Pieces of the Puzzle

“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)

---

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.

---

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).

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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).

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

Over the past few weeks, we’ve been exploring what it means to receive a fresh start — not just a surface-level reset, but a deep, grace-filled reorientation of life.

Week 1: Surrender, Not Control

Fresh starts often begin not with excitement, but with honesty — that moment when we admit we can’t keep going the way we’ve been.
We looked at Jesus’ invitation:

“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23, NIV).
Real transformation begins with surrender.
Not control, but courage.
Not self-reliance, but trust.

Week 2: Steadfast Purpose

Then we turned to the image of Jesus as a mother hen:

“How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings” (Luke 13:34).
And we heard Paul say,
“I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me” (Philippians 3:12).
Some fresh starts don’t feel dramatic. They look like perseverance — the daily choice to stay in the work, to remain in love, and to trust God even when the path is hard.

---

Living Sacrifices: A Response to Grace

This week, we turn to Romans 12, where Paul writes:

“Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship” (Romans 12:1).

This is not about earning favor. It’s about responding with awe. With worship. With deep gratitude for grace already received.

Paul goes on:

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2).

A fresh start means refusing the fear-driven rhythms of the world. It means allowing God’s mercy to shape how we live, how we serve, how we love.

Because grace isn’t just something that happens to us — it also invites a response.
And when that response is genuine, it always leads to gratitude.

---

One Returned: The Gospel of Luke 17:11–19

In Luke 17, we read the story of ten lepers who cry out to Jesus for mercy:

“Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” (Luke 17:13)
“Go, show yourselves to the priests,” he replies. And as they go, they are cleansed (Luke 17:14).

But then something remarkable happens:

“One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him” (Luke 17:15–16).

Ten people were healed. But only one returned.
And Jesus notices.

“Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine?” (Luke 17:17)
“Rise and go; your faith has made you well” (Luke 17:19).

That word “well” (Greek: sozo) means more than physical healing. It implies being made whole, saved, restored.

---

Gratitude in Real Life

This story might remind us of the moments in our own lives when healing began — not always all at once, not always how we expected, but still real.

For some, that healing came through recovery communities or spiritual friendships — places where it was finally safe to stop pretending, to name pain, to be honest about struggle.

Healing often comes through the quiet work of grace:
through surrender, through community, and through the slow recognition that we don’t carry our burdens alone.

And when we begin to see that — even imperfectly — something shifts:
Gratitude begins to grow.

---

More Than a Feeling

Gratitude isn’t just a nice response to help received.
It’s a turning point — a spiritual reorientation.

All ten lepers were changed.
Only one let that change lead to worship.

Jesus doesn’t scold the others — but he honors the one who saw grace clearly.
Because gratitude completes the healing.
It turns a miracle into a relationship.
It moves us from being helped… to being made whole.

---

When We Miss the Moment

It’s easy to relate to the nine who didn’t return.
Not because they were ungrateful, but because they were overwhelmed.
They were moving forward — eager to be declared clean, eager to re-enter life.

And that’s us, too, sometimes.
Moving from task to task, relief to relief, barely pausing to breathe — let alone to say thank you.

We live in a culture that rewards speed, independence, and performance.
But grace doesn’t always work at that pace.

And unless we pause — to reflect, to name, to praise — we might miss the healing already underway.
We might move forward physically… while staying stuck spiritually.

---

Communities That Tell the Story

This is something to consider not only personally, but communally.
Wherever people gather — in faith, in friendship, in service — stories of healing and mercy are present.

The question is: Are they being named?

Are we telling the stories of grace out loud?
Are we remembering the hard places we’ve walked through — and the strength that carried us?
Are we becoming the kind of community where gratitude is part of the rhythm?

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus” (1 Thessalonians 5:18).

Because when gratitude becomes a shared practice, it changes the tone.
It turns survival into celebration.
It reminds us: we are not the source of our own renewal.
Grace is.

---

Jesus in the Borderlands

One detail in the story is easy to miss:

“Jesus was going into a village, walking along the border between Samaria and Galilee” (Luke 17:11).

