Scripture: John 14:25-27 and John 21:15-19.
Failure is a word that kept coming up as I was thinking about the sermon this morning.
I didn’t know much more than you did as to what to expect from our drama troupe this morning. I thought it would be better not to know what was coming–and more fun.
But I did know—because Dell and I did talk about it in general terms some weeks ago—I did know that we were probably going to get a spoof of the “perfect family”, in this case the Cleavers, but it could have been the Nelsons, the Petrys, the Bradys, or more recently and at long last, the Huxtables. And so there is this whole theme of our failure to measure up to certain ideals, most of them phony, that we get from who knows where. It seemed like an appropriate theme for the drama people for Mothers’ Day, or Family Day, and I thought maybe a theme I would preach on too. Not that failure is the dominant reality of family life, but it is a reality that we probably need to acknowledge, if not actual failure, then feelings of failure.
Then there’s the scripture reading about the disciples going fishing and coming up empty handed. One subject the scripture suggested to me was “failure”. I was intrigued by the story of the disciples going fishing. As I said two weeks ago, one way to see this passage is to think of the disciples and Jesus as coming home. Another way is to think of them returning to something they knew how to do. Fishing was something they knew, all their lives. They presumably had learned about fishing from their fathers, who had learned it from their fathers, who had learned it from their fathers. Fishing was something they knew in their bones.
Following Jesus was not something they knew in their bones. They had done it, but they really didn’t understand it very well. And now that adventure had seemingly come to an end. They had no clue how to follow Jesus now that he was gone. So, I see them as going back to something they knew how to do.
And so what happens to these people who were probably feeling pretty empty anyway? They go out fishing all night and come back empty. And to add insult to injury there’s this guy on the shore who says to them after they come in, “So, did you catch any fish? What do you have to show for yourselves?” And they have to say no, we didn’t catch any fish. We have nothing to show for ourselves. The disciple business turned out to be pretty hard, so they went back to what they thought they knew inside and out, and still came up empty. Failure. What do we do with these experiences, these feelings of failure?
So I want to pursue this a little, but let me turn this into something that has not so much specifically to do with families. We’ll be offering up our families later in thanksgiving and prayer. I started out thinking about things that had to do with families, but let me turn it into one of those huge, unanswerable questions that is way too large to say very much about in the space of a sermon. And let me begin by going back to where I began the service today, with words from the prophet Micah, with a question from Micah.
With what shall we come before the Lord? Micah continues: Basically he says: What do you want from me, God? Do you want me to bring animals for sacrifice? Thousands of animals? Do you want me to bring oil to be burned? Rivers of oil? My firstborn? What is it you want of me? How much do you want of me? I hear this as part of a conversation any of us might have with God. What really is it that you want from me, mother, father, parent God? What kind of expectations do you have? What do I have to do to get your attention, your love?
Micah goes on to answer: No, we don’t need the animals, the oil, or the firstborn. God doesn’t require fancy, showy kinds of offerings, nothing exotic, no over the top demonstrations of devotions. What God wants is very simple. God has showed you, O mortal, O human, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God?
I know I am not the only one here who has a special attachment to those words of scripture. These were, I think, the first words of the Bible I learned by heart. And I learned them without trying, because my minister when I was a young child spoke those words at the beginning of every worship service, and although I wouldn’t have known exactly where they came from, I’m sure I was able to recite them before I learned the Lord’s Prayer or anything else from the Bible.
What does God require but that we do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God? Simple words. At the same time, profound words. Also, in a certain sense impossible words. They remind me of the words from the scripture, that I am also fond of: Peter, do you love me? Tend my sheep. Peter, do you love me? Feed my lambs. Peter, do you love me? Feed my sheep. Direct words. Deceptively simple words. And in a certain sense impossible words.
How much feeding is enough? When is it o.k. to stop?
If one way of feeding each other is, paradoxically, to increase our hunger for such things as justice, for the reign of God, then when is it that we can say we have been fed with enough of a hunger for justice?
When have we done enough in our pursuit of justice?
When have we shown enough kindness, or mercy?
Do we have to walk humbly with God all the time? Do we have to be God-conscious all the time? Can’t we just sort of put God, and all these infernal questions God is causing us to ask, can’t we just sort of put God off to the side most of the time, or at least some of the time?
Just how much does God ask of us? Or, to put it another way, putting aside at least the word God for the moment: What kind of a claim does life make on us? What is somehow expected of us by the mere fact of our being a human being?
Whatever the expectations are that are somehow built into our existence, we probably don’t meet them. We are never completely certain or aware of what it is that we need to be doing. Whatever we do, we don’t do perfectly. And however much we do it is never enough. A sense of failure seems in a lot of ways to be built in to our relationship to God.
Or is it? The truth is, for me, that I experience God in two very different ways and I get two very different kinds of messages from God as far as what God may require of me and I get those two very different messages both at the same time and pretty much all the time, so that just about every moment of my life is filled with this tension that I believe comes from God.
