Sermon transcript:
There is something deeply unsettling—and deeply freeing—about the kind of faith we meet in this passage. Unsettling because there is no clear path, in fact there is no path at all. It is not about getting things right—holding the correct beliefs with perfect certainty. Not about doing enough good to earn God’s acceptance. Not about doing the right religious things with enough discipline or devotion to earn approval.
Instead, Paul gives the Roman church a story, to help them discern what faith in the God of Jesus looks like, for Jews and non-Jews alike. It is the story of Abraham and Sarah: two people trusting a promise that made no practical sense. An old couple, told they would have a child. That nations would come from them. And it is a story about God. A God who chooses them without vetting their beliefs, their behavior, or their religious practice. In fact, they are chosen before there is much of a Jewish religious system at all.
This is not a story about earning. It is a story about invitation. An invitation into relationship. An invitation into trust. That almost feels redundant to say: you can’t have a relationship without trust. And if we are honest, that kind of faith can feel unsettling. Because we have been taught, in so many ways, that if we believe strongly enough, or act faithfully enough, we will be right with God and finally arrive at peace. But that kind of faith always carries anxiety. Because how do you know if you believe enough? How do you know if you have done enough? How do you know if you are finally acceptable? There is always that quiet question: Am I getting this right?
Abraham and Sarah’s story offers no such reassurance. There is no formula. No guaranteed outcome they can secure through effort. Only the invitation—To trust. And that is both harder and easier. Harder because it asks us to let go of control. To release the illusion that there is a clear plan we can follow to guarantee our good standing before God. To surrender the part of ourselves that wants certainty, that wants to measure, that wants to secure our place through effort or understanding. Abraham and Sarah had to live with unanswered questions. With delays. With moments of doubt and missteps along the way.
But easier, too. Because they were never asked to prove themselves worthy. They were never told, “get this right, and then you will be loved.” Grace doesn’t allow for conditions. They were simply invited into relationship. Invited to trust that the One who called them was faithful. And that is Paul’s message to the Roman church: do not put up barriers. Not between Jew and non-Jew. Not between those who think they belong and those who are unsure. The only thing needed is trust—and a community formed around that trust in the God made known in Jesus.
And that changes everything. Because if faith is trust—if it is relationship—then we are no longer burdened with the exhausting task of proving ourselves. There is no checklist. No threshold to cross. No moment where we finally become acceptable. There is only this: To be in relationship. To be open. To receive. To trust that we are already held in love. There is no path to earn belonging. Only Presence—and our willingness to open ourselves to it.
And slowly, we begin to feel it in our bones: belovedness and belonging is not something we earn. It is something we receive. It is grace. That is profoundly freeing. And from that place, something begins to shift. The anxiety softens. The striving loosens. The constant self-evaluation begins to quiet. We begin to live not toward acceptance, but from it.
We can begin to show up more honestly. We can acknowledge, without fear: Even though I am not all I hoped to be. Even though I carry doubts, fears, and imperfections, Still, I am loved. Still, I am accepted. Still, I belong. Because the same God who met Abraham and Sarah in their uncertainty, meets us here. Not in some future, improved version of ourselves—but here.
And as that truth begins to take root, it changes the voices we listen to. The voices that say: you are not enough. You are falling short. You need to be more. And instead, another voice begins to rise. Quieter, perhaps. But deeper. Steadier. You are known. You are loved. You are already enough. As writer Anne Lamott puts it, “I do not at all understand the mystery of grace – only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”1 Not because we have achieved anything. Not because we have proven anything. But because love has already claimed us.
As Paul says, peace flows from learning to trust the One who claims us. Returning to that Love again and again. Resting in it. Living from it. Not perfectly. Not without doubt. But honestly. Relationally. Richard Wagamese, the late Ojibwe writer in his book Medicine Walk, had an elder sum it up like this: “Jimmy used to say we’re a Great Mystery. Everything. Said the things they done, those old-time Indians, was all about learnin’ to live with that mystery. Not solving it, not comin’ to grips with it, not even tryin’ to guess it out. just bein’ with it.”2 And that is the peace that settles us, that frees us. Not something earned – something offered. Amen.
Rev. Joe Gaspar
1 Anne Lamott, from her book Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith, found here https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/6476160-i-do-not-at-all-understand-the-mystery-of-grace–only
2 Richard Wagames, from his book Medicine Walk, found here https://www.litcharts.com/lit/medicine-walk/quotes