uncertain. So the elders gather and make a request that seems reasonable:

“Appoint for us, then, a king to govern us, like other nations” (1 Samuel 8:5).

They want stability. Security. Someone to fight their battles (v. 20).

Samuel warns them carefully. A king will take their sons. Take their daughters. Take their fields. Take their flocks (1 Samuel 8:10–17). The repetition is striking: take, take, take.

And still they insist:

“No! but we are determined to have a king over us” (v. 19).

It is easy to judge them. But before we do, it is worth asking why their request felt so urgent.

They were not asking for a king because life was easy. They were asking because they were anxious.

They wanted clarity. Strength. Someone visible to steady what felt fragile.

And that is not so foreign to us.

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If We Just Had the Right Leader

When systems feel shaky…
When trust erodes…
When leaders disappoint us…
When the future feels unclear…

Our instinct is often the same:

If we just had the right leader.

The right pastor.
The right president.
The right supervisor.
The right board.

If the right person were in place, we tell ourselves, things would settle.

We do this in churches. We do this in families. We do this in communities and nations. We elevate leaders quickly—sometimes with relief, sometimes with enthusiasm. For a season, hope feels renewed.

And then reality sets in.

Because leaders are human.

They age.
They falter.
They disappoint.
They make decisions we do not like.

We turn leaders into saviors. And when they fail to save, we turn them into villains.

Israel’s request for a king is not ancient history. It is a mirror.

The deeper question beneath their request—and beneath ours—is this:

Who are we really hoping will save us?

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Where We Locate Our Hope

Underneath the desire for a king was a deeper longing:

Security.
Stability.
Someone to fight their battles.
Someone to guarantee the future.

That longing is not wrong.

The problem was not that Israel wanted safety. The problem was where they decided to locate it.

Psalm 146 speaks directly into that longing:

“Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help” (v. 3).

Even the best leaders are finite. They cannot carry the weight of our ultimate hope.

That does not mean leadership is unnecessary. It means leadership has limits.

When we ask leaders to give us what only God can give—unshakable security, lasting salvation, ultimate meaning—we set them up to fail and ourselves up to be disappointed.

But Psalm 146 does more than warn us where not to place trust. It tells us where to place it:

“Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord their God” (v. 5).

And then it describes this King:

• The One who executes justice for the oppressed
• Who gives food to the hungry
• Who sets prisoners free
• Who lifts up those who are bowed down
• Who watches over the stranger
• Who remains faithful forever (Psalm 146:7–9)

Earthly rulers consolidate power.
God restores people.

Earthly leaders rise and fall.
“The Lord will reign forever” (v. 10).

That is the contrast 1 Samuel 8 forces us to see.

Israel wanted a king like the nations. God had already given them something better—a King unlike any nation.

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Are We Trusting the Right King?

If Psalm 146 is true, then this is not only Israel’s question. It is ours.

Are we looking for someone strong enough to control the future?

Or are we trusting the One who holds the future?

When our hope rests in human rulers, our peace rises and falls with every decision they make.

But when our hope rests in the Lord, we can live faithfully—even in uncertainty.

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A Season for Honest Reflection

For Christians, the season of Lent invites this kind of examination.

Where are you placing your hope right now?

When you feel anxious about the future—who or what are you counting on to steady it?

When something feels fragile—a relationship, your health, your work—where does your mind instinctively turn?

We rarely say, “This person will save me.” But we often live as though they might.

Israel said, “Give us a king to fight our battles” (1 Samuel 8:20). But there are battles of character, forgiveness, courage, and generosity that no leader can fight for us.

A simple prayerful question can help:

What do I want right now?
And why do I want it?

Security? Recognition? Relief? Control?

When you imagine getting what you want, does it draw you toward deeper trust in God? Does it increase love and courage? Or does it tighten your grip and increase fear?

Christian tradition speaks of noticing “consolation” and “desolation”—what draws us toward God’s presence and what pulls us into anxiety and self-protection.

This is not about shame. It is about returning.

Returning our hope.
Returning our trust.
Returning the crown to the One who can actually bear its weight.

And that is freeing.

When God is King, we no longer need other people to be saviors.

They are allowed to be human.

And so are we.

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A Community Whose Hope Is in the Lord

If God truly reigns, that changes how communities of faith live together.

Leaders are not saviors. They are servants. Fellow pilgrims.

