a messy story for a messy world: a homily on Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

Year A, 12/24/13

University Lutheran Church- Palo Alto, CA

            In the darkness we have stumbled.  Walking through the hallways of our lives at night we fumble, searching for a light switch or maybe a simple night light.  We run into end tables and stub our toes on doorposts.  Again, we search for any sight of light.  The darkness is messy, it’s painful, it’s lonely.  Our world is messy, it’s painful, it’s lonely.

            The Christmas story doesn’t make any sense.  It’s not rational.  It’s a story of how God comes into a world that looks suspiciously like our own world—and why would a God ever do that?!  It’s a story about a poor, pregnant and unwed teenage girl.  It’s a story about the girl’s fiancé, who is not the father—and there have been rumors, off-handed comments, and judgmental stares.  The story takes this disheveled couple on an 80 mile journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem.  The terrain is rough, emotions are tense, and the girl is 9 months pregnant.  And not only is the girl pregnant, but she’s in labor.  And there is nowhere to go.  They are outsiders and not welcome.  So the Christmas story continues in a barn.  And it smells, and the animal feed is itchy, and oh no, the girl’s fiancé just stepped in something.  Unable to escape the reality of their situation, the girl gives birth.  And as if the situation needed any more of the extraordinary, the child of whom the girl gives birth is said to be the Son of God, the savior of the world.  Really? God comes to the world in this situation?! The Christmas story just doesn’t make sense.

 Let’s recap—God comes to earth in the form of a weak, vulnerable infant, born to a poor teenage mother under some really sketchy circumstances.  That’s not what Gods are supposed to do! There were a lot of people expecting a savior in Israel at this time, but I don’t think this is what they had in mind.  The savior of the world was supposed to be an authoritative warrior king; triumphing over enemies, crushing oppressors.  Instead, this God chooses to come into the world in the most innocent of ways and unattractive of circumstances. 

The Christmas story is not sterile.  It’s messy.  It is literally messy but it also emotionally messy, politically messy.  And it is in this messy situation that God comes into the world.  The Christmas story is a story of how God comes into a messy world that looks a little too much like our own messy world.  And what kind of God would want to get involved with that?  

For my Clinical Pastoral Education, I served as the chaplain of a shelter for women escaping domestic violence and chronic homelessness.  The situations that bring women to places like these are testaments to our world’s great darkness.  I worked with women who suffered in ways that humans should never have to suffer.  I heard stories that I wish no one would ever have to tell.  While I was working at the shelter, I got to know a woman who wanted to learn more about Christianity.  In particular, this woman wanted to read the bible so every other day we would meet and read stories about Jesus and his followers.  At one point in our time together, I was trying to explain how Jesus was both God and a human-- human just like us.  I was stumbling over my words, trying to explain something that I thought just didn’t make sense, when I noticed this woman’s eyes were welling up with tears. 

She looked at me, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, and said “So, if Jesus was both human and God, then that means God must know what it’s like to be me.  God knows what it’s like to suffer, because God was a human.”  This woman, who had lived in one of the most darkest and messiness of worlds, was overcome by the light of God’s love for her.  In an instance, she got it.   She got it so completely.  God knew what she had been through. God cared enough to come to earth and experience what is like to be human: to have a messy life, and to suffer, and to cry, and live through broken relationships, and to witness darkness first hand.  This woman who had walked in darkness, saw a great light in a God who cared enough about her to come to this messy earth. 

This is what is at stake in the Christmas story, Emmanuel—God with us.  At Christmas we celebrate a God who breaks into darkness.  A God who is not separate and distanced from the world, but active, and involved.  A God who was born as a human child and walked this earth and ministered in ways both ordinary and extraordinary.  A God who loves and cares for us so much that this God chooses to come into the messiest of our lives and dares to speak of hope, even when there seems to be none.  This is the God who reveals Godself in Jesus.  This is the God to whom you belong.  This is what we are celebrating. 

