Worthy

We can come up with plenty of reasons why we are not worthy to be loved by God, forgiven by God, welcomed by God.  But Christ, whose love defeats death and our own unworthiness, calls us beloved.  Worthy.  And it is so.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, Time after Pentecost, Lectionary 9, year C; text: Luke 7:1-10

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

George Herbert, an early seventeenth century Anglican priest, gives us this poem:

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
                        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
                        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
                        If I lack’d anything.

A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
                        Love said, you shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
                        I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
                        Who made the eyes but I?

Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
                        Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                        My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                        So I did sit and eat. [1]

There is a question of worthiness that flows through this story.

This centurion, assigned to Capernaum by the occupying Roman government, is a remarkable man.  The Jewish elders of the town plead his case, plead his worth to Jesus.  “He loves our people.  He built us our synagogue.  Help him, if you can.”  This centurion might not be unique in supporting local religion that is not his own faith; the emperor Augustus recommended such behavior because it helped keep people in order.

But there’s more here, isn’t there?  “He loves our people,” they said.  This is no cynical bureaucrat, seeking to appease a restless populace.  The community of people whose oppression is visibly symbolized by his very office argues on his behalf to one of their own, a miracle worker of the Jews.

So why doesn’t he see that same worth, at least not when it comes to what he asks of Jesus, recognizes in Jesus?  Is it just that this centurion honors Jewish custom by not asking Jesus to risk becoming unclean by entering a Gentile home?

Like Naaman the Syrian, whom Jesus mentions in Nazareth a little earlier, the centurion sends people as go-betweens, respecting Jesus’ authority.  Unlike Naaman, he seems to consider himself unworthy of direct contact with the Jewish prophet.

The first group of advocates, the Jewish elders, speak of his worth.  But then he sends his friends, who downplay his worth.  “I’m not worthy to have you come under my roof,” he asks them to convey to Jesus.

This is such a strange, unexpected thing to hear from the representative of an occupying army.  Where’s the arrogance?  Where are the demands?  No, this one doubts his worthiness to receive Jesus.

But there is third assessment of worth here, that of the Incarnate Son of God.  Jesus heals this man’s slave, he sees worth and value in the centurion, even if the centurion does not.  He made the slave.  He made the centurion.  And he says, “worthy.”

We’re getting used to hearing this from Luke about Jesus, but it’s still surprising.  When Jesus preached for the first time in his hometown he emphasized God’s grace to foreigners.  His friends and neighbors were enraged.  Why would he say that about unworthy people?

But this goes back even to before his birth, Luke tells us.  And when Jesus was a baby, Simeon said that he would be a light to bring light to the nations, and the glory of God’s people Israel.  All would be in this love of God, this kingdom he was bringing, Jews and non-Jews.  So Jesus declares even this foreign soldier and this unknown slave worthy of God’s grace and love and healing.

And there is also this: even though he felt unworthy, he did trust Jesus’ decision and authority.  “If you say this will be so, it will be so.”  And Jesus says he is worthy.

This question of worthiness flows through the Rev. Herbert’s poem.

Love, who is Christ, bids welcome to a feast, but the speaker holds back, feeling guilty, sinful.  When Love notices the hesitation, the speaker claims there is no guest worthy to be here.

What follows is so beautiful, as Love argues with the speaker about his own worth.  “I made you.”  “Yes, but I’ve messed that all up.”  “But I took that blame.”  “Then I should serve you for that.”

But Love insists: no, you must let me serve you.  Feed you.  Come, sit, and eat.  In spite of any perceived unworthiness, the speaker is invited to face this fact: he is loved by Love himself, by the Christ whose love saves all.

The only one who can declare someone worthy is the One who made and redeemed that one.  And Love, Christ, says, “you are worthy, indeed.”  So the speaker relents, and eats.

So again, there is this: though he feels unworthy, he trusts in Love’s invitation.  And Love says he is worthy.

This question of worthiness seems to flow through the heart of our lives.

It’s dangerous to imply that everyone at all times feels similar things, because that’s not true.  But I suspect that there are few people who, when they consider God, always and at all times believe themselves to be worthy.

We come here because we long for God’s love and grace and healing.  Because here, in this place, we have felt welcomed by God’s grace.  People here speak of Mount Olive being a place where many who have been wounded by the Church and by the world have found healing and grace in the love of God.  I doubt there are any here who can’t identify with feeling such grace and welcome here.  I know I can.

But it’s not always easy to believe we’re deserving of that.  How many of us would like every thought, every action, every personality trait we have to be brought into the open amongst the people here?  I wouldn’t.  How many of us, when we confess our sins in silence before liturgy are grateful that it is done in silence?  I am.

We long to hope that we are welcomed with open arms by the Triune God, even by others here, but in our inmost hearts we aren’t always sure we can ask for that.

There are times the law of God needs to come to us from the outside, breaking through walls of denial, but many times at our core, we can feel the sting of God’s law without even being told, we can hear an inner voice saying that we’re not what we should be, what we were meant to be.  That maybe we’re not worthy to be here this morning.

It used to be the stereotype that churches were full of holier-than-thou types, people who insisted on their own righteousness.

That has not been my experience as pastor.  Again and again, when I talk to people I get a sense that there’s at least a part of everyone that recognizes the view of that poet, a part that recognizes the fretting of the centurion.  Even the most holier-than-thou person typically uses that bravado to cover up an inner fear of not measuring up.

Simply, we desperately want to know if God’s face is turned to us in love or against us in anger.  We want to know if we’re worthy of God’s love and grace.  But like the poet and the centurion, we might be tempted to turn away, or avoid seeing Jesus in person, just in case the answer is what we fear it might be.

But then we come here, and are welcomed by the very Son of God.  We begin to see in Christ that the face of God is love toward us and toward the world.

It’s almost more than we can grasp: we come to this altar, to the Meal spread before us, and are welcome.  We hear the voice of the Incarnate Son of God, who made us, say “you are worthy of my love.  My forgiveness.  My healing.”  Worthy to bear the same flesh the Word of God put on himself.  We hear the voice of the Crucified Son of God, who died for us and rose from death, say, “I have made you whole, healed what is sinful, taken away your judgment.  And I love you.”

No one can say we are truly worthy but the One who made us and redeemed us.  And here we find that he says, “worthy.”

And in this place, Love, the Christ, speaks through all these people around us, these faces who say to us in our deepest fears: “you are worthy of God’s love and grace.  You are loved.”  Who serve now as Christ to us, and to the world.  In whose eyes we see love and welcome, not judgment.  Who take seriously the Word of God, the Incarnate, Crucified and Risen One, and repeat his words to us again and again and again until we believe them: “You are worthy.  You are welcome.  Come, and eat.  Be healed.”

So then there is only this remaining for us: Can we accept this?  Can we, too, though unworthy, trust Jesus’ command?  Trust his judgment?  Can we trust Love’s invitation?

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
                        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
                        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
                        If I lack’d anything.

A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
                        Love said, you shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
                        I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
                        Who made the eyes but I?

Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
                        Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                        My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                        So I did sit and eat.

Amen and Amen.


[1] George Herbert, from The Temple, 1633.  George Herbert: The Complete English Works; Everyman’s Library: Alfred A. Knopf: New York, London, Toronto; copyright 1908, 1974, 2005; p. 184.