It is Monday.
And I am already tired.
It’s not the kind of tired that’s cute. It’s not the “I stayed up too late reading one more chapter” tired. It’s not even the kind of tired a good night’s sleep can fix.
Just tired.
The week has barely begun, and somehow I already feel behind in it.
There are things I need to write. Plans I need to make. Emails waiting for replies. People who need something from me. And my calendar doesn’t seem to care how tired I am.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, there is a sermon to preach.
This week’s texts are Genesis 45:1–15 and Matthew 15:10–20, 21–28.
The funny thing is, I had already written this sermon.
Months ago.
I was working ahead, found my way through the text, wrote the words, and tucked the sermon away for when I would eventually need it.
Which should have made this week easier.
I thought Monday-me could just open the document, read it, make a few edits, and check off a big task.
But when I opened it,
and changed my mind.
It wasn’t a bad sermon.
It just wasn’t the sermon I wanted to preach anymore.
I’ll admit, part of me just wanted to leave it as it was.
Because I am tired.
Sometimes when you’re tired, “good enough” feels almost sacred.
I had already done the work.
The words were right there.
Did I really need to take it all apart and put it back together?
Apparently, yes.
The strange thing about Scripture is that you can return to the same words months later and realize you’re not the same person who read them before.
The text hasn’t changed.
But maybe I have.
Maybe the questions I’m bringing to it have changed.
Maybe what I’m noticing has changed.
And apparently the sermon needed to change too.
So I started again.
In Genesis, Joseph stands before the brothers who betrayed him.
There are years of pain between them.
Betrayal. Separation. Grief. History.
And Joseph says:
“Come closer to me.”
Then in Matthew, a Canaanite woman comes to Jesus asking for mercy for her daughter.
She is an outsider.
She stands on the wrong side of all sorts of boundaries: religious, cultural, ethnic, and social.
The disciples want her sent away.
But she keeps coming closer.
She keeps asking.
She keeps believing there is enough mercy for her too.
Eventually, I began to see what connects these stories.
God’s grace crosses our boundaries.
The boundaries between insider and outsider.
Between the people we understand and the people we don’t.
Between the ones we welcome easily and the ones we keep at a distance.
Between what has been broken and what might still be redeemed.
The more I worked on the sermon, the more I realized I wasn’t only thinking about the boundaries we set for others.
I was thinking about the boundaries I draw around grace itself.
It turns out I’m very comfortable preaching that God’s grace is abundant, but I have a harder time believing that abundance is for me, especially when I’m exhausted on a Monday.
There is a line I draw sometimes.
On one side is the person I think I should be.
Productive.
Creative.
Patient.
Present.
Organized.
Thoughtful.
Able to keep everything going without letting anything fall.
And on the other side is the person I actually am some days.
Tired.
Distracted.
A little overwhelmed.
Looking ahead to the week and wondering how it can already be day.
And I think I sometimes imagine God standing over there with the person I should be.
Waiting for me to get myself together.
Waiting for me to catch up.
Waiting for me to be a little more impressive before grace finds me.
But that’s not really grace, is it?
Grace crosses the line.
That’s the whole thing.
Grace doesn’t wait for us to make it to the other side.
Grace comes closer.
Maybe that is what I needed from this sermon before I could preach it to anyone else.
Not another challenge.
Not another thing to accomplish.
Not another reminder to try harder to be the person I think I should be.
Just this:
God’s grace can cross this boundary too.
The boundary between what I accomplished today and what I didn’t.
Between the energy I wish I had and the energy I actually have.
Between the week I imagined and the week that is unfolding.
Between who I think I should be and who I am right now.
Maybe grace is rewriting a sermon I thought was finished because the words needed to be new again.
And maybe grace is also realizing I don’t have to change myself before God meets me. I do not have to be completely together or perfectly faithful for grace to reach me. God’s grace meets me exactly as I am.
Maybe I can be unfinished and still useful.
Maybe I can have unanswered emails, an unfinished to-do list, a sermon still in progress, and a soul that needs a moment, and still be held by God.
I don’t know what kind of Monday you’re having.
Maybe you’re already tired too.
Maybe something didn’t go according to plan.
Maybe you’re carrying more into this week than anyone around you realizes.
Maybe you’re already telling yourself that you should be doing better.
So maybe this reminder is for you as much as it is for me:
If you need a way to hold on to grace this week, maybe try a simple practice. When you feel tired or not enough, pause and take a deep breath. As you breathe in, quietly say to yourself, "Grace is here." As you breathe out, say, "Grace is enough for me." Let this be a small daily reminder that you do not have to cross the distance alone.
You don’t have to get to the other side before grace finds you.
You don’t have to earn your way toward God.
You don’t have to become the less-tired, more-organized, completely-put-together version of yourself first.
Grace crosses boundaries.
Even this one.
Especially this one.
Tonight, I’m going to let the sermon stay a little unfinished.
I’m going to let Monday be Monday.
I’m going to trust that there will be enough grace for Tuesday when Tuesday gets here.
And maybe that is an almost prayer all by itself:
God,
I am already tired,
and the week has barely begun.
Meet me here,
before I become who I think I should be.
Cross the distance I keep trying to cover on my own.
Come closer.
And help me believe
there is enough grace
for me, too.
Amen.