No, the story doesn’t really make sense.  We can’t use rationality to explain it.  This kind of love is beyond rationality.  It’s a kind of love that seeps into our brokenness and heals what was thought was beyond repair.  It’s a kind of love that risks everything to know relationship.  It’s a kind of love that is threatening to traditional structures of power.  It’s a love worth dying for.  It doesn’t make sense but this crazy, irrational love is worth putting our hope in.   

Tonight, we do not only celebrate the birth of a child; but tonight, this Christmas Eve, we celebrate that light has come into darkness; Bringing peace, orientation, and hope for a time when no one need stumble through darkness alone.  Living into this hope, may we set rationality aside.  May we live daringly in the hope that God dwells among us.  And, as people who have walked in darkness, may we experience the liberation that comes with the arrival of long expected light. 

a new thing: a sermon about weird magi and revealing God's unexpected presence.

Epiphany, Year A

January 5, 2014, University Lutheran Church- Stanford, CA

(Isaiah 60:1-6, Ephesians 3:1-12, Matthew 2:1-12)

            Growing up, I had a very distinct vision of how the story of the magi went.  My imagined story had a lot to do with popular culture and the song “We Three Kings.”  In my mind, I would always picture three powerful looking dudes.  They were dressed really classy and even wore crowns because, of course, they were kings.  And not only were these three dudes powerful kings, but they were also smart and wise--- Like Dumbledore! And so, for a long time, when I would read their story in the Bible, I would immediately imagine three Dumbledore Kings on steroids.  If only my childhood vision would be true.  Because the story would be a whole lot less confusing if those who discovered Jesus were powerful leader-kings, and not strange, outsiders. 

            See, when the first readers of Matthew’s gospel were hearing this story, they weren’t thinking of three powerful, clean-cut kings.   In the original language, the word that gets attributed to these people is that of wise men, in Greek, magi, but the text doesn’t really give any indication that these people are wise or even men.  Their behavior seems to hint that they may actually be a bit unwise.  After all, even though they are following a bright star that leads them straight to Bethlehem, they still get lost and have to make a pit stop in Jerusalem to ask for directions, and then they spill the beans to Herod!  And the gifts that they bring to Bethlehem are not very practical and, frankly, are a little creepy.  Really, who brings myrrh, something used for embalming, to a baby shower? (They should have just gotten a Target gift card!) And these people, they’ve come to worship Jesus, a baby, whom they call “King of the Jews.”  And they’re not even Jewish—why do they even care?!

Those who were reading or hearing this story in Matthew for the first time, most likely early Jewish followers of Jesus, probably would have not have thought this group of wise-people to be very wise.  They may have even been offended; if anything, confused.  Most people hearing this story when it was first written probably wouldn’t have used the adjective “wise” but instead, might have thought “weird.”  This story isn’t about three powerful, wise kings, but instead, about a strange gaggle of weirdos. Why would God choose them to reveal the birth of Jesus?  Why them?  Why weirdos?

We don’t have to read too far into the gospels to be reminded that the Bible is full of weirdos.  This Jesus character associates with a lot of strange people.  John the Baptist—wears camel hair clothing and eats bugs; the disciples—not very good at their jobs and smell like fish, all of the people whom Jesus heals—lepers, unclean women, dead people; Weirdos.  What was God thinking?

In Jesus, God did something new.  The story of Christmas is that God did a new thing in coming to earth as a vulnerable human baby—gods shouldn’t really do that. The story of Epiphany and the magi continues the theme.  God comes to earth as a baby and then the first people to recognize the importance of this God-child, the first group to name this child as he is, is a group of non-Jewish, transient outsiders.             

That certainly wasn’t expected, because if God did what was expected in this situation than the weird magi would have actually been Jewish, Dumbledore-like, wise and power kings.  But that wouldn’t be new—That’s a story we already know.  No, God is doing something new and this is clear already, in just the second chapter of the story.  These magi, they aren’t perfect, devout followers of Judaism—far from it, they practice magic and astrology—yet, God chooses to bring them into the story.  Suddenly, the birth of Christ becomes made known for everyone, not just the most acceptable of followers.  Everyone.  Suddenly, Christ is not just for the expected but also for even the most unexpected.  Everyone.  In Christ, God is doing something new.  In Christ, God is made accessible to all people, especially the weirdos. 