That tells us something deeper.
Jesus moves in the borderlands.
In the places between — where people feel left out, overlooked, or uncertain.

That’s where the lepers were.
That’s where healing began.

And notice: Jesus didn’t instantly heal them. He said,

“Go, show yourselves to the priests” (Luke 17:14).

They had to walk in faith — trusting healing would come as they obeyed.

That’s often how grace works: not a lightning bolt, but a journey.
A series of small steps.
A willingness to walk toward restoration before we fully see it.

---

The Power of Recognition

One man sees he is healed. He stops.
He turns back. He praises God.

“Your faith has made you well” (Luke 17:19).

This wasn’t just physical.
It was spiritual transformation.
It was a new relationship.
It was wholeness.

Gratitude didn’t just mark the healing — it deepened it.
It multiplied it.

---

Be Transformed: Romans 12

Paul writes in Romans 12:2:

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

This isn’t just about behavior. It’s about vision.

The world says:

Prove yourself. Hide your struggles. Earn your worth.

But the Gospel says:

You are already loved (Romans 5:8).
You are already chosen (Ephesians 1:4).
You are already being made new (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Transformation begins when we begin to see differently — through the lens of grace, not fear; through the lens of belovedness, not performance.

And that kind of vision is what turned the healed man into a worshiper.

---

A Fresh Start Through Gratitude

So what have we seen in this journey of fresh starts?

We began with surrender — letting go of control (Luke 9:23).
Then came perseverance — pressing on when healing is slow (Philippians 3:12–14).
And now we arrive at the practice that holds it all together:
Gratitude (1 Thessalonians 5:18; Colossians 3:15–17).

Because a fresh start isn’t just about moving on.
It’s about recognizing grace — and choosing to respond with awe, with praise, and with purpose.

That’s what the one who returned discovered.
He didn’t just get his life back — he found the One who gave it.
And that changed everything.

---

The Invitation to Return

Fresh starts are happening all around — in your story, in others’ stories, in ways not yet named.

The invitation is simple but sacred:

Don’t miss the chance to return.
Don’t let healing go unnoticed.
Don’t let the slow work of grace pass by without praise.
Don’t forget to say:

“Give thanks to the Lord, for God is good; God’s love endures forever” (Psalm 107:1).

Because gratitude doesn’t just express what we feel.
It shapes who we become.

So may your life — and your community — be marked not just by healing, but by return.
Not just by movement, but by praise.
Not just by change… but by the recognition that grace has been at work all along.

And may those words be on your lips and in your heart, again and again:
Thank you, God… for this fresh start.

When Paul writes to the Philippians, his message is not one of perfection, but of perseverance:

“Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own… forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 3:12–14 (NRSV)

Paul is honest—he hasn’t arrived. He hasn’t figured it all out. But he presses on. He leans forward, letting go of what’s behind and reaching toward what’s ahead, not to prove himself, but to respond to grace.

That’s what a fresh start often looks like—not a flawless new chapter, but the choice to keep going when it would be easier to give up.

This week, I’ve been reflecting on steadfast purpose—what it means to stay on course with God, even when life is uncertain, painful, or when our efforts seem unfinished or unseen. Because fresh starts aren’t always dramatic. Sometimes, they’re quiet, gritty acts of faithfulness. They look like continuing to show up. To trust. To love. Especially when it’s hard.

Recovery, Honesty, and Grace

That reminds me of what I’ve learned through Celebrate Recovery. I entered hoping for a quick fix—a reset button. What I found instead was something slower, deeper, and far more honest.

It took time to get into the patterns that hurt me, and it would take time to walk out of them. Healing doesn’t happen overnight. A fresh start isn’t a light switch. It’s a journey: one step, one day at a time.

In our Methodist tradition, we speak of moving on toward perfection—not flawlessness, but a life increasingly shaped by grace, growing in love of God and neighbor. That’s the kind of fresh start I needed. Not control or clarity. But surrender.

“Perfection” in this sense isn’t about arriving. It’s about being open to transformation.

By definition, a fresh start is “a complete change in your way of life or the way you do things, especially after you’ve previously been unsuccessful.” But real change doesn’t happen just because we want it to. It happens when we shift our expectations. When we realign our direction. When we let go of control and trust God’s grace more than our own efforts.

