Failing

Romans 7:15-25a, Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

I have some good news for you this morning:
We’re failing.

That’s right. We are failing.

As a nation, we’re failing to conquer the pandemics of COVID-19 and racism and systemic oppression.  We’re failing in the nearly impossible task of balancing the economy.

As a church, we’re failing to “make disciples of all nations”, as Jesus tells us to do. And we’re struggling, many of us, with “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.”  I mean, there’s a lot else clamoring for our attention.

As individuals, many of us are pretty well aware that we are failing at something right now, or in general. I know I am. It may be a relationship, a project, something at work, or just a way we are failing to live as we want to live.

We’re also succeeding at many things. Many of us are probably happy anyway.

But we are failing.

Okay, I know that doesn’t sound like good news, but stay with me.

We are failing because we simply can’t do it ourselves.

Paul knows all about this.

Paul comes right out and tells a bunch of strangers in the church in Rome that he cannot – just can not – really do what is right.

I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.

Now, remember, this is Paul we’re talking about.

Irritatingly sure-of-himself Paul. By his own declaration: an elite Israelite; strict and devout follower of God's law; fiery defender of purity and faith, blameless in righteousness …

(Philippians 3:4b-6, paraphrased)

Paul is a type-A succeeder, who does not do false modesty.

So it may have been rather reassuring to hear he isn’t perfect. I know it’s been something of a relief to me when a mentor or hero of mine admits to struggling with the things that are hard for me.

Or it may just be disappointing that the most righteous man ever is falling short in public.

But either way, Paul is pointing out in extensive detail that he simply fails, constantly, to do the good he longs to do.

I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. … I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. 

Many of us have experienced that, too.

I want to take good care of my health, and I sit on the couch eating popcorn and bingeing Netflix. 

I long to fight against oppression and use my power for good, and I step on other people’s toes or self-worth anyway. (Or I get sucked into hours of Facebook instead of action because the problem feels too big to act on.)
I want a cleaner atmosphere, but I still drive when I could have biked.

We know those experiences, and we often chalk them up to problems of willpower.

But Paul is talking about sin. Not the wrong actions we may take, but the power that overpowers us.  The sheer, simple fact that the evil in the world is bigger than me, or you, or even a bunch of us together.  That there are forces you and I can’t defeat, that work against our ability to love God with all our heart and soul and mind and strength and our neighbors as ourselves.  We can’t, actually, succeed on our own.

It may be a little reassuring to hear Paul say it’s not just about willpower, but it still hurts to fail.

To feel a relationship turn sour because I failed at generosity, respect, or attention.

To watch good go undone, wrongs not put right, because we didn’t get around to unraveling injustices. Or because you can’t really love that neighbor.

To lose touch with the joy in our faith because we feel like we’re not good enough for God.

When we fail, conventional wisdom says try again, work harder, do better, suck in your gut and use your willpower: if you fail it’s your own fault.

But Paul knows that’s not true. That try as we might, we are not going to win this on our own. We are not going to succeed at righteousness, or faith, or being good people by intention and will.

And the more we try to do it on our own, the more we flex our willpower and convince ourselves that we can and should get life right ourselves, that we’ll be okay on our own, the less we see what God is up to in the world.

That’s what Jesus is talking about today.

He reminds the crowds that because they think they’re already okay, they’ve dismissed both Jesus and John – one for being too ferocious and uptight, the other too relaxed and irreverent. And so a whole society is completely missing God’s action right in front of them.

Jesus even thanks God for hiding from the “wise and intelligent” – from the succeeders, the ones who are making it on their own, or at least seem to be.

And then he invites the weary and burdened – the “ignorant” and ignored and oppressed, the losers and failures – to rest in his gentle humility. 

To rest in Jesus’ own refusal to succeed – or at least to succeed on the world’s terms. 

To rest in depending on God’s grace and letting Jesus choose our path, instead of striving for independent success and self-determination.

It’s not easy to rest that way. Everywhere else we go, you and I are going to hear that we need to succeed. To earn our place, to get it right, to beat a system that’s rigged against us, or work the system that’s rigged in our favor, and above all, to depend on ourselves and strive to succeed.

But Jesus is clearly and explicitly not offering this invitation to the successful.

Anyone who can do it on their own, who can save themselves, isn’t going to get into Jesus’ yoke.  If I believe I can make the life I want, I’m not going to enter into a relationship where Jesus sets the direction, the stops and starts, and hitches me to some chunk of the rest of humanity or creation that I don’t get to choose.

And right here is where our failure turns out to be good news.

If we could do it on our own, we wouldn’t need God.

If we don’t need God, we miss out on miracles that turn the world from a struggle against defeat into a wave of limitless possibility. If we don’t need God’s help, we miss seeing abundance beyond our imagining pour out of hardship or disappointment or a couple loaves of bread and a fish.

If we don’t need God, we miss falling in love with the one who loves us more than we could ever imagine.  And if we don’t fail, and find ourselves loved even more fiercely, we’ll never really believe we’re worthy of that all-powerful, unconditional love.

That’s why when Paul (the best succeeder) sums up all his own failure, exclaiming “Wretched, worthless me! Could anyone even save me?!” his very next words, without missing a beat are “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ!!”

Thank God that we fail.

Thank God we break; we lose; we need to be saved. 

Because the miracles that heal our brokenness open worlds we could never have imagined.

Thank God we can’t trust in our own success, because trust in God is abundant life beyond our dreams.

Thank God that we cannot earn love, and that we are loved more fiercely when we merit it the least.

We’re failing, yes. And we are invited to fail right into God’s hands. Good news.

Thanks be to God.