The purpose of the church is not to arrive at institutional perfection. It is to follow Jesus—to worship, to love neighbors, to serve the vulnerable, to grow in holiness of heart and life.

That calling does not depend on having the ideal leader. It depends on having the living Christ.

When we trust that “the Lord will reign forever” (Psalm 146:10), we can bless our leaders without idolizing them. We can disagree without despairing. We can move forward without fear.

Because our hope is not fragile.

It rests in the Lord who reigns forever.

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Are We There Yet?

Again and again, we ask: Are we there yet?

Scripture gently replies: That is not the deepest question.

The deeper question is this:

Are we walking with the God who leads us?

In the wilderness, God was present.
In seasons of transition, God was faithful.
In uncertainty, God still reigns.

We are not “there.” Not individually. Not collectively.

But our hope is not in arriving.

Our hope is in the Lord—
the One who sets free,
the One who calls us forward,
the One who reigns forever.

And when our hope rests there, we can keep walking.

The Apostle Paul once wrote something startling in its honesty:

“Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal… but I press on” (Philippians 3:12).

This is Paul — missionary, theologian, church planter, writer of much of the New Testament. And yet he says plainly: I have not arrived.

That confession matters.

If anyone could have claimed spiritual arrival, it might have been Paul. Instead, he describes faith not as a possession, but as a pursuit. Not as a destination reached, but as a direction chosen.

“I press on,” he says again (Philippians 3:14).

There is something deeply human in that.

Many of us quietly assume that life will eventually settle. One day things will make sense. Feel stable. Feel complete. The next milestone. The next season. The next answered prayer.

And yet even when we reach those places, something in us knows: the journey is not over.

Paul understood that. He knew Christ. He loved Christ. He had suffered for Christ (2 Corinthians 11:23–28). And still he says, “I press on.”

Faith, it seems, is not about finally arriving. It is about continuing.

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Faithfulness Without Arrival

Long before Paul wrote to the Philippians, another servant of God lived this tension.

Moses spent his life moving toward a promise — a land flowing with milk and honey (Exodus 3:8). He led Israel through the wilderness for forty years. He endured complaint, conflict, and the immense burden of leadership.

At the end of that long journey, he climbed Mount Nebo and looked out over the Promised Land (Deuteronomy 34:1–4).

He could see it.

But he would not enter it.

If anyone had earned arrival, it was Moses — the one who faced Pharaoh (Exodus 5–12), stretched out his staff over the sea (Exodus 14:21), and interceded for a stubborn people time and again (Exodus 32:11–14).

And yet the story does not resolve the way we expect. Moses sees the land. He blesses the people. He reminds them, “Choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19–20). Then the journey continues — without him.

There is a quiet ache in that.

Because many people know what it feels like to work toward something and not fully experience it. To pray toward something and not see it completed. To invest in something that others will carry forward.

And yet Scripture does not frame Moses’ life as failure.

Why?

Because the Promised Land was never the deepest promise.

The land was a gift. But the covenant — God’s enduring commitment to be with the people — was the heart of it (Exodus 6:7). From the burning bush (Exodus 3) to the tent of meeting (Exodus 33:7–11), the defining reality of Moses’ life was not geography. It was presence.

If the goal was simply real estate, Moses’ story feels incomplete. But if the goal was relationship — communion with the living God — then his life was full.

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Pressing On Without Possessing

Paul echoes that same truth centuries later.

“Not that I have already obtained this… I do not consider that I have made it my own. But I press on” (Philippians 3:12–13).

There is something striking about that repetition. Paul refuses the language of possession. He does not say:

I have secured it.
I have mastered it.
I have achieved it.

He says: I am still moving.

And what is he pressing toward? Not a promotion. Not a reputation. Not even heaven as a distant prize. He is pressing toward Christ — toward the fullness of life in Christ (Philippians 3:14).

Then comes the line that changes everything:

“Because Christ Jesus has made me his own” (Philippians 3:12).

Paul does not pursue Christ in order to earn belonging. He presses on because he already belongs.

This is not anxious striving. It is responsive movement.

There is a difference between striving to secure something and straining toward Someone who has already secured you (Romans 8:38–39).

Paul’s journey is not fueled by fear. It is fueled by grace.

He even says, “Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead…” (Philippians 3:13).

Paul is not pretending the past did not happen. He remembers persecuting the church (Acts 8:3). He remembers his achievements (Philippians 3:4–6). He remembers his failures.

