Mercy, Not Sacrifice: Stepping Off the Treadmill of Worthiness

Readings: Hosea 5:15–6:6 & Matthew 9:9–13, 18–26

A man goes to the doctor and says, "Doctor, I work eighty hours a week, and when I'm home, all I do is worry about work." The doctor nods and says, "I see. You don't have a work addiction." The man sighs with relief, "Oh, thank goodness. What is it?" The doctor replies, "A Messiah complex. But don't worry, the position is already filled, and He didn't need eighty hours to save the world."

I suspect many of us spend our lives carrying a burden we rarely talk about. The burden of proving ourselves. Proving that we're good enough. Useful enough. Successful enough. Responsible enough. Loveable enough.

The Treadmill of Worthiness

And if we're honest, that burden can become exhausting. It can turn life into a treadmill. At first the treadmill feels helpful. You work hard. You care for people. You provide for your family. You volunteer. You serve your church. You become the dependable one. The responsible one. The person everyone can count on.

But over time something changes. The treadmill starts moving faster. And faster.

And eventually you find yourself wondering: "Why am I running so hard?" You are exhausted. But you're afraid to stop. Because somewhere deep inside is a fear: "If I stop running, will I still matter?" "If I stop producing, will I still belong?" That question sits closer to today's readings than we might first imagine.

The Gospel begins with Jesus walking past a tax booth. There sits Matthew. Now tax collectors were not popular people. They worked for the Roman Empire. They collected money from their neighbours. Many became wealthy by charging more than they should. To many people, Matthew represented everything that was wrong with society. And yet Jesus walks up to him and says only two words: "Follow me."

No lecture. No probation period. No requirement to prove himself. No demand that he get his life together first. Just: "Follow me." And Matthew gets up and follows. But what happens next is even more surprising.

Jesus goes to Matthew's house. He sits at Matthew's table. He meets Matthew's friends. And suddenly the religious leaders are scandalized. They ask: "Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?" It's a fair question. Because meals are never just about food. Meals tell us who belongs. Who is welcome. Who gets a seat at the table. The Pharisees look at Matthew and see a category. Jesus looks at Matthew and sees a person. The Pharisees see a sinner. Jesus sees a beloved child of God.

And that's when Jesus quotes the prophet Hosea: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice." For years I heard those words as a criticism of religious ritual. But I wonder if they're really about something deeper. I wonder if they're about the difference between relationship and transaction. Because sacrifice can easily become transactional. I give this. I receive that. I earn approval. I secure belonging. I prove my worth. And isn't that how so many of us learn to live?

From Ledgers to Tables

We carry invisible ledgers around with us. We keep score. We measure worth. We calculate debts. We ask: Who called whom? Who apologized first? Who did more? Who gave more? Who sacrificed more? Who owes whom? And before long our relationships begin to feel less like relationships and more like accounting.

Perhaps that's why Matthew is such an interesting person for Jesus to call. After all, Matthew's entire life revolved around a ledger. Columns. Numbers. Debits. Credits. Profit. Loss. Worth. Value. His whole world was organized around keeping accounts.

Then Jesus walks into his accounting office and closes the book. Not because money doesn't matter. But because people are worth more than the numbers attached to them. Matthew's value was never found in his tax records. And our value is never found in our own. Not in our bank accounts. Not in our accomplishments. Not in our résumés. Not in our productivity. Not even in how useful we are to other people. And yet so many of us spend our lives believing otherwise.

Some people become trapped in the belief that they must always be the responsible one. The provider. The helper. The fixer. The peacemaker. The person who carries everyone else. It's a little bit like becoming a vending machine. People walk up. Push the button. Receive what they need. Then walk away. Nobody stops to ask how the vending machine is doing. Nobody wonders whether the machine is tired. The machine simply exists to provide.

Mercy Changes Everything

I suspect many people know exactly what that feels like. Perhaps in families. Perhaps at work. Perhaps even in church. And what happens when the vending machine stops dispensing? What happens when the person who always fixes things stops fixing them? What happens when the person who always apologizes stops apologizing? What happens when the person who always carries the relationship decides they cannot carry it alone anymore?

The system becomes anxious. Not necessarily because anything is wrong. But because the pattern has been disrupted. Family systems theory teaches us that every family develops roles. The responsible one. The rebel. The peacemaker. The scapegoat. And when someone steps out of their assigned role, everybody feels it. The anxiety rises. The pressure increases. The temptation is to return to the old pattern. To get back on the treadmill. To keep proving ourselves. To keep earning our place. To keep the peace.

But Scripture invites us to ask a different question. What kind of peace are we talking about? The Roman Empire talked constantly about peace. Pax Romana. The Peace of Rome. Everything looked orderly. Everything looked stable. Everything looked peaceful. As long as people stayed in their assigned places.

But biblical peace—shalom—is something much deeper. Shalom is not simply the absence of conflict. Shalom is right relationship. Justice. Wholeness. Mercy. Truth. And sometimes mercy disrupts systems built on worthiness.

That's exactly what Jesus is doing at Matthew's table. The Pharisees want order. Jesus wants healing. The Pharisees want categories. Jesus wants relationship. The Pharisees want boundaries. Jesus wants people.

And then Jesus says something remarkable: "Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick." Notice what Jesus calls himself. Not a judge. A physician. A healer. And healers move toward wounded people. That's what they do. That's what love does.

In fact, that's the pattern throughout today's Gospel. Jesus moves toward Matthew. Jesus moves toward the woman who has suffered for twelve years. Jesus moves toward the grieving father whose daughter has died. Again and again Jesus moves toward people before they have earned anything. Before they have proven anything. Before they have become worthy. Perhaps that is the heart of the Gospel. Not that we find God. But that God comes looking for us. Not that we climb our way to belonging. But that Christ pulls up a chair and invites us to sit down. And that raises an important question.

What would your life look like if you truly believed that? Imagine waking up tomorrow morning and somehow knowing—beyond any doubt—that your worth was completely secure. Not because of your accomplishments. Not because of your income. Not because of your productivity. Not because everybody approved of you. Not because you got everything right. But simply because you are loved.

What might change? Would you still work? Probably. Would you still care for people? Of course. Would you still serve others? Absolutely. But perhaps you would do it differently. Perhaps you would stop carrying burdens that don't belong to you. Perhaps you would say no when no is needed. Perhaps you would stop confusing being useful with being loved. Perhaps you would discover that your worth is not something you achieve. It is something you receive.

We don't know exactly what Matthew's life looked like after he left that tax booth. But we know this. He stepped off a treadmill organized around worthiness. And entered a life organized around grace. He left behind a ledger. And found a table. He stopped measuring value in transactions. And discovered relationship. That is the invitation of the Gospel. Not to become less responsible. Not to stop caring. Not to stop serving. But to stop carrying the exhausting burden of proving that we belong. Because before Matthew changed his life, before the woman was healed, before the girl was raised, Jesus moved toward them.

And today Christ moves toward us as well. Not because we have earned it. But because we are already loved. Amen.

Curious to explore more? Plan a Visit to St. George's.