You know, I
remember the first time I stood in the pulpit at my home church. It was a
lessons and carols service and one of the readers hadn’t shown up, so my choir
director hands me a piece of paper and says, “Will you read this?” I take it
and nod and he says, “Now?” and so I get up before God and creation and walk up
to the pulpit and read this lesson from Isaiah. The part that most of the
people from my church back home remember is that I wasn’t wearing any shoes at
the time, but what I remember was the sense of purpose I had when I approached
the pulpit. I had a job to do and I was going to do it.
And now, I wonder
what I’ll remember from this moment, the last time I stand in this pulpit, in
this place that has taught me so much about who I am and what it means to be a
pastor. I’m much more prepared now than I was back then—I’ve got my shoes on
and everything—but, I guess, at the end of the day, I still have a job to do
and I’m going to do it. For this morning’s sermon, I’d like to share an
important lesson I learned during these past two years, but before I do that,
would you pray with me?
God of hellos and
God of goodbyes, God of learning and God of teaching, thank you for bringing us
to this time and this place. Be with us here today. And may the words of my
mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable to you, our Rock
and our Redeemer. Amen.
There were two
words that I was wildly unfamiliar with when I began seminary. They weren’t
big, fancy theological words like hypostatic union or homoousion or obscure
liturgical words like ambo and alb. They were simple, words that I think
everyone knows. Words that were so easy, they made them into a children’s book.
Here, let me find them. Ah yes.
I. Can’t.
I can’t.
See, I read The Rainbow Fish as a kid and I loved
it. A modern-day parable if ever there was one. I loved the shiny scales and I
loved the colors so much so that they’re still the dominant color scheme in my
decorating, all blues and greens and purples.
But I also took the message to
heart. This book is one of those stories that I read so often and so early that
it made its way into how I understand myself. I learned that the only way you
make friends is by giving them things, sharing with them.
Like the Rainbow
Fish, I have precious things about myself that I can give away. I can share
what I’ve learned, I can share my time, I can share my effort, and I can share
my skills. I can do plenty of things, and so “Yes, I can!” became the shiny
scale that I gave to anyone who asked for it. And, like the Rainbow Fish, this
giving kept me happy.
At least it did,
for a good long while.
You all know
probably know what’s coming. There came a day when I had no more scales to
give. Somewhere, between going to school, going to my internship, working as a
librarian, nanny, tutor, and editor, and investing in my relationships,
friendships, and family, I gave away my last shiny scale. I reached back to
pull out another and came back empty handed. There came a day when someone
asked me for something and I said, “I can’t.”
It shattered me.
Because, it turns
out, when you build your self-worth on what you can give to other people, the
moment you don’t have anything left to give, you become worthless in your own
eyes, and that is a hard thing to come back from. When you think you’re
worthless, all sorts of unkindness will seep into your spirit. For me, to say
“I can’t” once made it hard for me to say “I can” again.
Now, I'm not
blaming my tendency toward overcommitment and burn-out on a children's book.
There were a lot of life-long factors at play and honestly, I had forgotten
this book until someone gave it to the kid I nanny and I read it to him a
couple of months ago. But when I read it again, I recognized something about
the book that I hadn't seen before.
The Rainbow Fish wasn't written
for me.
The Rainbow Fish wasn't written
for the kid prone to self-giving and low self-esteem. It was written for the
kid who needs to learn how to give. It’s teaching a lesson I didn’t need to
learn.
This happens sometimes in our scriptures and
our theology too. We talk so much about pride as our fundamental sin, the sin
that most other sins sprout from, that we forget that many of us can't muster
up any pride at all. When it's assumed that pride is our primary sin, we're
told to think of ourselves less and to think less of ourselves, which is the
opposite of someone who struggles with self-worth needs to hear. When you
misdiagnose the sickness, you prescribe the wrong cure.
You may have
experienced this too. You’ve shared some of your faith stories with me and I
can guess that there’s at least one other person in this room who has struggled
or is struggling with a cure prescribed by scripture that wasn’t meant for them,
or at least, not meant for them at this point in their life.
But the beautiful
thing about our scriptures, our theology, and our tradition, if we spend time
with them, is that they know that not
everyone struggles with the same problems all the time.
Jesus speaks
comfort to the rest of the disciples but challenges Peter; he is preparing all
of them for their ministries to come, but he knows who needs to be pushed and
why.
And Paul, when he
first hears from Jesus, receives a convicting message rather than the
encouragement he receives later.