            But why them?  Why all the weirdos? 

Our world is full of stories about powerful kings.  Our folklore is full of wise Dumbledores.  The stories of success in our world are so often about working hard, denying whatever you can in the process, knowing the right people, and earning what you deserve.  The stories of our world have to do with good people getting good things and bad people getting what they deserve.  Our world’s stories are rich in narratives about a shallow happiness that comes from self-justification and how weirdos are weird for a reason.

 But, if Christianity is only for the non-weirdos, the perfect, happy people who have earned their best lives than God coming to earth as a human did nothing new.  If Christianity is only about how God favors the righteous, pious, most “right” religious people then Jesus’ stories blend right into the stories of our world.  It’s nothing new.  If Christianity is only for people who deserve it, or have earned it, then God might as well not have come to earth.  God coming to earth is not “business as usual.”  It’s about something else, something new. 

            The fact that God chooses to come to earth as a vulnerable child, and that God chooses to speak to weirdos says to us that we can never expect something “safe” or ordinary from God again.  The fact that God speaks to the dysfunctional and the broken and the hurting is proof enough that we can expect God to do the extraordinary.  In Jesus God did something so radically new that the world was set in a new direction.  How can we live into this new thing that God is doing?

            God isn’t done doing new things.  God continues to be present in ways unexpected.  God continues to reach forgotten corners, heals what is beyond repair, and brings life and light into darkness.  It’s still happening, do you perceive it? 

             Let us maintain high expectations for God to work in our world in ways beyond our comprehension.  Let us claim the extraordinary as a part of our shared story.  Let us allow ourselves to be absolutely blown away by God’s consistent and unexpected presence in our lives. 

            How might things change if we expected what was thought to be impossible?  What might we dare to hope for?  Through this child that the Magi visit, the lame walk, the blind see, justice is brought for the oppressed and people who were thought to be left out of the story are brought in.  Extraordinary, awesome things have happened and are still happening.  Let’s be a part of it. 

truths about humanity, God, and discipleship: a sermon in the season of creation

Mark 10:35-45

Season of Creation

            What a fitting day to celebrate humankind, as we welcome new and returning students to our community!  When we think about humanity and creation in relationship, it’s easy to rely on the image of humanity being active creators, instead of a more passive creation.  Because to admit that we are indeed created beings, implies a bit of vulnerability and trust in whomever or whatever has created us.  And vulnerability isn’t the easiest thing, is it.  We like the control of creating our own destiny and to be vulnerable is to relinquish a certain level of this control. 

            Perhaps this is also true when we think about Jesus’ call to service, like that in the gospel text for today.  Sometimes it’s easier for us to serve our neighbors than it is allow ourselves to be served.  To be served requires trust, vulnerability, openness, giving up control. To be served requires us to admit that, like our neighbors, we are also in need.  That we also need reconciliation, healing, support, forgiveness, understanding, and love.  And sometimes that is difficult to admit.    

            At first glance the gospel text for today appears to be focused only on our service towards others, but I think if we dig in a bit deeper we might find that it also reveals truths about our own needs and the disposition of God in Christ towards humanity. 

            One thing I love about the gospel of Mark is the way in which the author characterizes the disciples.  Story after story details the clumsy disciples screwing up, asking the wrong questions, sassy comments layered upon gutsy assumptions—They just can’t seem to get it together.  The same thing is true in this today’s specific text.  James and John ask an embarrassing question of Jesus, being rather self-centered and, instead of responding with compassion, the other disciples respond to James and John with anger and, I imagine the scenario in my head, a lot of dirty looks.  I must admit that most times I feel more like these disciples than I do a more wholly perfect, pius, socially acceptable, follower of Christ--constructions we so often times place on what it means to be a disciple.  The disciples of Mark are people I can relate to! They reveal an honest assessment of what life is actually like and in all of their failures, their “just-can’t-get-it-togetherness,” their “face-palms,” Jesus still calls them to be his disciples and leaves them responsible for caring for creation, for serving God’s Children, for creating the Kingdom of God on earth.  This leaves me to think that perhaps Jesus’ interaction with these disciples, people just like us, says less about their inadequacy, and more about the nature of God through Jesus Christ. 