The Mothering Heart of Christ

We see this kind of grace-filled purpose in Jesus, too.

In Luke 13:31–35, Jesus is warned to turn back for his own safety. But he refuses to be dissuaded. He isn’t driven by fear—he’s led by love.

“How often I have desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”
— Luke 13:34 (NRSV)

This image—Jesus as a mother hen—may not be what first comes to mind when we think of strength. But it reveals something deeply powerful about the nature of God: a love that is both tender and fierce. Protective and purposeful.

When Jesus is threatened, he doesn’t lash out or flee. He doesn’t try to save himself. He stays the course. Because his mission isn’t about proving anything—it’s about embodying love.

He grieves, not because people failed to obey, but because they refused to be gathered. This is not a distant God. This is a God who longs to gather us close—even when we resist. Even when we run.

When Falling Isn’t the End

That’s where theology meets real life.

A fresh start in Christ rarely looks like a triumphant reset. More often, it looks like pressing forward through pain. Releasing control. Trusting in grace.

That’s what Paul models in Philippians. He doesn’t claim to have all the answers. He doesn’t speak as someone who has “arrived.” He speaks as someone in process. Someone who is growing, learning, and being continually reshaped by grace.

This reminds me of a scene from Chariots of Fire, the film about Olympic runner and missionary Eric Liddell. In one race, Liddell is knocked down and falls hard. For a moment, it seems like the race is lost. But then he gets back up. And not only does he run—he runs harder. He catches up. He wins.

That’s what Paul is saying:
Press on. Get back up. Keep going.
Not because you’re strong, but because Christ has already taken hold of you (Philippians 3:12).

A fresh start isn’t about perfection. It’s about holy persistence—rooted in grace and shaped by hope.

Are You Ready to Be Gathered?

So where does that leave us?

If Jesus refuses to turn back—even in the face of danger—what does that mean for those of us just trying to get through the day? What does it mean to press on when we’re exhausted, unsure, or afraid?

What might it look like to let ourselves be gathered—when we’ve spent so long trying to hold everything together on our own?

That brings me back to my own recovery journey. I thought righteousness meant self-sufficiency. That following Jesus meant having it all together. But when I heard the Serenity Prayer spoken aloud in a room full of people still in the mess, I realized something important:
I didn’t need to be fixed to belong. I didn’t need to be healed to start healing.
I just needed to be honest.

That was my fresh start. Not control. Not clarity. Just surrender.

Choosing, over and over again, to trust that Jesus wasn’t waiting for me to measure up—Jesus was already reaching for me. Like a mother hen with open wings.

That choice—to surrender, to stay, to be gathered—is one I still have to make. Often.

Making Room Under God’s Wings

If Jesus is still reaching out in compassion, then that must shape how we live—not just as individuals, but as the church.

Because Jesus didn’t speak these words in private. He spoke them in public:
To the faithful. To the skeptical. To the ones on the margins.

This call to love and surrender isn’t for the spiritually elite. It’s for all of us.

So we must ask ourselves:
Are we making room under God’s wings?
Are we welcoming those who’ve been hurt, silenced, or forgotten?
Are we a church for the already-put-together—or for those still falling apart?

If we take Jesus at his word, then the ones most often excluded are exactly the ones God longs to gather.

Following Jesus isn’t just about beliefs. It’s about bearing crosses. Extending compassion. Living courageously. Offering the kind of love that costs something—but reflects Jesus completely.

A fresh start isn’t just something we receive. It’s something we extend. Again and again. Together.

Final Reflections

Following Jesus may not look the way we imagined.
It doesn’t always make life easier. But it does make life deeper.

Even when we fall, the race isn’t over.
Even when we resist being gathered, God’s wings are still open.
Even when healing is slow, God is still at work.

This is the Fresh Start Jesus offers—not just once, but again and again.

And the good news?
We don’t walk this road alone.
Jesus goes before us. Grace holds us. And we journey forward as a people shaped by compassion, where fresh starts happen not just for us—but for all those God is still gathering.