But he refuses to let either success or regret define him. Because both can anchor us in place.

Some cling to past accomplishments — seasons when faith felt strong or life felt clearer. Others cling to past failures — mistakes that still sting, prayers that were not answered, chapters that feel unresolved.

Paul’s message is clear: neither possession nor regret defines you. Christ does.

Mature faith is not perfection. It is direction.

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When Destinations Disappoint

All of this sounds strong when applied to Moses and Paul. It becomes more tender when applied to us.

Because destinations do disappoint.

Marriage does not automatically eliminate loneliness. Retirement does not automatically bring peace. Success does not silence the ache it promised to fix.

Harder still: healing does not always come. Reconciliation does not always happen. Years of faithful work do not always produce visible fruit.

In those moments, disappointment can quietly turn into doubt.

Was it worth it?

Moses stands on the mountain and sees what he will not enter. Paul writes about pressing on from prison (Philippians 1:12–13).

Neither man was given faith as a guarantee of visible success.

And perhaps that is where many people struggle most. There is an assumption that if one is faithful, the ending should feel satisfying. Obedience should produce clarity. Devotion should produce ease.

Scripture tells a different story.

The Promised Land did not eliminate Israel’s struggles. Resurrection did not eliminate mission (Matthew 28:19–20). Faith does not eliminate the journey.

When destinations disappoint, there is a choice. Measure God by outcomes. Or trust God beyond outcomes.

Disappointment often reveals what was expected from the destination: security, identity, peace, vindication.

But those were never meant to come from a place or milestone. They come from Presence.

“This is your very life,” Moses tells the people, speaking of loving and obeying God (Deuteronomy 30:20).

Not the land.
Not the achievement.
The relationship.

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A People Still Walking

Faith is never portrayed in Scripture as a solo journey.

Moses did not walk alone. Paul did not press on alone. The church is not a collection of people who have arrived. It is a people still walking.

Paul writes, “Let those of us who are mature think this way… Only let us hold fast to what we have attained” (Philippians 3:15–16).

That is communal language.

Communities, like individuals, are tempted to measure themselves by destinations — past growth, former strength, earlier clarity. Gratitude for the past is healthy. Living in the past is not.

The question for a church — or for any community of faith — is never, “Have we arrived?”

The question is, “Are we still walking with Christ?”

Are we listening?
Are we loving?
Are we pressing on?

Because the promise of Scripture is not that struggle disappears. The promise is that God is present (Matthew 28:20). The Spirit is at work (Philippians 1:6). And the story is not finished.

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Returning to the One Who Walks With Us

If we are honest, there are moments when hope drifts toward outcomes. When satisfaction is expected at the next milestone. When disappointment hardens into restlessness.

Yet God meets people even there.

The story of faith is not about flawless progress. It is about returning — again and again — to the One who calls, accompanies, and sustains.

Paul presses on because Christ has already taken hold of him.

Moses dies within sight of the land, yet held within the covenant.

And perhaps that is the quiet hope beneath it all:

Faith is not about owning the promise.

It is about being held by the Promise-Giver.

And that is more than enough to keep pressing on.

“You have been set free from sin.” (Romans 6:18)

Paul’s words to the Romans sound definitive. Clean. Decisive.
Freedom.

He speaks of a transfer of ownership — from slavery to sin to belonging to righteousness, from death to life (Romans 6:17–22). It is bold, triumphant language. The kind that makes it seem as though once God sets you free, everything should finally fall into place.

But anyone who has walked with Christ for any length of time knows something Paul also knew:

Being set free does not mean the journey is over.

Freedom is not the same thing as arrival.

That is why, on this first Sunday of Lent, we turn back to another freedom story — the original freedom story of God’s people.

Israel has just witnessed one of the greatest miracles in Scripture. The sea parts (Exodus 14:21–22). The pursuing army is swallowed (Exodus 14:27–28). Tambourines shake. Songs erupt on the far shore (Exodus 15:1, 20–21).

They are free.

And then, three days later, they are thirsty (Exodus 15:22).

The water they find is bitter (Exodus 15:23). The song turns into complaint (Exodus 15:24).

Exodus 15 reminds us that getting free and staying free are not the same thing. Deliverance is a moment. Trust is a journey.

The question is not simply, Are we there yet? The deeper question is: Are we still walking with God? (Micah 6:8)

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Three Days

That is all it took.