            This is also evidenced in the location of our gospel text for today.  This particular passage on James and John’s inadequacy and the call to service takes place immediately after Jesus foretells his death and resurrection for the third and final time.  In fact, the other two times Jesus describes his soon death and resurrection are also connected to stories of the disciple’s perceived inadequacy and a call to serve. This leads me to believe that Jesus’ death and resurrection has distinct implications for the ways in which we understand service and discipleship and our place within it. 

            If we fast forward from this passage all the way to the end of the gospel of Mark, we read details of Jesus’ cruxifiction, death, and resurrection.  In the final chapter Jesus appears again to his disciples, and commissions them, this imperfect bunch, to go and share the good news.  He conveys that in his name the disciples will be able to proclaim to the world salvation, reconciliation, and healing.  Jesus again calls his disciples to serve, to take part in creating the Kingdom of God on earth.  Jesus calls them to create a new community; a community where the normal hierarchies of this world are non-existent.  The ground at the foot of the cross is level. The Son of Man did not come to serve a few or give his life to a few, good followers—the message of his death and resurrection in which we find validation, empowerment, salvation, healing, it is for everyone to hear. 

            Christ’s death and resurrection meets us, inadequate disciples, at the point where our inadequacies seem too much to bear.  Jesus’ death speaks honestly about the messiness of our world—where people are hungry, abused, lost, and forgotten-- but his resurrection shows us that this messiness is not the way things have to be; that we were made for so much more.  Jesus death frees us from our own inadequacy, helplessness and the fact that we too, like the disciples, just can’t seem to get it together, and places us securely in God’s community, a community where ordinary people are called to mutual service and love of neighbor.  Whenever we inevitably slip into self-doubt about our own ability to create the community that Jesus calls us into, when we say, “I can’t possible do this,” God in Christ has already said “Beloved, yes, together we can, you were created for this.” 

            We are Mark’s disciples.  We are clumsy, our actions often fall short, sometimes we say the wrong things, ask the wrong questions and yet we, too, are called.  We are called to serve and be served, and to love, and take part in what God is doing in our world today--- in our congregation, on our streets, in our communities, in those places that we least expect God to be. 

            Discipleship isn’t about us doing good things and getting a gold star—it’s more about how God equips us to do extraordinary things in Jesus’ name.   Less about the good things we do, and more about the good things God has done for us.

When you are willing to admit the ways in which God has served you, you are better equipped to go out into the world and serve your neighbor.  When God has met you in your deepest needs, you are better able to meet the needs of those around you.  When you begin to understand the way God has been compassionate towards you, you are more prepared to be compassionate towards others. 

            Discipleship starts with what God has done for us, for humanity.  Affirmed, made whole, reconciled, justified, we are sent out into the world to serve our neighbors both close and far.  Sent out to bring this same message of hope to a world that desperately needs it. From this building, Go out and into the world.  Take part in what God is doing.  Serve and be served.  Be a co-creator with God, actively participating in realizing the community of God on Earth.   

repentance, empathy, and uninspired fig trees: a sermon in lent.

Luke 13:1-9

a note:  this sermon was proclaimed at st. mark's lutheran church, san francisco, on march 3rd, 2013.

            I watched the news last night, here’s a sample of the stories being presented:

Man shot and killed in a high speed chase

Man presumed to have stolen a vehicle killed in yet another high speed chase

A suspected kidnapper is dead after a police standoff

Two Police shot in the line of duty

A 29 year old woman has been missing for 10 days

The effects of the government sequester cuts are said to effect many local programs and Limited access to health care is keeping many from receiving the treatment they need.

--All in the first 15 minutes of the programming. 

This is our world—Full of heartbreak, grief, brokenness, suffering, oppression, tears, hatred, pain—We are literally bombarded with the brokenness of our world.  Our access to 24 hour news channels, the internet, social media, or radio allows the hurt, the violence, the noise of our brokenness to permeate into our daily lives.  Yet, somehow, it is incredibly easy to tune this noise out.  It is incredibly easy to forget the calamities that saturate our world.  Somehow, I can gaze upon the news every night and not be absolutely horrified.  Why is that?  Why does it take a calamity so large that I can not ignore it for me to lament, “Christ have mercy!”? 

