I have to say that I love the disciples of Jesus–the original twelve. I listen to them in the Gospel accounts and I keep saying to myself, “Those dopes!” They never, ever, ever got it on the first go. I have taken to calling them the “Remedial Boys” because of their recurring need for another go at the lesson at hand. Calming the sea? Not enough. Feeding 5000? Not enough. Raising Lazarus from the dead? Not enough. Never enough.
And the reason I love them so? They’re just like me. I am a remedial boy. Jesus moves in my life in small and great ways and, it seems, it’s never enough. That’s why my attention was grabbed during a recent sermon. It wasn’t the sermon itself that grabbed (with all due respect to the preacher). It was a section of scripture from the preacher’s pericope to which he did not call attention, but on which my warped and wandering brain landed.
The Gospel of Luke, chapter 22. Jesus is sharing the Last Supper with the boys. He has (verses 21 & 22) just shared that someone will betray Him. The boys–taken aback–wonder who in their posse might do this (v.23). I’m sure that none of them volunteered that it might be them. I’m sure there was church gossipy finger pointing about the “other guy.” But I am also sure that, in the back of their minds, each of them thought, “It could be me.”
They, every one of them, had many episodes where they failed Jesus. Each of them knew that failure was a daily possibility. Each of them knew that it could have been them. As they pondered the probability of failure, the boys ventured into territory that we all inhabit from time-to-time: the recognition that we are not the persons Jesus has called us to be. Some of us visit this place; some of us live in this place–the place of failure; the place of disappointment with who we’ve become or what we have done (or left undone). Each of the disciples (and each of us) wonder, “Will I be the one to betray Jesus?”
But, for eleven of them at least, the answer was no–it’s not you. You’re not a failure in this moment. They had missed this one–Oh for One.
Then–and only the remedial boys could pull this off–they pivot in v.24 to a fight about who should be considered the “greatest!” One minute they’re wondering who would be the worst; the next minute they’re speculating about who would be the best! And, no doubt, volunteering themselves for the honor. If texting were around then, there would have been SMHs and eye roll emojis all over the place.
But I was wrong when I said that only the remedial boys could pull this off. Sometimes, some of us (at least I know I) have this sense of grandiosity–I’m the greatest! They should see me now! If only they knew how gifted I am! Why aren’t they paying attention to me! Why isn’t my phone ringing?!? I AM GREAT! Not.
At least not in the ways we think of greatness–all tied to accomplishment and the myth of indispensability. Would be kings and queens and presidents and preachers and superstars and singers and craftsmen; we think we are the greatest (or, at least pretty darn great) in the Kingdom. But, like the remedial boys, we are not. Oh for Two.
It saddens me that I so frequently inhabit the place of performance. Failure or grandiosity—at their core they’re essentially the same thing–a sense that our relationship with God is a function of performance. If only I can avoid letting Jesus down; if only I can make Him smile; if only I can do well on this next test; if only I can bring home the bonus; if only; if only; if only…then people will like me; then Jesus will love me; then I will know that I am special.
This is Advent. I am sitting in Chik-fil-A. I am listening to Christmas carols. I am hearing the songs remind me: it doesn’t matter if I am Oh for Two–Jesus loves me because He called me into existence and chooses to love me despite my resonance with the experience of the remedial boys.
It is His Spirit at work in me to conform me to His Image. It is His work in me to accomplish His purposes. It is His call on my life that leads me to act on His mission. It is He who picks me up when I fall; it is He whose strength is made perfect in my weakness; it is He who walks me through the Valley of the Shadows; it is Jesus who says “come to me.”
So, Oh for Two (really, Oh for Oh So Many), I’m going to Jesus. Greatest or worst, despite my self-assessment, He calls me. He calls you too.
© 2016, All Scripture quotations from the New International Version.