(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on February 10, 2019, Fifth Sunday after Epiphany)
Love Comes First
When I read today’s scripture,
there lurk in the back of my mind a couple of the scriptures that we read back
in January: Jesus’ baptism and his water-into-wine wonder at the wedding at
Cana. For me, those two scriptures
proclaimed loud and clear: God’s love is the beginning of the story.
In the story of Jesus’ baptism,
we begin with a Jesus who hasn’t healed a single person, hasn’t taught an
inspiring lesson, hasn’t preached a great sermon. In the gospels’ account of things, he’s done practically
nothing at this point. But even
so, he hears the voice of God proclaim, “You are my son, the beloved; with you
I am well pleased.” Whereas the
world preaches that hard work and achievement come first, and only afterward
affirmation and love, we see the opposite in the life of Jesus. The love of God is at the beginning of
the story when he hasn’t done a thing.
The love of God is what begins
the story. It’s only after Jesus
hears these words of love and blessing from God that he embarks on an
unforgettable three-year adventure that will forever change history.
In the story of the wedding at
Cana, we see Jesus enact this same truth in the lives of his disciples. His first act with them is not to teach
a foundational lesson or train them in a fundamental spiritual discipline. It is to take them to a party, to a
celebration of love, because for Jesus, love is what begins the story. If there is no love, there is no life. Love comes first.
Original Shame
What a contrast to the thinking
of our world! In some ways, it is
even a contrast to the thinking of the church. For many Christians, the traditional doctrine of original
sin suggests that the beginning of the story is not God’s love but our shame. Some Protestant Reformers thought
rather imaginatively of human nature as “a pile of manure covered over with
Christ.”[1] I wonder if this accounts, in part at
least, for the world’s growing resentment toward the church. Just as any child would resent a parent
who begins with rejection or shame, so also our world distances itself from a
religion that would appear to preach the same.[2]
I don’t know if Augustine, who
introduced the idea of original sin, intended to suggest that shame is the
first step in our faith journey. I
would like to think not. But I
don’t think it’s any surprise that over time that is what the doctrine came to
mean. Because I think “original
shame” is a doctrine much older than the church, deeply ingrained in our
historical and cultural DNA. In a
world that has long adored success, shame is a natural starting point for many
of us. In a world where being “a
successful human being means making straight A’s, keeping a well-paid job with
good benefits, staying happily married to an attractive person, raising
well-adjusted children, and not gaining too much weight,” who among us can keep
up? Of course, the shame of our
world is not always obvious. In an
effort to hide our shame, many of us adopt the persona of what was called in
our middle and high school years “being cool.” “Being cool” means putting up walls, not caring, appearing
certain of ourselves and in complete control at all times. Being cool is a form of
self-protection. I’ll just do what
I do, and let no one in. I’ll keep
the shame buried deep within.
The church did not invent the
idea of original shame. It
tragically inherited it. It has
unconsciously subsumed it.
Our Shame Holds No Currency Before God
But the Bible itself resists the
idea of original shame, time and time again.
Consider today’s scripture, where
Jesus borrows the boat of the fisherman Simon in order to teach a crowd of
people on the shore. When he
finishes his lesson, he turns to the fisherman Simon and invites him to put his
nets down. The scripture doesn’t
tell us Jesus’ motivation, but I imagine his concern is other-oriented, as it
usually is. “I’ve borrowed your
boat for hours now. Don’t let me
interrupt your work any more. Why
don’t you let your nets down again?”
Simon responds, “Master, we’ve
worked all night long but have caught nothing.” I’m suspicious that behind these words lurk shame and
self-doubt: I’m a failure of fisherman.
If I were better, I’d know the currents, I’d know where and when to cast
my net. As it is, I’m about to be
exposed in front of this great rabbi, who’ll know me for who I really am.
The pivot of the story comes in
Simon’s next words: “Yet if you say so.”
On the one hand, I hear self-defeat in these words. You asked for it. You’re about to see my failure. But on the other hand, whether Simon
means it or not, he is also declaring the gospel truth: You have said so. In other words, even if I don’t believe
in myself, you do.