            Perhaps this overloading of reality has caused us to be numb.  News story after news story of painful brokenness—perhaps we protect ourselves by tuning out. Acknowledging the hurt of another human being causes us to see the suffering of our own humanity, thinking about the ways in which we too are broken—and that is painful.  It’s much easier to block out the realities of our world than to acknowledge the hurt that is so palpably present.

            I don’t believe that this is a recently developed phenomenon.  In the gospel text for today, the people surrounding Jesus are aware of the painful happenings of their world—murders by political figures, security threats, disastrous accidents that kill innocent bystanders—Yet they, too, do all that they can to acknowledge their own safety, assuring themselves that the brokenness of the world does not pertain to their own existence.  They distance themselves from the events, from their own reality, finding clever ways to explain away their own vulnerability or participation in the world’s brokenness.  After hearing their musings, Jesus firmly reconnects these people to the reality of their world.  While the people gathered wanted to distance themselves from those who suffered in the events of their time, Jesus points out their own vulnerability. The people gathered wanted to believe that the horrific events of that time happened to horrific people— surely those who perished must have done something to deserve it and that complacency of those gathered is warranted.

To this type of thinking--distancing, desensitizing, individualizing—Jesus responds: “Repent!”  To distance oneself from the world’s brokenness is to ignore the raw humanness that connects us all.  To desensitize oneself to the pain and hurt of our reality is to ignore the ways in which we all hurt.  And to want to believe that the oppression in our world does not pertain to us, or to our own realities, is to ignore the fact that we can indeed do something about it—and it is to this that Jesus says “Repent!”. 

The word, “repent,” in the original Greek is one that has been studied over and over again by pastors and theologians.  The way the verb is used in this text is a bit different from other uses: Here the call to repentance could also be a call to feel remorse, or to change the way we think of our moral, social, political, or religious relationships.  This feeling of remorse in connection to our relationships in the world, I like to think of as empathy.  In this text, Jesus’ call for repentance is a call for empathy.  When we empathize with another we connect ourselves to their story on a much deeper level.  When we allow ourselves to feel the emotions of another human being we open ourselves up to a world that is interconnected and mutual.  When we truly understand the hurt and pain of another, it is then that we are able to begin changing the systems that lead to that same hurt. 

This same form of the Greek verb to repent is used earlier in Luke where Jesus proclaims that the Kingdom of God is not possible until we learn to repent, until we learn to share our sufferings with one another.  This world cannot be the Kingdom, the beautiful place that God has intended, until we learn the reasons why our neighbor cries and the ways in which we can do something about it. 

As my husband Nikoli and I prepared to travel to El Salvador this past Thanksgiving, we watched a film on Oscar Romero that detailed the suffering, oppression, and deep pain of the Salvadoran people during the civil war.  The film came to a close and we let the credits role in silence until the screen went blank—then we cried.  We held each other and we cried for the people of El Salvador.  We cried for the people who lost loved ones unjustly, we cried for the people who witnessed the violent massacre of their neighbors, we cried for the people we would meet at Cordero de Dios whose memories will not let them forget the horrors of civil war.  We were not ready to travel to El Salvador, to walk alongside the people of Cordero de Dios, until we opened ourselves to feeling their hurt.  This process was uncomfortable—it hurt to acknowledge the pain that God’s children can inflict on one another and it was painful to gaze upon the messy chaos of our world—but in doing so we were better able to connect with our brothers and sisters in El Salvador, and while we were there, sharing stories and indulging in pupusas together on the dusty concrete floor of the sanctuary, we were able to get a glimpse of the Kingdom of God. 