Three days after walking through walls of water (Exodus 14:22).
Three days after watching the most powerful empire in the world collapse behind them (Exodus 14:28).
Three days after singing, “The Lord is my strength and my might” (Exodus 15:2).

And now the water is bitter (Exodus 15:23).

No more dancing. Just thirst… and complaint (Exodus 15:24).

If this feels familiar, it is because the pattern continues in every generation.

Freedom did not eliminate uncertainty.
Deliverance did not eliminate difficulty.

They were free. But they were still in the wilderness (Exodus 15:22).

And freedom in the wilderness feels different than freedom on the shoreline.

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The Arrival Fallacy

Israel believed leaving Egypt meant arriving at ease. They assumed rescue would mean relief from struggle.

But leaving Egypt was not the end of the journey. It was the beginning of it (Exodus 16–17).

The same pattern appears in our lives.

We assume that once the prayer is answered, peace will be permanent (Philippians 4:6–7).
Once the crisis passes, anxiety will disappear.
Once the milestone is reached, life will settle.

But the Christian life is not a destination to relax into. It is a relationship to grow more deeply into (John 15:4–5).

Lent disrupts the illusion that we have “arrived.” Faith is about following Christ — through wilderness (Mark 1:12–13), toward the cross (Luke 9:23), and ultimately toward resurrection (Luke 24:6–7).

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Remember

As Israel’s wilderness story unfolds, one command rises again and again:

“Remember that you were slaves in Egypt” (Deuteronomy 5:15; 15:15).

Remember who you were.
Remember what God has done.
Remember who brought you out (Exodus 13:3).

Forgetfulness is spiritually dangerous (Deuteronomy 8:11–14).

When deliverance is forgotten, every new difficulty feels like abandonment. That is why Israel builds rituals of remembrance — Passover (Exodus 12:14), storytelling, teaching children to say, “We were slaves, and the Lord brought us out” (Deuteronomy 6:20–23).

Worship becomes survival.

In the Wesleyan tradition, this rhythm echoes in the means of grace — prayer, Scripture, fasting, Christian conferencing, acts of mercy (Acts 2:42–47).

At the center of Christian life is a table.

“Do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19; 1 Corinthians 11:23–26).

At Communion, there is more than recollection. There is participation (1 Corinthians 10:16). Grace reshapes memory. Worship re-stories our lives (Romans 12:1–2).

The church helps us remember when we forget.

Because when we forget, bitter water feels like the whole story.

But it is not.

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From Transaction to Relationship

At Marah, remembering alone is not enough.

Israel remembered the Red Sea — but still expected God to operate on their timetable. They had witnessed divine power. They had not yet learned divine trust.

When the people complain, Moses cries out to the Lord (Exodus 15:25). God shows him a piece of wood. The bitter water becomes sweet (Exodus 15:25).

God provides.

And then God speaks:

“I am the Lord who heals you.” (Exodus 15:26)

That is not transactional language. That is relational language.

Transaction says:
“You delivered us. Now fix this.”

Relationship says:
“You are our God. We belong to you” (Exodus 6:7).

The wilderness is not simply about traveling from Egypt to the Promised Land. It is about moving from slavery to covenant (Exodus 19:4–6). From panic to trust (Proverbs 3:5–6). From transaction to relationship.

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Freedom Is Belonging

When Paul declares that we have been set free from sin (Romans 6:18, 22), he is not describing independence. He is describing belonging.

Freed from sin and enslaved to God (Romans 6:22).
Adopted as children (Romans 8:15–17).
Bound not by fear, but by love (Galatians 5:1, 13).

Freedom in Scripture is not the absence of hardship (John 16:33). It is the presence of God (Exodus 33:14).

If freedom is the presence of God, then the real danger in the wilderness is not thirst.

It is distance.

The water is bitter (Exodus 15:23). But bitterness also begins to grow in the people. Scripture consistently warns how quickly bitterness can take root (Hebrews 12:15).

Bitterness grows when expectations and reality collide. When obedience does not guarantee comfort. When the road is longer than expected.

If left unchecked, bitterness reshapes vision. Gratitude fades (1 Thessalonians 5:18). Delay feels like abandonment (Psalm 13:1).

Yet notice how God responds.

No abandonment.
No rejection.

God heals the water (Exodus 15:25).

And then says, “I am the Lord who heals you” (Exodus 15:26).

Not just the water.

You.

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Confession Is Returning

The wilderness exposes more than thirst. It exposes hearts (Deuteronomy 8:2).