Of course, what happens next is
something of a miracle. The net
catches so many fish that Simon’s boat and his partners’ boat both begin to
sink under their weight. I worry,
though, that their success in this moment covers over a deeper meaning. For even if their nets were to come up
empty, I believe that the miracle in story has already happened. When Jesus says, Go on, do your thing,
and Simon oscillating in his shame says, If you say so—this is where we see the
good news on display: Our shame holds no currency before God. That is the real miracle. Paul puts it this way in his inspired
song on love: God’s love believes in us, it hopes the best for us, it bears
with us (cf. 1 Cor 13).
Love Lifts Us Up
The good news, though, is hard
for Simon to swallow. Immediately
after the catch that nearly sinks the boat, Simon himself sinks onto his knees
before Jesus and cries, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” As though to say what we all say in our
shame: I’m not worthy of this company, of this love, of this joy. As though to say: If you really knew me, what I think, what I do,
how wrong I get it sometimes, how hard I fail sometimes, you wouldn’t stand
near me.
The good news, of course—which
will take Simon a lifetime to learn, which is a lifelong journey for all of us
I think—is that God knows all about our failure and our frailty, our sin and
our shortcoming, and God loves us all the same. Love is not a thing we earn or deserve. God’s love comes first. Not only that, but it is precisely in
our failure and our frailty, our sin and our shortcoming, where God’s love
finds a way into our lives and lifts us up. At exactly the place where we feel shame, God’s love
embraces us and believes in us and draws us into new life. When Paul discusses his repeated
struggle, what he calls the “thorn in [his] flesh,” he says that God responded
with these words: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in
weakness” (2 Cor 12:9).
This sounds nice of course, but
what does this actually look like?
In my own experience, it has been in my flaws and frailty that I am
invited to learn and to grow.
And it is through my weakness and my inability that I am drawn into
meaningful relationships, where God’s love lifts me up. I think about our brothers and sisters
next door, whose confession of powerlessness against addiction brings them
together week after week. I think
of the needful on the streets and the persons of disability who gather in
L’Arche, all of whom are looking not simply for help but just as importantly
for friendship. I think of the
experience of moving to a new place, of being a stranger, which invariably
invites us to reach out and make friends and become a part of a community. I think of things as simple as moving
house, where we cannot do it all on our own and must call for a helping hand,
and through that call friendships grow.
Shame and its cousin, “being
cool,” are forms of security. We
limit ourselves. We say in our
hearts, I can’t do that, I’m not worthy of this. The gospel is God’s response: “I love you. I believe in you. I’m calling you to do something
important for others, whether you think you can do it or not.” The point is not our success but our
acceptance of this love and our faithfulness to it. Indeed, this is how are failures, our faults, and our loss
miraculously lead us—and others—into new life. In our vulnerability, in the chinks in our armor, the love
of God steals in and lifts us and others up.
Simon Peter was not a perfect
person by any stretch of the imagination.
He misunderstands Jesus’ teaching and tries to replace the way of the
cross with the way of conquest.
His faith falters memorably as he walks toward Jesus on the sea, and he
sinks. He goes missing in Jesus’
darkest hour and denies him three times.
But none of that matters in the end. Because in the end, what matters is what’s in the beginning:
God’s love, for Simon Peter and for all of us. It is not something we achieve, nor is it something we work
hard for. It is a gift. It takes us just as we are—in all our
weakness and needfulness—and from there it raises us and others to new life.
Prayer
O God who is Love,
How well Peter speaks
For us all when he says,
“If you say so….”
Help us to hear your call in our lives,
That you indeed
say so:
By your love,
Lift us up
Right where are;
Inspire us in our daily lives,
That we might not cast our net
Doubtfully or in shame,
But in a manner that rejoices in your love
And yields abundant life for others
And ourselves.
In Christ who calls to each of us: Amen.
[1] Richard
Rohr, “Original Shame and Original Blessing,” https://cac.org/original-shame-original-blessing-2016-07-01/,
accessed February 5, 2019.
[2] Rohr,
“Original Shame and Original Blessing.”
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