Sometimes it’s easier to turn off the news than to acknowledge that the world we live in messy.  It difficult to do the hard work of understanding systems of oppression and it’s uncomfortable to sit in the suffering of another.  But we are not called to complacency.  We are not called to be flies on the wall.  We are called to be disciples—voices against oppression, agents for justice.  We are called to be a part of the good news that is the gospel—believing and standing firm in faith that a world can exist where no one will cry, where all of God’s children will be equal, and where peace, justice and love will prevail.  And if you think that this task at times seems too daunting, know that your God will walk with you always.  Like the story of the fig tree that just can seem to bear fruit, God will continue to encourage you, give you second chances, and believe in you even when you doubt in your own abilities. 

sandyhook and the vipers in our world.

Advent 3, Luke 3:7-18

a note: i was assigned to preach at st. mark's lutheran church in san francisco on december 16th, 2012.  i prepared the first draft of this message not knowing the events in connecticut that would transpire on december 14th, just two days prior.  in shock and with a heavy heart, i rewrote portions of this sermon until early sunday morning.

            While Christmas might be just 9 days away, the events of this past week painfully remind us that we live in a world where the presence of the Christ child is sometimes difficult to experience.  While for many this time calls for joy and celebration, we are reminded that we live in world of vipers.  While one might expect a more pleasant, joyful gospel message for this week, instead we are greeted with one that perhaps is more fitting for a nation that is anxiously waiting in hope, for a time when peace and justice will prevail for all, especially little children.             

This text begins with the course words of John the Baptist—cursing at the crowds who were too anxiously awaiting in hope, so ready to greet the coming of a messiah, too eager for change in their world.  John’s message is not an easy one. While we want to rejoice in the arrival of Christmas, John painfully reminds us that there is still preparation to be done.  As much as we think we are, we are not ready to meet the messiah. 

            This gospel story speaks of life before Jesus’ ministry.  As we heard last week, John the Baptist has been sent to prepare a way for the Lord—to prepare the people for the coming of Jesus’ ministry.  From the tone in John’s voice as he angrily addresses the crowds, it becomes clear to us that he believes that the people who have gathered are not yet ready to hear the message of Jesus.  Jesus’ message, after all, is pretty scandalous.  In the Gospel of Luke especially, Jesus’ message is for the weak, the social outcasts, the marginalized and the poor.  Indeed his critique of the rich and social elite leaves many uncomfortable, causes many to walk away, and leaves some anticipating his death.  John preaches giving to our neighbor, Jesus preaches loving our neighbor.  Perhaps we too need to prepare ourselves to hear the message of Jesus again, a message that can often leave us in shock—uncomfortable about all of the ways to which it speaks of our own needs.  Like the crowds, as we too await anxiously for coming of the messiah, I wonder what we must do to prepare ourselves. 

We cannot possibly welcome the ministry of Jesus, and hear his message with open hearts until we look critically at the way we are orienting ourselves in the world.  So often we are more eager to serve our own selfish desires and wants before we meet of the needs of others.  We orient ourselves inwardly—closed off from the needs of those around us.  This being turned in on ourselves prevents us from engaging in the powerful, world-changing ministry of Jesus—not only serving our neighbor and giving to our neighbor but loving our neighbor radically in all and through all of their uncomfortable needs.

In order to prepare the crowds for the ministry of Jesus to come, John calls all those listening to clothe those who are without clothing and feed those who are hungry.  John calls the crowd to turn from their inward orientation, outward and into the world—better able to see and act upon the needs of those around them.  John too knew the dangers of this inward orientation and he gives a most artful example of a tree too focused on it’s own growth to produce fruit that will feed those around it.  This image of the tree speaks to the vulnerabilities of inward orientation.  When we continue to be focused only on our own growth, we miss opportunities to share our gifts with others, working to make our world the kind of place that God may have originally intended it to be.  A place of relationship, giving, service, humility and love.  A place where everyone’s needs (social, physical, emotional and psychological) are met, where isolation does not drive someone to violence-- A place where innocent children do not have to die at the hands of another human being. A life oriented towards our neighbor opens us to meeting our world’s greatest needs. 

This turning from inward orientation to outward is the first step in preparing ourselves to engage the radically inclusive message of Jesus’ love.  When we begin to think of the needs of others alongside our own we are better able to enter into a love that transcends all boundaries.  That’s the message of Jesus—right?  God in Godself comes to earth in the form of an innocent child, vulnerable and dependent and those around him.  God transcends all conceivable boundaries to meet our greatest needs in the most radical type of love that we can comprehend.