Isaiah is full of
woe for the powerful who are not looking after God's people as they should but
he speaks strong words of consolation to those who need it. “You are mine,” God
says to God's people in our passage from Isaiah. “You are precious in my sight.
I would trade the world for you. I will gather you to myself and I will love
you.”
Now, you may find
yourself as a disciple or Peter, as Paul before Damascus or as Paul after, as
someone God is trying to convict or as someone God is trying to comfort. If
you’re like me, if you’re someone struggling with “I can’t,” you’re likely in
need of some comfort and a new orientation. That’s the cure for the sickness we
suffer from. When you have grounded yourself in what you can do for others and
suddenly find yourself unable to do what you have always done, you have to find
solid ground somewhere else.
These words from
Isaiah are that solid ground for me. They’re what I say to myself to remind me
who I am. Be not afraid, for I have redeemed you. Be not afraid, I have called
you by name. You are mine. You are precious in my sight.
Knowing that I am
loved by a God who unshakably loves me became my new way of understanding
myself. It's my new solid ground and that's the lesson that I learned at
seminary that I want to share with you today: my worth does not come from what I can do for others and so I am free
to do work for others. I am wrapped up in the love of God and daily
sustained by God's grace and that is all I need. If I never did another thing
for anyone else for the rest of my life, I would still rest in God's love. I
don't need what I do to make me worthy. God’s love does that for me. I can say
“I can’t” and the world will spin on.
But
because I am loved by so great a love and because I am grounded in that love
and grace, I can give what God has given me to others. See, the Rainbow Fish is
not diminished by giving away his scales— the ocean is lit up by them. When we
are freely giving out of the abundance that God has given us, it lights up the
world around us. We only get to do that free, abundant giving, though,
if we are resting in God's love.
And that is my
charge to you today: rest secure in God's love and then give knowing that you
are secure in God's love. That's all that we ever need do.
Now, you may be
in a completely different place in your faith journey. This sermon may have
gone completely past you because it’s not a lesson you need to hear. That's
okay. That's good, in fact. That means that this body of believers is all
growing, somehow, someway, and you don't feel the need to be like everyone
else. It is a beautiful thing if you are new to faith, even if you've been
going to church for a while, and you're still figuring out who God is to you
and who you are to God. I hope this sermon inspires you to spend some time
thinking about God's love and what it means to you.
It is a beautiful
thing if you are confirmed in your faith and feel God's love in your life, but
aren't sure if, how, or where to share what you’ve been given with others. I
hope this sermon inspires you to look at yourself and figure out what your
shiny scales are and how you can give them away.
It is a beautiful
thing too if you, like me, have spent your life giving your scales away. I
would challenge you to think about where you find your worth, your ability to
give, and to ground it somewhere unshakeable.
And it's a
beautiful thing, even if it doesn't feel like it, if you have grown as a
disciple in the knowledge of the love of God and have given out of your
abundance and life has knocked you down anyway. You are blessed if you are poor
or disadvantaged or mourning because it is God, the maker of every good thing,
who will fill you up and restore you. Know that you are held in the arms of a
God who loves you and that one day, you’ll be able to give again. But it is not
this day and that too is a good and joyful thing. Rest in God’s love. That’s
all you need to do.
In a few months,
I will pack up everything I own and move to Cullowhee, North Carolina. It's so
far west, it's practically Tennessee. But it's where God, or, at least, a
bishop who's supposed to be listening to God, has sent me to be a pastor. A
couple of months ago, maybe even a month ago, that would have scared the life
out of me, despite having learned so much from my time here about leading
worship and planning small groups and managing church finances and just
existing with church people. No matter how prepared for ministry I was, I was
struggling to care of myself, much less take on Jesus's commission to tend his
sheep. I didn't have anything to give.
Now, though, I
feel like I can handle it. I need some rest, for sure (seminary, like I’ve said
before, is a marathon that you run at a sprint pace and I'm tired), but I feel
stable now. I feel peaceful. And that's not just because the papers are in and
the work of seminary is done. It's because I know that I don't have to do the work, I get to do the work. It’s the lesson of a
lifetime and I’m so grateful to you all for supporting me while I learned it.
So, after two
good long years here at Salem, as I leave this pulpit, if I leave you with any
message at all, let it be this: Wherever you are, whatever life has given to
you or taken from you, rest in God’s love. Know that God loves you deeply and
calls you as God’s own. Let that knowledge fill you up and, when you’re ready,
give in love to everyone around you. Let’s light up the ocean around us with
all that God has given us.
Amen? Amen.