May we be the kind of people—and the kind of church—who say yes.
Yes to pressing on.
Yes to being gathered.
Yes to the slow, courageous, beautiful work of love.

My Journey with the Serenity Prayer

The first time I saw the Serenity Prayer, I was about ten years old.

It hung on the wall near our kitchen table — a year-long calendar with those words printed across the top. Every time we sat down for a meal, my eyes — always drawn to words — would land on that prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

I didn’t fully understand it then, but something deep inside me resonated with it. Because even as a child, my life already felt a little out of control. I longed for peace — for order, for safety — for someone to step in and make sense of the chaos.

“I’ve seen a limit to all perfection, but your commandment has no bounds.”
— Psalm 119:96 (CEB)

---

My Name Is Jennifer…

…and I am a grateful believer in Jesus Christ who struggles daily with trying to order the chaos around me.

---

My parents married young — not unusually young for their time, but still young. Within the first year, my mother became pregnant with me. My biological father didn’t want a child. He didn’t want me.

Still, my mother chose to carry the pregnancy. She went to every appointment alone, cared for me without emotional support, and did what she could with what she had. When I was born, it was my grandmother who brought us home from the hospital.

“Even if my father and mother left me all alone, the Lord would take me in.”
— Psalm 27:10

One night, holding me in a bar where my father was drinking, my mother’s spirit stirred. She heard it clearly:

“This is not the life I want for my daughter.”

By the time I was one, she was divorced, and we had moved in with my grandparents. Eventually, she met the man I now call Dad — the man who chose to love me, adopted me when I was three, and has never left my side.

“This is my commandment: love each other just as I have loved you.”
— John 15:12

---

Loss and Love in the Same Breath

I do not know my biological father. His absence has always been part of my story — a quiet ache. But also present was the steady love of a man who chose me. I’ve learned that both loss and love can live side by side.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he saves those whose spirits are crushed.”
— Psalm 34:18

---

I Grew Up Watching People and Hiding Myself

I’ve always been a reflective person — someone who processes life on the inside. As a child, I didn’t know what to do with the abandonment I felt. And I didn’t feel I had permission to grieve, because I had an adoptive father who loved me well.

That tension stayed buried — unspeakable, but heavy.

“You have kept track of my every toss and turn. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. Are they not listed in your scroll?”
— Psalm 56:8

I became very good at tuning in to other people’s needs and emotions, even when I couldn’t name my own. I learned to avoid conflict, keep quiet, and maintain peace — even at the cost of myself.

What started as survival eventually turned into silence. I lost my ability to ask for what I needed or to even recognize when I was hurting. Over time, that became a kind of brokenness: poor boundaries, silent suffering, emotional exhaustion.

---

Drowning in the Silence

Twenty years later, I was drowning — not just sad, but unable to function. My emotions were numb. My thoughts were foggy. My prayers had no words.

“My God, my God, why have you left me all alone? Why are you so far from saving me?”
— Psalm 22:1

In that silence, I had just enough clarity to recognize that life wasn’t working. I wanted to be a better mom. I wanted to live. But I didn’t know where to begin.

---

A Small Retreat and a Crack of Light

I wasn’t expecting a breakthrough at a church retreat. I just needed a quiet place to feel close to God.

But during a small group conversation, two women gently invited me to begin naming what I was feeling — even if I didn’t yet understand it. They didn’t try to fix me or offer shallow advice. They simply held space for me to be honest.

“Carry each other’s burdens and so you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:2

One woman, in particular, shared her own story. She spoke of codependency — a word I had never heard — and how Celebrate Recovery had given her the tools to find healing, boundaries, and a deeper walk with God.

At first, I thought: That’s not me. I’m just tired.

But her story stayed with me. The words she used gave shape to my pain. And I knew deep down: I could not keep living the way I had been.

---

Walking into the Unknown

I didn’t know a soul the first time I walked into Celebrate Recovery at Cokesbury, in Knoxville TN.

I slipped in quietly, hoping not to be noticed — and yet hoping to be understood.

“Come to me, all you who are struggling hard and carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28

As a preacher’s kid, I rarely felt free to be my full self — especially in church. I felt watched, labeled, expected to perform. But in Celebrate Recovery, I could simply be. No more pretending. No more polished image. Just me — broken and beloved.

