Wanderers of the Fold, Doubters of the Flock, Sinners of his Redeeming

Doubt and belief. If we made a list of things we doubted and a list of things that we believe, most of our lists of doubts would be longer than our list of beliefs. What do we believe in? God? Sure. But what do we believe about God? Who is God? What is God’s job? Is God a cosmic judge, making lists of things we did wrong and a list of things we did right, who will accept us if the list of things we did right is longer than the list of wrongs? Most of us know the right answer is no. At the same time, most of us still persist in believing that if we are more good than we are bad, that we’ll be okay. Time and again, when a loved one dies, the number one thing I hear the bereaved’s children and friends saying is, “S/he was a good person.” Perhaps they tell me this because it seems there are so few genuinely good people in the world, but my best guess is that they tell me this because they think that it has some sort of cosmic significance.

            But what does it mean to be good? What are the characteristics of a good person? Is it someone who respects their elders? Is it someone who works hard and doesn’t depend on others for handouts? Is it someone who does what they are expected to do? Now, tell me: who in the Bible fits these characteristics? Nope, not Abraham: he trusted God, but he didn’t trust God enough to believe that Pharaoh wouldn’t steal Sarah from him. Not Sarah, who knew the promise of a child but offered Hagar to Abraham and then sent Hagar away because she feared her son wasn’t special enough. Not Esau, who sold his birthright for a bowl of soup; not Jacob, who pretended he was his brother to get his father’s blessing; not Joseph’s brothers, who got so annoyed with him they threw him in a pit and left him, telling their father (Jacob) that he was dead. Not Moses, who doubted his ability to speak to the Hebrew people, who struck the rock in the desert instead of speaking to it because he didn’t want to look like a fool; he didn’t get to see the promised land as a result. Not Deborah, who was a powerful judge in Israel, who defied the people’s expectations and inconveniently reminds us that women could – and did – lead, even in war. Not David, who got Bathsheba pregnant, then tried to cover it up with sending Uriah to Bathsheba and then had him killed when that didn’t work. Not the kings of Israel, whose unfaithfulness led to exile. Not the people in exile, who forgot the law, not recognizing it when Ezra read it after they returned from exile. Not Peter, who denied Jesus three times. Not Thomas, who doubted Jesus. Not Jesus, who said, “Woman, of what concern is it to me that they have no wine? My hour has not yet come,” who defied Messianic expectations. The Messiah was not supposed to be crucified. He was supposed to be powerful. He was supposed to remove the Romans from power and set up a new kingdom.

            But we want someone powerful. We want someone to save us who looks like a knight in shining armor, the hero of the fairy tale, the one who makes the bad guys scatter. When we read Bible stories, we are quick to situate ourselves on the “right side,” to give the “right” answer, so much so that we often refuse to sit in the spaces of people who were trying to figure out who, exactly, Jesus was. “If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” And Jesus tells us, again and again, that power is made perfect in weakness, that grace is sufficient. Again and again, we refuse to believe that this is enough. Again and again, we try to “help” by telling ourselves that we are good people, that we’re better people than so-and-so and by the way did you hear what they did? We can look at the society around us and feel like a city on a hill, like the ones who get it right, but it’s so much easier to live giving the right answers than it is to wrestle with the questions. Yes, Jesus, you have told us again and again who you are, but we still try to force you into a shape that makes sense to us. We try to keep you away from the sinners and the tax collectors, away from the ones who don’t quite fit: away from the people we disagree with, away from the people that make us uncomfortable, away from the people who don’t look like or think like us, away from anything that makes us remember the inconvenience of having a Savior who loves sinners, the inconvenience of having a savior that saves people who only just barely believe, who come at the eleventh hour with some sort of makeshift confession of how they’ve changed.

            Somehow, even though we know the stories of Abraham, of Moses, of Deborah, of David, and on and on, we don’t believe them. Somehow, even though Jesus tells us who he is, the one who saves sinners, we don’t believe him. It would be more convenient if Jesus saved the good, the beautiful, the powerful, the ones who seemed to already have grasped a piece of paradise in the here and now. But what about the rest of us? What about us who aren’t always good or kind or generous or loving? What about those of us who are still asking if this guy - who hangs out with tax collectors and sinners, who forgives the unforgiveable and loves the unlovable – is the Messiah? What about those of us who are still doubting Jesus’ ability to save us because we cannot forgive others for the wrongs they have done to us and for the wrongs we have done to each other?

            It is difficult to recognize Jesus when he’s frustrating our expectations, when he shows up in the places we would least expect him. It’s difficult to recognize Jesus when we are busy wandering our own ways and hoping we sheep can pull the wool over his eyes and eventually present ourselves as faithful. But we are an unfaithful lot, chasing after whatever gods we think will save us: after money, after security, after freedom from fear, after a belief that has rid itself of all of its doubts. The sheep hear Jesus, and Jesus knows them. And the times we follow aren’t usually the times we have been especially good or worthy. The times we follow are the times that we know that we cannot get ourselves out of the messes we have created, the times we can’t wriggle free from the sin that shackles us. It isn’t we who know Jesus, but Jesus who knows us. It isn’t we who earn eternal life, but Jesus who gives it to us. It isn’t we who keep ourselves in Jesus’ hand, but Jesus who keeps us. It is pure gift, and it is out of this gift that we live. We live out of the gift of Abraham’s trust, Sarah’s laughter, Jacob’s renaming, Joseph’s forgiveness, Moses’ faithfulness, Deborah’s powerfulness, the promises given to David, the prophet’s hope, out of Peter’s confession, Thomas’ belief, and out of Jesus’ power made perfect in weakness.

            You, dear brothers and sisters, are the wanderers of his own fold, the doubters of his own flock, the sinners of his own redeeming. And yet he who welcomes you into the arms of mercy, into the rest of everlasting peace, and into the company of the souls of light. And you will never be taken from his hand.