There is a peculiar temptation in the Christian life to imagine that God is waiting for us to become a slightly improved version of ourselves.
Not perfect, perhaps. We know enough theology to realize that perfection may be setting the bar inconveniently high. But surely more organized. More prayerful. More patient. Less inclined to mutter things under our breath while trying to open packaging apparently designed to survive the Second Coming.
We imagine that somewhere just beyond our present selves there is a person whom God could really use.
That person gets up early to pray.
That person remembers everyone’s birthday.
That person never becomes irritated in traffic.
That person has read the entire Bible, including Leviticus, without once wondering whether a brief lie-down might be spiritually beneficial.
And so we quietly make a bargain with God.
When I become that person, then I will be ready.
Ordinary Time has very little patience for such nonsense.
God Seems Quite Fond of Ordinary People
One of the most encouraging things about Scripture is the astonishingly unimpressive collection of people God chooses.
Abraham doubts.
Jacob schemes.
Moses makes excuses.
David makes some spectacularly poor decisions.
Jonah runs away.
Peter speaks before thinking, which would eventually have made him an excellent candidate for social media.
Thomas questions.
Martha worries.
Paul has a temper.
And the disciples, collectively, spend a remarkable amount of time standing beside Jesus while completely misunderstanding what Jesus has just said.
Yet God works through them.
Not through the improved versions of them.
Through them.
This is one of grace’s most beautiful and unsettling truths: God does not merely love the person you might eventually become.
God loves the person reading these words now.
Holiness Is Not Self-Improvement
As All Saints approaches, it is worth remembering this because Christians can sometimes turn sainthood into a kind of ecclesiastical achievement award.
We look at saints through stained glass.
There they stand, beautifully illuminated, apparently never having misplaced their keys or become annoyed because someone put an empty milk carton back into the refrigerator.
But the saints were human beings.
They became tired.
They became discouraged.
Some were impatient.
Some were difficult.
Some undoubtedly had habits that caused their friends to exchange meaningful glances across the room.
Holiness did not mean becoming less human.
It meant allowing more and more of their humanity to become available to God.
That is quite different.
Christian faith is not fundamentally a programme of self-improvement. It is a life of surrender.
The question is not:
How can I become impressive enough for God?
The question is:
How much of the person I already am am I willing to place in God’s hands?
God Works With What Is Actually Here
We tend to think God needs better raw material.
God apparently disagrees.
God takes fishermen and makes apostles.
God takes a frightened young woman in Nazareth and begins the Incarnation.
God takes five loaves and two fish and feeds a crowd.
God takes water and makes wine.
God takes a cross—the very symbol of human cruelty—and makes it the place from which resurrection begins.
There seems to be a pattern here.
God does not wait for ideal circumstances.
God works with what is available.
Which means that your ordinary Tuesday is available.
Your kitchen table is available.
Your tiredness is available.
Your kindness is available.
Your mistakes are available.
Your questions are available.
Even the parts of your life that feel unfinished are available.
Perhaps especially those.
The Spiritual Life Begins With “Here”
We spend an extraordinary amount of energy wishing we were somewhere else.
When life becomes quieter.
When work settles down.
When the children grow older.
When retirement arrives.
When the difficult situation resolves itself.
When we finally establish the disciplined prayer life we have been intending to establish since approximately 1997.
Then, we imagine, the spiritual life will begin properly.
But God keeps appearing in the present tense.
Here.
This kitchen.
This family.
This congregation.
This body.
This grief.
This joy.
This October morning.
This life.
The spiritual life begins when we stop presenting God with the person we intend someday to become and begin offering God the person who actually showed up this morning.
Perhaps That Is What Saints Learned
Maybe the saints were not people who finally became impressive.
Maybe they were people who finally stopped trying to be.
They discovered that grace was not God’s reward for spiritual achievement.
Grace was where everything started.
They allowed themselves to be loved before they had finished becoming lovable.
They allowed themselves to be called before they felt qualified.
They allowed themselves to serve before they had solved every question.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, grace did its work.
That may be why saints often appear extraordinary only in retrospect.
At the time, they were probably simply doing the next faithful thing.
Feeding someone.
Praying.
Forgiving.
Visiting.
Listening.
Speaking when silence would have been easier.
Remaining when leaving would have been more convenient.
Loving the person standing in front of them.
Holiness accumulates quietly.
And So Does Grace
Most of us will probably never have statues made of us.
This is likely good news, particularly for those of us whose best side remains the subject of ongoing theological investigation.
But we can become saints.
Not because we have finally made ourselves worthy of God.
Because God has already decided that ordinary human lives are precisely where grace intends to live.
So perhaps today you do not need to become more impressive.
Perhaps you do not need a five-year spiritual development plan.
Perhaps you do not need to wait until you are wiser, calmer, thinner, holier, better organized, or finally caught up on the laundry.
Perhaps the prayer for today is considerably simpler:
Here I am, Lord.
Not the person I wish I were.
Not the person I may someday become.
Just me.
Here.
Now.
And astonishingly, throughout Scripture and throughout the lives of the saints, that has always been enough for God to begin.
“God is not waiting for the improved version of you. Grace has already begun its work with the person who showed up today.”
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Companion Prayer
Here I Am, Lord
Gracious God,
I do not need to become more impressive for you to love me.
You work with the life I actually have—my joys, my questions, my weariness, my mistakes, and my hopes.
Teach me to stop waiting for a better version of myself and to offer you the person who is here today.
Make me more available to your grace in the ordinary moments of this day. Help me to recognize holiness not as something I must achieve, but as the quiet work of your Spirit within me.
Give me courage to do the next faithful thing: to love, to listen, to forgive, to serve, and to trust.
Here I am, Lord—not finished, not perfect, but yours.
And let that be enough for grace to begin again.
Amen.