God is concerned not only with external freedom from Egypt, but internal freedom from fear and distrust.

That healing requires honesty.

“If we confess our sins, God who is faithful and just will forgive us” (1 John 1:9).

Lent creates space to name the bitterness. To examine the heart (Psalm 139:23–24). To return (Joel 2:12–13).

Confession is not groveling.

Confession is returning.

It is saying:
“This water tastes bitter. And so does my spirit.”

And the promise of the gospel is that bitterness does not get the final word.

“The free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 6:23).

Freedom from sin.
Freedom for righteousness (Romans 6:18).
Freedom for relationship.

The cross toward which Lent moves is not merely about rescue. It is about reconciliation (2 Corinthians 5:18–19). About being brought near (Ephesians 2:13).

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Not There Yet — But Not Alone

The rhythm of church life tells the story again and again:

From slavery to freedom.
From cross to resurrection (1 Corinthians 15:3–4).

This community has known wilderness seasons. God has provided water in dry places before (Isaiah 43:19–20). That same God walks with us now (Matthew 28:20).

Being freed is a moment.
Staying free is a daily relationship (John 8:31–36).

We may not be “there” yet (Philippians 3:12–14).

But we are not alone in the wilderness.

The God who parted the sea (Exodus 14:21),
The Christ who broke the chains of sin (Romans 6:6–7),
The Spirit who heals what has turned bitter (Romans 8:11) —

invites us not into transaction, but into relationship.

And that relationship is the freedom that lasts.

Ash Wednesday, Overreach, and the Freedom of Being Human

There is a question most of us learned very early in life.

It usually came from the back seat of a car.

“Are we there yet?”

It is the question of every long journey.
It is the question of impatience.
It is the question of longing.
It is the question of someone who wants to arrive.

For Christians, Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent—a forty-day journey toward Easter. But even for those who do not observe the church calendar, the themes of this season are deeply human. Lent is about the wilderness. About honesty. About facing what is real rather than pretending everything is fine.

It is not a sprint to a triumphant ending. It is a winding road through self-examination, repentance, surrender, and grace.

And if many of us are honest, we arrive at this season tired. Restless. Maybe even a little lost.

We look at our lives and think:

I thought I would be further along by now.
I thought my faith would feel stronger.
I thought my family situation would be resolved.
I thought my career would be more secure.
I thought the world would be better.

And somewhere in our hearts we whisper, “Are we there yet?”

Ash Wednesday answers that question in a way that is both sobering and freeing:

No. We are not there.

We are dust.
We are finite.
We are still on the way.

When ashes are placed on the forehead, the words often spoken come from Genesis 3:19:
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

That is not meant as an insult. It is a truth. And strangely, it is good news.

The Temptation to Overreach

One of the deepest temptations we face—especially when we feel behind, overwhelmed, or disappointed—is what might be called the classic overreach.

When we are drowning in problems, it becomes very tempting to believe that if we just try harder, work longer, control more, fix faster—we can get ourselves “there.”

We can solve it.
We can secure it.
We can save it.

Ash Wednesday interrupts that illusion.

The ashes declare: You are human. God alone is God.

The classic overreach is reaching beyond our limits to grasp what belongs to God. It is the moment we forget we are creatures and begin acting like the Creator. It is the quiet shift from trust to control.

Scripture tells this story again and again.

In Genesis 3, Adam and Eve reach for fruit that promises, “You will be like God” (Genesis 3:5). The temptation is not ugliness, but autonomy—life on their own terms. The overreach begins with the desire to secure wisdom and safety without trust.

Israel repeats the pattern. In the wilderness, when trust feels fragile, they build a golden calf—something visible, manageable, controllable (Exodus 32). Later, they grasp for security in kings, armies, and alliances (1 Samuel 8). They want certainty they can see.

King David’s story echoes the same theme. In Psalm 51, after exploiting his power and causing devastating harm, he finally stops hiding. He writes:

“For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me.” (Psalm 51:3)

What began as desire became exploitation. What began as privilege became destruction. The overreach collapsed.

And woven through all of it is the same human refrain:

If I push harder, I can secure my own salvation.
If I take control, I can guarantee the outcome.
If I manage this well enough, I will finally be safe.

In Methodist theology, this is what sin often looks like—not just wrongdoing, but misplaced trust.