---

Finding My Voice

The first gift CR gave me was freedom: freedom to stop performing and just be real. Over time, my husband and children began to come with me. We worshiped together — as we were, not as people expected us to be.

The second gift was my voice. In my women’s share group, I listened first. Then slowly, I began to speak. I started to name what I felt. I learned how to set boundaries — not out of fear or anger, but from a place of love and wisdom.

“Speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ.”
— Ephesians 4:15

And I learned something critical: I didn’t get here overnight. I wouldn’t climb out overnight either. Healing came slowly, but it came.

---

Letting Go of What I Cannot Fix

Part of me had hoped that if I got help, my family would too. That if I healed, they might follow.

But I learned a hard and beautiful truth:

“Each of us will have to give an account of ourselves to God.”
— Romans 14:12

I can love people. I can encourage them. But I cannot fix them. That role belongs to God.

“Salvation comes from the Lord!”
— Jonah 2:9

---

The Prayer Comes Full Circle

Looking back, I can see it: God was working in me long before I ever knew what recovery meant. That Serenity Prayer I read as a child? It was a seed.

When I heard the full version of the prayer at Celebrate Recovery, I was ready — not just to recite it, but to live it.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart; don’t rely on your own intelligence. Know God in all your paths, and God will keep your ways straight.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6

---

The Full Serenity Prayer

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time,
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace;
taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it;
trusting that You will make all things right if I surrender to Your will;
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.

“I am confident of this: the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

---

Your Story Matters Too

If any part of my story echoes in you — the silence, the sorrow, the search for peace — please know this:

You are not alone.
You are not beyond hope.
And you don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine.

There is grace enough for your story — not just the polished parts, but the broken ones too. There is a God who sees, who heals, and who walks with us from chaos to peace — one step at a time.

You may have read Psalm 25 recently—or perhaps it’s new to you—but its prayer is striking: a soul opening wide to God in trust and vulnerability. It’s not just a cry for rescue; it’s a plea for direction. Psalm 25 rises out of fear and uncertainty, yet it boldly declares, “Even though I don’t know what’s coming next, I choose to trust you anyway” (Psalm 25:4–5).

That’s the posture of someone ready for a fresh start. Not just a spiritual tune-up, but a complete reorientation—of priorities, direction, and identity.

The Courage to Begin Again

We usually think of fresh starts as exciting: a new job, a new relationship, a new season. But the kind of fresh start that truly changes us often begins when we realize we can’t continue on as we are. When what once worked no longer does. And that takes more than enthusiasm. It takes courage (Ephesians 4:22–24).

I remember the first time I saw the Serenity Prayer. I was about ten years old. It hung on a kitchen calendar—quiet, but unforgettable:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can,
and wisdom to know the difference.

Even as a child, my world already felt unpredictable. That prayer settled into my spirit like a seed.

Years later, emotionally shut down and exhausted, I heard it again—spoken aloud in a room full of people seeking healing through Celebrate Recovery. That was the beginning of my own fresh start. Not because everything magically improved, but because I stopped trying to hold it all together on my own (Matthew 11:28).

Healing, I learned, wasn’t about control. It was about surrender. And courage. And showing up—again and again—to let God change me from the inside out (Romans 12:2).

That kind of transformation required me to lay something down—pride, assumptions, control—before I could pick up something better (1 Peter 5:6–7).

Are You Sure You’re Up for This?

That’s the question I’m holding out today: Are you sure you’re up for this?

Not because following Jesus is some kind of trap—but because it’s not always what we expect.

Sometimes the fresh start God offers doesn’t make life easier. It makes it deeper (John 10:10). It calls us to release what we think we know—and take hold of something that may be heavier, but far more life-giving.

That’s what the disciples encounter in Mark 8:27–38. Jesus asks them, “Who do you say that I am?” (v. 29). Peter gets the words right: “You are the Messiah”. But he misses the meaning.

