Pieces of the Puzzle

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.