One of the quiet assumptions of American culture is that worth must be earned.
We may not say it out loud, but we live like it’s true. You matter if you produce something. You matter if you succeed. You matter if you look right, vote right, believe right, say the right things at the right time. Even our failures are ranked. Some are “understandable.” Others are unforgivable.
This way of thinking doesn’t stay outside the church. It slips into our faith more easily than we care to admit.
Many of us know the language of grace, but we live as if God’s love has fine print.
This idea was at the heart of last Sunday’s sermon, rooted in Psalm 139 and echoed in the simple, disarming words of Fred Rogers: “It’s you I like.”
Not what you do.
Not what you’ve achieved.
Not how well behaved you are.
You.
A Culture Obsessed With Measuring Up
Psalm 139 opens with a claim: that before we achieved anything, before we made our first mistake, before anyone had an opinion about us, God was already paying attention.
“You knit me together in my mother’s womb.”
“Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.”
It’s beautiful poetry. But it’s also a direct challenge to the systems that define us.
We live in a culture of measurement. Productivity. Output. Likes. Followers. Influence. Income. Political alignment. Even suffering gets ranked—who deserves compassion and who should have known better.
Church culture can sometimes mirror this. Faithfulness becomes performative. Belonging becomes conditional. Grace is preached but carefully doled out.
You can feel it when people carry old guilt like a “Scarlet Letter”.
You can hear it when someone says, “I know God forgives me, but…”
You can see it when guilt and shame become a spiritual discipline.
Psalm 139 pushes back against that worldview. Worth, according to Scripture, does not begin with our behavior. It begins with creation.
Why We Struggle to Love Others Well
Jesus tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves. That command assumes something we often overlook: that we know ourselves to be loved.
When people live under constant self-criticism, that harshness rarely stays internal. It spills outward.
Unforgiven guilt turns into judgment.
Unresolved shame turns into isolation.
Fear of being exposed turns into control.
When love feels conditional, we start applying conditions to everyone else.
That’s why conversations today escalate so quickly. People aren’t just debating ideas; they’re defending their worth. Disagreement feels existential. Labels replace names. Outrage becomes our currency.
This shows up in politics, on social media, and in how quickly we are willing to write people off instead of listening to them.
And sometimes, that way of seeing others doesn’t just shape our words—it shapes our systems.
Two weeks ago, many of us were confronted by the death of Renee Good, a woman whose life was cut short during an encounter involving federal immigration enforcement. Depending on where you get your news, her story was framed in very different ways. For some, it became a debate about policy. For others, a question of procedure or justification.
But for her family and neighbors, Renee was not a case study or a headline. She was a mother. A friend. A person known and loved.
When human beings are reduced to categories—legal, illegal, threat, problem, statistic—something essential is lost. The same danger shows up in how ICE often treats people: families separated, lives disrupted, dignity treated as expendable in the name of enforcement. Regardless of where one lands politically, the Christian question is unavoidable: Do we see the person first?
When we forget that every person bears God’s image, it becomes easier to dismiss suffering, explain away harm, or accept cruelty as necessary. Scripture never allows that shortcut. Genesis is clear: every human being carries God’s image—before belief, before morality, before change.
That includes the immigrant.
That includes the person caught in a system bigger than themselves.
That includes the people we fear or misunderstand.
And, uncomfortably, that includes us.
The Gospel Reminds Us
Psalm 139 is not a pep talk. It doesn’t exist to boost self-esteem. It exists to reorient us to God’s reality.
You are known.
You are seen.
You are held.
Paul echoes this when he writes that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus—not failure, not fear, not regret, not the sins we keep confessing, and not the ones we can’t yet name.
Grace doesn’t excuse harm, but it does refuse to let our worst moments define us.
That distinction matters. God’s love is not permissive, but it is persistent. Transformation grows out of being loved, not being coerced.
That’s something Fred Rogers understood deeply. He didn’t rush people past their emotions. He didn’t weaponize shame. He believed dignity was not a reward but a starting point.
That feels almost rebellious now.
A Countercultural Practice
To say “It’s you I like” today sounds naïve. Maybe even irresponsible. But Scripture insists that this is exactly where neighbor-love begins.
When you trust that your life is held by grace, you don’t need to dominate every conversation.
When you trust that God knows you fully, you don’t need to reduce others to caricatures.
When you trust that worth is given, not earned, you can afford to treat people as human beings rather than problems to be fixed or solved.
This doesn’t mean avoiding truth or ignoring injustice. It means refusing to deny someone’s humanity while seeking it.
That kind of love is costly. It requires patience in a culture addicted to results. It requires listening in a world trained for reaction. It requires humility when certainty feels safer.
The Quiet Work Ahead
The challenge isn’t difficult.
Pay attention to how you speak to yourself this week. Notice how quickly you assume you’re a burden, a disappointment, or behind where you should be.
Then pay attention to how you see others. Especially the ones who frustrate you. Especially the ones society has already labeled.
Psalm 139 reminds us that God formed them too.
Loving our neighbors begins with remembering who we are and who they are: people known by God, shaped with care, and held by grace.
God does not wait for a better version of you before offering love.
God loves you now—and keeps shaping you through that love.
In a culture that constantly compares and categorizes, living from God’s grace becomes a quiet but meaningful act of faith.
And it might just be where real neighbor-love finally takes root.
Closing Prayer
Gracious God,
thank you for knowing us more deeply than we know ourselves and for loving us more fully than we often believe is possible. Thank you that our worth does not come from what we achieve, prove, or protect, but from the simple truth that we are yours.
Help us loosen our grip on the voices that tell us we are not enough. Heal the places where shame still shapes how we see ourselves. Teach us to rest in your grace so it can settle into our lives and reshape us from the inside out.
As we move through the world, slow us down enough to truly see the people around us. When we are tempted to reduce others to labels, opinions, or disagreements, remind us of the dignity you have placed in every human life. Give us courage to love in ways that feel unfamiliar, patience when listening feels hard, and humility when certainty would be easier.
Form us into people who reflect your compassion in ordinary moments, who speak with kindness, and who choose dignity in a culture that often forgets it. Root us in your love, and send us out shaped by grace.
We trust that you are still at work in us.
In the name of Jesus, we pray.
Amen.
Reflection Question:
Where do you see your sense of worth being shaped more by performance, opinions, or past mistakes than by God’s love—and how might that be affecting the way you see and treat others?
The Rest of the Sermon 