Like many of us, Peter assumed the Messiah would come in power, in victory, in a way that avoids pain and sidesteps loss. He believed—but misunderstood. And Jesus rebukes him (v. 33), not because Peter is foolish, but because misunderstanding the nature of Jesus’ mission is dangerous.

The heart of the Gospel is not about control or conquest, but about self-giving love. About the cross.

A Fresh Start on God’s Terms

Jesus doesn’t fit anyone’s expectations. In Mark 8:31, he says:

“The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected… and be killed, and after three days rise again.”

This is a fresh start on God’s terms—not ours. It redefines what power looks like, what leadership means, and how new life is born (Isaiah 53:3–5).

Throughout the Gospel of Mark, Jesus is already breaking boundaries—healing Gentiles, feeding outsiders, touching the untouchable (Mark 7–8). That kind of compassion was risky. Even offensive. But it was the shape of his mission.

“Those who are well have no need of a physician… I have come to call not the righteous but sinners” (Mark 2:17).

He didn’t come just to be admired. He came to invite us to join him. That’s why he says:

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34).

Not suffer for suffering’s sake. But suffer for love’s sake. For the sake of healing. For the sake of those still on the outside.

Discipleship is not about denying your worth. It’s about loosening your grip on control—over your image, your outcomes, even your spirituality—and re-centering your life on Christ (Philippians 2:5–8).

“Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake and for the sake of the gospel will save it” (Mark 8:35).

That’s not a theory. It’s a lived reality.

The Paradox of Surrender

When I walked into that Celebrate Recovery gathering, I was spiritually dry and emotionally exhausted. I didn’t know what I needed. I just knew I couldn’t keep going the way I was.

I had always been the one trying to hold everything together. But recovery taught me that my perfectionism wasn’t strength—it was fear. And that fear was slowly destroying me.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight.” (Proverbs 3:5)

Denying myself didn’t mean erasing my identity. It meant surrendering my fear-driven need to manage everything. It meant trusting God with my life—one day at a time.

That’s the Fresh Start Jesus offers. Not once. But daily (Lamentations 3:22–23).

And yes, it comes with risk—because it requires vulnerability. But it also comes with resurrection. The slow, beautiful work of becoming whole again.

Where Might God Be Inviting You to a Fresh Start?

Maybe you’ve had a picture of what following Jesus should look like—and that picture didn’t include struggle, or loss, or letting go.

Maybe you’ve assumed faith would make things easier or more certain. But Jesus never promised comfort—Jesus promised life. And often, that life begins where our self-reliance ends (2 Corinthians 12:9).

So where might you be resisting the kind of fresh start Jesus is offering?

Where are you still holding on—to your image, your fear, your control?

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.” (Psalm 51:10)

You don’t have to be at rock bottom to begin again. But you do have to be honest.

Honest about your expectations of God. Honest about what’s no longer working. Honest about what you need to surrender.

That’s the beginning of discipleship. That’s the beginning of healing. That’s the beginning of a Fresh Start.

What Kind of Church Will We Be?

A fresh start isn’t just personal—it’s communal.

Jesus didn’t just call the disciples—he called the crowd too (Mark 8:34). This path of surrender and self-giving love isn’t just for the spiritual elite. It’s for all of us. Together.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)

So what does it mean for us, as a church, to take up our cross?

What do we need to lay down—maybe old assumptions or cherished comfort—for the sake of those Jesus loves who aren’t here yet?

How can we make space for people who are carrying shame, grief, addiction—those who feel unwelcome or unseen?

“Welcome one another… just as Christ has welcomed you.” (Romans 15:7)

A church that follows Jesus won’t be known only for Sunday mornings. It will be known by the crosses we bear on behalf of others. It will be a place where fresh starts are possible.

Are You Sure You’re Up for This?

So I’ll ask you again: Are you sure you’re up for this?

Not because Jesus wants to scare you off—but because Jesus wants you to know what’s at stake.

Following him means surrender. It means risk. It means letting go of what we thought would save us—and trusting that real life begins at the foot of the cross.

“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

You don’t walk this path alone. Jesus goes before you. And you walk in community—with grace, with honesty, with room for as many fresh starts as you need.

May we be the kind of people—and the kind of church—who say yes.