Mr. Goodwrench Can't Fix This

Discover the Joy of Accepting the Truth We Discover Near the End

“For he has not despised or abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; and he has not hidden his face from him, but has heard, when he cried to him.”

—Psalm 22:24

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A Lousy Lent

More than 40 years ago, the dean of my seminary preached a sermon around this time of year—one I’ve never forgotten. Every year, as Lent draws to a close, I find myself thinking about it again. Like today.

After the opening prayer, he stepped into the pulpit and said, almost casually, “Well, it’s been another lousy Lent.”

That line lodged in my soul. Over the years, I’ve echoed it—from the pulpit, in my own prayers, and often in quiet resignation. It’s what I’ve said about Lent for most of my Christian life.

I’ve never been a contemplative. That quiet, reverent spirituality just isn’t my natural posture. I’m not wired for stillness. I’m more of an activist—a fixer. If something’s broken, I want to jump in and repair it. I lead with energy, ideas, and a stubborn will to make things right.

That’s how I show up in the world.

So when Lent rolls around, I assume that’s how I should show up with God, too.

I treat Lent like the spiritual equivalent of a gym membership. This is my chance to finally get in shape—spiritually speaking. To clear out the clutter. To stop scrolling, eat better, sleep more, pray deeper.

I want to fix what’s broken in me. Or, more honestly, I want to fix me.

I’m No Mr. Goodwrench

Remember the clever GM ad campaign featuring the happy, smiling, grease-free auto mechanic who was honest, true, capable, and would fix your car right the first time?

That’s the lie I keep entertaining: That I can fix myself. I can do it. I have what it takes. This time, with the right effort and focus, I’ll become the person I think I should be.

But now, five weeks later, March 5th, Ash Wednesday clearly in the rear-view mirror, the truth is painfully obvious:

I’m still me.

I am the same person I was on Ash Wednesday when my son, an ordained Anglican priest, smudged me with ashes and told me I was just dust—or I would be soon.

Still distracted. Still undisciplined. Still unfinished.

My Lenten project of self-improvement hasn’t transformed me. It’s exposed me. It’s revealed what I don’t want to admit: I am not who I thought I was. I am not the kind of person who has the tools, the discipline, or the wisdom to fix myself.

Maybe that’s what Lent is really for.

Not to improve me.
But to undo the illusion that I can save myself.

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I’ve Reached the End of Me

We started this journey together back on March 5, reading the question David asked 3,000 years ago—and Jesus echoed 1,000 years later on the cross:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

We’ve searched for an answer ever since.

And along the way, we’ve caught glimpses.