As we once again find ourselves in the advent season, let us continue to await in hope and expectation a time in our world where true justice will prevail, everyone’s needs will be met, and love will again transcend boundaries in radical inclusivity.  As we wait again for the arrival of Jesus, our great peacemaker, let us remember the ways in which we can be instruments of that peace—participating and active agents in realizing God’s kingdom of Earth.  Let us turn from inside ourselves to outward, better able to hear the cries of our world and take place in radical ministry of Jesus.  

good enough: a homily for maundy thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Growing up as a child, it became clear pretty early on in my life that I was and am a perfectionist.  Being a perfectionist has its advantages, like any personality type, but it also has a downside.  For me, this downside was the persistent twinge of guilt after completing any endeavor—no matter how encouraging my parents or teachers were, I continued to feel like whatever I accomplished just wasn’t good enough.    As I grew older and started figure skating competitively, even at a young age, being tall and big boned, my body just wasn’t good enough.  In high school, I would dwell on my orchestra auditions—even if I made the top orchestra, my performance just wasn’t good enough.  My senior year of college, I worked my absolute hardest and graduated cum laude, but it wasn’t summa or magna cum laude, it just wasn’t good enough.  And today, even though I am now fully aware of my perfectionist tendencies and have done a lot of healthy self-reflection I will still catch myself falling into that same pattern of comparison and doubt in my own abilities. 

Maybe you relate? I don’t believe you have to be a perfectionist to relate to these tendencies.  Perhaps this drive for perfection, this feeling of “not good enough” says more about the world we live in than it does about my internal conversations.  We love to compare ourselves to others, we love to measure success with something tangible, we want our hard work to be rewarded—and when we don’t meet the ridiculous expectations of this world its easy to feel “not good enough.”  This is why I find the stories of Jesus’ disciples in the gospels to be so liberating.  They too, were not “good enough.” 

Jesus calls his disciples from their lackluster jobs and as Jesus’ ministry continues throughout the gospels it becomes pretty clear that Jesus has chosen the b-team, the last string, the benchwarmers, to be his followers.  They fail, they question, they doubt, they just can’t seem to figure out who this Jesus really is—When we think about what followers of Jesus should be, they’re just not good enough!  Yet, as our gospel text for tonight begins, Jesus loved them, and he loved them until the very end.  What does this say about Jesus?

See Jesus knew that soon he was going to die, he knew he was going to be betrayed and persecuted by the very people he had loved.  Still, he chooses to spend his last night washing the feet of the disciples who just weren’t good enough.  He chooses to spend his last night serving his clumsy disciples in a job that was uncomfortable, dirty and rancid.  At no other time is the disciple’s unworthiness so potent that even they sense the radical, counter-cultural way of Jesus’ love.  Footwashing was reserved for the lowest of lows, society’s outcasts—it was gross, a messy job.  The idea that Jesus, the host of the Passover meal would be left to wash the feet of those present was absolutely offensive.  The disciples knew this and they try to escape the intimacy of the situation—the world has told them that they are indeed not good enough for their rabbi and teacher Jesus to wash their feet.  Still, Jesus continues. 

As Jesus finishes washing the feet of the disciples and sharing with them the bread and the wine he says, “little children, I am with you only a little while longer, and where I am going, you cannot come. I leave you with this one command: Love one another as I have loved you. Remember me by your love.”  In one of his last acts on earth, Jesus claims his disciples in love, as his own children.  In his time of earth, his disciples failed, they couldn’t keep it together, they’re lives were messy, they just weren’t good enough.  But Jesus claims them as his own, he bathes the messiest parts of their bodies, the feet, in his love.  He loved them until the very end.

If you ever feel unloved, unimportant, insecure, or “just not good enough” remember to whom you belong.  You belong to Jesus.  You belong to Jesus Christ the very Son of God who chooses to spend his last night in an act of service that crosses all boundaries.  The same fully human, fully divine, God incarnate that meets us every week in bread and wine.  That is to whom you belong, and you don’t have to be “good enough”, he will love you until the end.