Luke 5: 1–11
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable
in thy sight, O Lord our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.
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Did you ever hear the story of the man who died and went to
heaven – only to find a massive wrought iron fence surrounding
those celestial gardens and large mansions? He walked and
walked along that fence, looking for a way in, but every gate he passed
was padlocked shut. Finally, almost despairing, he cried out,
“Unworthy! Unworthy!” From an upper
window of one of the mansions a voice called out, “That’s
the password. Come on in.” And, with that, a massive
gate right beside him swung wide open . . . and
the man walked straight through heaven’s gates.
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This morning we heard two stories of men suddenly, unexpectedly,
encountering the Holy. And though those men’s backgrounds
and credentials were different from each other’s, when they
encountered the Holy they both cried out, “Unworthy!” And
for both of them, that honest reaction became their entrée, their
invitation into the Lord’s service.
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For the past two years, I have been honored to serve as one of the
commissioners on the Diocesan Commission on Ministry. Our task
every year is to discern together with people who believe God might
be calling them to serve as ordained priests or deacons — or else
as lay leaders in the Church. None of these people comes to
this process lightly. Nor do we. Every one of us is aware
that we hold their high hopes in our hands. So every one of us
prays – a lot – asking God to help us discern where he
would use them. Then we meet with these aspirants, as they are
called at this point in the process, week after week in the fall. We
talk with them, we listen to their life stories and we read their
spiritual autobiographies. In all these encounters we form
distinct impressions – of their spirituality, their capacity for
ministry, their character – and, oh yes — their humility
before God. And though humility is not the primary quality we are
looking for, it’s certain that its opposite — a sense of
pride or entitlement — will quickly earn them negative votes.
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We don’t know how long Jesus looked Simon Peter over before
inviting him to become one of his disciples. But if Jesus was
looking for humility in this man, he certainly found it when Simon
Peter finally glimpsed the enormous catch of fish he and his partners
had hauled in after Jesus told them exactly where to cast their
nets. In that moment Simon Peter suddenly realizes that Jesus
is not just some itinerant preacher who has borrowed his fishing boat
to use it as a floating pulpit. He is, instead, a deeply
holy man. And in his presence, Simon Peter realizes that he is
anything but holy.
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In reaction to this epiphany, Simon Peter falls to his knees before
Jesus, confessing his unholiness, his sinful nature, and asking Jesus
to depart from him. Clearly, he thinks that someone like Jesus
will want nothing to do with someone like him. Beyond that, deep
down, maybe he believes his sin is simply unforgiveable – and
the stain of it would corrupt Jesus’ holy goodness. We
don’t know exactly what he was thinking. But we do
know that Jesus wasn’t looking at Simon Peter’s
sin. Instead, he has seen some untapped potential in the rough
fisherman, a potential he believes is worth developing. So in
response to Peter’s confession – that he is unworthy of
Jesus’ attention – Jesus replies, reassuringly,
“Don’t be afraid, Peter. From now on you will be
catching people.”
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And we all know how that turned out, because we’ve all read the
end of the book. Peter doesn’t come closer to Jesus so much
as Jesus stays close to him. Even when Peter fails
him — spectacularly – Jesus shows him steadfast love and
patience. And as a consequence, ever so slowly, Peter l
earns. He learns by his mistakes. He begins to grow. And
that’s the way it will work for us too. In Mere Christianity,
C. S. Lewis wrote,
. . . a Christian is not a (person) who
never goes wrong, but a (person) who is enabled to repent and
pick himself up and begin over again after each stumble – because
the Christ–life is inside him, repairing him all the time, enabling
him to repeat (in some small degree) the kind of voluntary death
which Christ Himself carried out.
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So in the end, just as Jesus had predicted, this rough fisherman finally
does become the Church’s faith–filled leader, who now draws
others in. Not because he was worthy in himself, but because he
allowed Christ’s love to work within him and guide him in the
direction of who he could become.
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I think there are a lot of us in Peter’s boat, so to speak. We
shy away from close contact with God because we can’t imagine God
loving sinful, God–less us. We know our sins, and we imagine
He knows them too. So we figure we won’t trouble him with our
presence. We won’t even try to get close to him.
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But that is exactly the mystery of God – that he loves us despite
ourselves. Warts and all. Failures and all.
Self–delusions and all. What we have trouble understanding
is the depth of his love for us, the depths of his patience and
mercy. What we have trouble understanding is that he’s not
made of judgment. He’s made of love and compassion and
mercy. And we, for our part, are not to set limits on his love,
his compassion and his mercy.¹ We are not to imagine that
because we are not pleasing to ourselves, we are not pleasing to
God.² We please him in ways we have yet to fathom.
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So in the end, you see, it’s not about our worthiness at
all. Of course, we’re not worthy of such love and
acceptance. Nor is it a question of whether we love God. It
is, instead, about the humility to accept that God loves
us – abundantly, beyond our wildest dreams. And from that
humble stance all else follows. Gratitude. Joy.
Peace. Service. Love for others. It all
begins — and ends — with God, the Alpha and the Omega.
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And to Him we give the glory.
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Amen.
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¹ Thomas Merton, aas quoted in Connections, February 2022.
² ibid.
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