John Wesley described sin as a turning of the heart away from reliance on God. It is not merely breaking rules; it is relocating our confidence. It is trusting ourselves, our systems, our performance—anything other than grace.

It is, in practice, living as though everything depends on us.

And that is exhausting.

When Overreach Falls Apart

Psalm 51 is what it sounds like when overreach collapses.

There are no excuses. No blame-shifting. No minimizing.

“You desire truth in the inward being” (Psalm 51:6).

That is the first movement: honesty.

Ash Wednesday begins here—not with vague regret, but with clarity. With naming what is true.

Then comes recognition of limits:

“You have no delight in sacrifice…
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit” (Psalm 51:16–17).

David knows ritual performance cannot repair what he has done. He cannot offer enough to undo the harm.

Performance cannot save us.

And then comes the turning point:

“Create in me a clean heart, O God” (Psalm 51:10).

Create.

David does not say, “I will improve my heart.”
He does not say, “I will try harder.”
He says, “Create.”

Only God creates.

This is deeply Wesleyan. Methodist theology speaks of:

• Prevenient grace — God moves first, even before we ask.
• Justifying grace — God forgives what we cannot repair.
• Sanctifying grace — God reshapes what we cannot perfect.

Psalm 51 is not self-improvement. It is surrender.

The Wilderness and the Way of Trust

The Gospel reading often associated with this season is Matthew 4:1–11. The Spirit leads Jesus into the wilderness—not as punishment, but as formation.

There, Jesus faces three temptations. Each one is an invitation to overreach.

First: turn stones into bread.
“You are hungry. Fix it.”

The need is real. Hunger is not imaginary. But the temptation is to seize provision rather than trust it. Jesus answers with Scripture:

“One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Matthew 4:4; Deuteronomy 8:3).

Second: throw yourself down from the temple.
“Prove who you are. Make God rescue you.”

This is the temptation to manipulate God—to force divine action on our timetable. Jesus responds:

“Do not put the Lord your God to the test” (Matthew 4:7; Deuteronomy 6:16).

Third: all the kingdoms of the world.
“Take the shortcut. Have power without suffering.”

Authority without surrender. Glory without obedience.

Jesus answers:

“Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him” (Matthew 4:10; Deuteronomy 6:13).

Where humanity grasped, Jesus trusted.

Where humanity seized, Jesus surrendered.

In the wilderness, the Second Adam succeeds where the first failed—not by domination, but by dependence.

You Do Not Have to Be God

Our wilderness may look different, but the temptations feel familiar.

We try to fix every family problem by sheer will.
We try to secure our future through constant contingency planning.
We try to outrun grief, addiction, shame, or fear by doubling our effort.
We try to save institutions, relationships, and reputations through anxiety-driven activity.

When overwhelmed, we default to striving.

Ash Wednesday interrupts that cycle.

“You are dust.”

Not as a condemnation—but as liberation.

You do not have to be God.

You are not responsible for holding the entire world together.
You are not the author of salvation.
You are not the Creator of your own clean heart.

Genesis 2:7 says that God formed humanity from the dust of the ground and breathed into it the breath of life. Dust, yes—but dust filled with breath. Dust loved into being.

In Methodist theology, grace meets us precisely in our limitation.

Ashes say:
You are mortal.
You are dependent.
You are loved anyway.

A Different Answer to the Question

The question “Are we there yet?” begins to change.

It is no longer a demand for arrival. It becomes a deeper question:

If we are not there yet…
Who is leading us?
Who is sustaining us?
Who is carrying us through the wilderness?

The answer of Ash Wednesday is this:

The One who formed us from dust is faithful.

Lent does not begin with a promise to do better. It begins with a confession:

We cannot save ourselves.

And that confession is not defeat. It is the beginning of freedom.

It doesn’t take long to realize how divided our world has become. We’re sorted and labeled at every turn — by politics, by culture, by economics, by who fits in and who does not.

We are often encouraged to see each other not as neighbors to be loved, but as problems to be managed or threats to be avoided. Division is treated as normal. Distance is rewarded. And fear is often mistaken for wisdom.

But there’s another story — one that speaks to something deeper within us.

It’s the story of grace: the radical, boundary-breaking love at the center of the Christian faith. A love that doesn’t categorize or exclude, but instead draws people together — across the lines we’ve been taught to defend.

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A Different Kind of Healing

Throughout the series this post comes from — called Fresh Start — our church has been exploring what it means to begin again. Not just as individuals, but as communities longing for healing, wholeness, and connection.