On the one hand are voices that whisper to me about unconditional love. These are voices that may say things like, “God loves you just the way you are.” I know that may sound a little sappy for some people’s tastes, but then we just need to figure out other ways to say it, because the message is still very much part of our faith.
With what shall we come before God? I do hear the voice that says, “Nothing”. Don’t bring anything. There’s nothing you can bring. We all come to God empty handed and there’s no other way we can come to God. We have nothing we can bring that will impress God or cause God to love us…thousands of rams…rivers of oil…oceans of good intentions…quite a few good deeds…degrees, positions, honors, accomplishments—it is all unnecessary, less than unnecessary.
All those things that might make us worthy of God’s love, or that might convince God or ourselves that we have measured up to some minimum standard of what is expected of us as Christians or as human beings, and especially those things that might make us more worthy than the next person—lay them down, leave them behind, when you come before God. They don’t make any difference.
As I say I hear these voices telling me these things pretty much all the time. And I hear the voice of Jesus saying, “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give.” Be not anxious. Let not your hearts be troubled. Neither let them be afraid. Put aside your striving. I give you a peace the world does not give.
And those same voices that tell me about coming to God empty-handed tell me other things too, similar things, like:
You know, you don’t have to feel responsible for everything.
It will be all right if everything on your agenda doesn’t get done today—or ever.
The world does not depend on you.
There’s a place in this life for relaxing, for letting go, for realizing that there are lots of things that you can’t fix, for just being.
There’s a place in this life for not getting things done, not trying to improve anything or anyone, not having to prove yourself to anyone, including yourself.
“My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give.”
And it’s these same voices that speak to me at a different level still. They say: The world itself, creation itself, without any further improvements, without any interventions from you or me, the world itself is a holy place. The whole world is a sacrament, meaning that somehow mysteriously, invisibly God is present within, through, beneath, around everything that is.
This world is a holy place through and through, not because at the moment of creation God pronounced it good and because someday it will be good again, and not just the good parts, not just the pretty parts, but all of it and every part of it is sacred. And those voices tell me that my job is not so much to change it but to appreciate it. At the very least my voices say that I need to take some time off from trying to make the world better, not for the sake of r and r, but for the sake of seeing better the holiness that already infuses everything.
There is a holiness that is here without my having to do anything to bring it about, in fact that I can’t do anything to bring about.
That’s one set of voices. But as I say there’s another set of voices too, if not exactly warring with the first group, then at least competing for my attention, and giving me pretty much opposite messages.
There is a God who loves me just as I am, but there is also a God who will not let me be content with me just as I am or with the world just as it is. There is a God who asks me questions: Do you love me? Tend my sheep. Do you love me? Feed my lambs. Do you love me? Feed my sheep.
So I hear whispers of a different sort. They say:
There are things in the world and in you that are not o.k. just the way they are.
There are things that do need to be changed—in the world, and in you. We don’t have to call it change. We can call it growth. But in any case, those voices over there telling you that God loves you just as you are,…well they’re not telling you the whole truth. God doesn’t want you to stay just as you are.
There are things worth learning, things worth striving for and sacrifices that are worth being made.
We can put aside the thousands of rams and the rivers of oil, but we can’t put aside the good intentions, or the good deeds. We can’t put aside the doing of justice or the loving of mercy. We can’t put aside every effort to improve the world or to improve ourselves.
I hear Jesus saying not only “my peace I give you” but also “bear fruit”. He even yelled at a fig tree that did not bear fruit, cursed it. There are some expectations here. There are some standards. We do have some measuring up to do after all.
As I say I hear these two kinds of conflicting voices pretty much all the time at the same time.
When I wake up in the morning, do I immediately start thinking of all the important things I have to do, start setting my priorities and making my plans, or do I see God smiling at me and wishing that I would take myself a little less seriously.
When I go to bed at night do I let go of the day and give myself over to sleep and to God, or do I try to remember what I forgot to remember the previous day so that I have a chance of remembering it tomorrow?
When I pray, do I give thanks for such a miraculous enterprise that God has made me a part of, or do I think of all the hurts that need to be healed and plead with God, beg of God, demand of God to do something, or give me the strength to do something?
Do I day by day, hour by hour, feel the forgiveness of God, or do I hear the call of God to tasks that I will never fully succeed at, and certainly never complete?
Of course the right answer is not one or the other, but both. We want to know that all the good things we are involved in—our plans and projects, our jobs and our causes—all this is worth taking seriously and it all matters. Yet what a grace not to take ourselves too seriously.
We want to be determined and conscientious about the things we are given to do and to care about, but what a grace also to be able to let go.
We pray with gratitude for the world just as it is, and we pray for its healing.
We need to know ourselves forgiven, loved, blessed, but also called to impossible tasks.
The voices are all true. They are, I believe, of God. We don’t hear all of God’s different voices equally well all the time. But we can listen, and we can keep on listening. May God help us to do so. Amen.
Jim Bundy
May 13, 2001