Because the story Christians tell about God — especially the God revealed in Jesus — is not one of exclusion, but of inclusion. Not one of judgment first, but of mercy first. Not about deciding who’s in and who’s out, but about bringing near those who’ve been left out too long.

And here’s the powerful claim: through Jesus, people who were once strangers are being brought together, built into a new kind of community — a place where all can belong, where those pushed to the margins are brought to the center, and where healing is both personal and collective.

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The Story of Zacchaeus: A Disruptive Grace

One of the most surprising examples of this is found in a short but unforgettable story in the Gospel of Luke — a biography of Jesus in the New Testament. In chapter 19, we meet a man named Zacchaeus, and in just ten verses, his life — and his whole community — is turned upside down.

Zacchaeus was a tax collector in Jericho — someone seen as a traitor and an oppressor. He had aligned himself with the occupying Roman government and made money by overcharging his own neighbors. In short: he was not a popular man. He represented exactly what people hated.

And yet, when Jesus comes to town, something unexpected happens.

Zacchaeus, too short to see over the crowd, climbs a tree just to catch a glimpse. He’s not trying to start a conversation. He’s not seeking conversion. He just wants to see. But Jesus stops, looks up, and calls him by name.

“Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.”
— Luke 19:5

It’s such a small moment — and such a radical one. Jesus chooses not only to see someone others ignored, but to go to his house. To stay with him. To share a table.

He doesn’t wait for an apology. He doesn’t demand an explanation. He simply makes space.

And that one moment of grace changes everything.

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What Happens When We’re Seen

I once heard a story about a man named Mike who started attending a support group for addiction recovery. He was guarded. Distant. Arms crossed, sunglasses on, he rarely spoke and never participated. But he kept showing up.

Until one night, someone walked up to him before the group started and quietly said,
“I saved you a seat.”

That small gesture changed something. Not all at once. But from that night on, Mike sat a little closer. Eventually, he began to speak. He shared. He connected. He hadn’t “fixed” himself, but someone had made room for him anyway.

That small moment became the beginning of a fresh start. Not just for Mike, but for the whole group. Because when you make space for someone others have overlooked, you don’t just help them heal — you start to heal, too.

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More Than a Personal Change

Back in Jericho, Zacchaeus is so moved by Jesus’ presence that he says:

“Look, half of my possessions I will give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone, I will pay back four times as much.”
— Luke 19:8

No one told him to do that. It wasn’t a demand. It was a response — the kind of transformation that flows not from guilt, but from joy. From being seen. From being welcomed.

And Jesus responds with these words:

“Today salvation has come to this house.”
— Luke 19:9

Not just to Zacchaeus — to the whole house. Because grace always ripples outward.

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Grace That Breaks Down Walls

This vision of grace is echoed in a letter written to early Christians in Ephesus:

“You who once were far off have been brought near.”
“He is our peace.”
“He has broken down the dividing wall of hostility.”
— Ephesians 2:13–14

The writer is talking about long-standing cultural divisions — between Jews and Gentiles — people with centuries of distrust between them. And yet, in Christ, those walls come down. A new kind of community is built — one where no one is left out based on their past, their background, or their failures.

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What Kind of House Are We?

That leads to a question that matters far beyond church walls:

What kind of community are we becoming?

Are we the kind of people who make room? Who say, “You belong here,” before the transformation, before the fixing, before the apology?

Or are we still standing in the crowd, skeptical and cautious, deciding who deserves to be near?

Here’s the truth: Zacchaeus was a complicated person. He had done harm. But Jesus didn’t base grace on who he had been — Jesus saw who he could become.

That same grace is still at work — in us, and through us.

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Becoming a People of the Fresh Start

At our church, we’ve been asking what it looks like to embrace a fresh start — not just as a personal reset, but as a new way of living together:

• Surrender — Letting go of the illusion of control and choosing to follow a better way.
• Perseverance — Staying the course, even when transformation is slow and hard.
• Gratitude — Letting thankfulness shape us more than our circumstances do.
• Inclusion — Making space for people others have overlooked — and finding our own healing in the process.

Because that’s what grace does. It invites. It includes. It restores.

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A House Where Grace Lives

This is the fresh start Jesus offers — not once, but over and over again. It’s not about having it all figured out. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being willing to build something new.

A place where everyone belongs. A house where grace lives.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s the kind of community the world is longing for.