TL;DR: The Rainbow Fish teaches us the importance of sharing, but what happens when we run out of scales to give? Jesus commands us to love God and our neighbors, yet our best efforts will always fall short. The good news is that God's love and grace don't depend on how much we give or how well we perform. Christ does for us what we cannot do for ourselves, freeing us from the endless pressure to prove our worth and allowing us to love our neighbors without having to manufacture more of ourselves.
My recording messed up, so this is the text of my manuscript—formatted for Substack—of my sermon delivered Sunday, October 25 at Wheat Ridge Congregational Church (I’ll also update the audio when I can).
When my daughter was a little girl, one of the stories she most often chose for me to read to her at bedtime was the well-known children’s book, The Rainbow Fish by Marcus Pfister.
Her aunt—my sister Katherine—had given her the book. And while I don’t think we have our copy anymore, I still remember reading it to her.
The story goes like this:
Far out in the sea lived a fish. No ordinary fish, however. He was the most beautiful fish in the entire ocean. His scales shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow.
The other fish admired his colorful scales and called him Rainbow Fish. “Come on, play with us, Rainbow Fish!” But Rainbow Fish was proud and swam past them…
(For copyright purposes I’m not sharing the full story text here. See link below.)
https://www.scribd.com/document/889585408/rainbow-fish
What Happens When We Run Out of Scales?
The Rainbow Fish is a wonderful children’s story, teaching young minds important lessons about sharing and friendship.
But as I prepared for this sermon, I found myself thinking about what happens after the story ends. And I kept coming back to one question:
What happens when we run out of scales?
In the book, the story ends after Rainbow Fish has given away all but one of his shiny scales. But I kept wondering, what if the story kept going?
What if another fish came along, asking for a scale? Would he have given away his very last one? And then what happens when the next fish comes along? What would he have told that fish?
Eventually, he’d have nothing left to give. Yet it would seem there would still be another fish asking—and another fish to disappoint. One fish after another would see those glittering scales and ask where they came from.
“Rainbow Fish,” the others would say. But when they came asking for a scale of their own, he would have nothing left to give. As a children’s story, it teaches an important lesson. But for us adults, things get more complicated.
What happens when we run out of scales?
When someone needs patience, but we’re irritated? When another cause asks, but we’re tired of giving? When someone needs care, but we wish they’d ask someone else?
We assume it’s up to us to produce more; more patience, more generosity, more love. As if we could somehow grow more rainbow scales.
And this is where a children’s lesson about sharing can become an exhausting demand:
I need to keep producing more of myself so I can give more of myself away.
And if I run out, that’s my fault.
So, like Rainbow Fish, we consult our friends and seek expert advice. We try new programs and practices, hoping to become better, kinder, gentler, more loving people.
But there is always another need, another request, another moment when we could have been more generous. And before long, we’re not simply asking ourselves, “Do I have anything left to give?” We’re instead wondering, “What does it say about me that I don’t want to give any more?”
It can become this endless cycle of questioning:
Have I given enough? Have I loved enough? Have I done enough to be a good person?
Every opportunity becomes another test. Every failure becomes evidence against us.
Even when we do give, we may find ourselves keeping score—hoping we’ve finally done enough, while perhaps also resenting those who seem to give less.
“I’m not perfect, but at least I’m better than them…”
Being a good person becomes quite the job.
And no matter how hard we work at it, we never quite know when we’ve done enough. Because sooner or later, another fish comes along. And What happens when we run out of scales?
Love God. Love Your Neighbor.
In our scripture reading today, religious leaders come to Jesus asking, “What is the greatest commandment?” As we discussed last week, Jesus, will not be trapped or fooled.
He answers, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.”
Then he adds, “And the second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”
Love God. Love your neighbor.
We know these commandments. But knowing them doesn’t mean we always keep them. And worse, even our attempts to love God and our neighbor expose how often we fail to do both. Despite our failures, we assume the solution is to try harder.
We consult experts, seek advice, and try all the more —straining to become better, kinder, more loving fish —I mean people. We try to become people who can give away our scales without ever running out.
But then Jesus says something else.
While the religious leaders are still gathered, Jesus asks them a question of his own: “What do you think of the Messiah? Whose son is he?”
“The son of David,” they answer.
Then Jesus asks, quoting from the Psalms,
Asks them a hard question. “How is it then that David by the Spirit calls him Lord.” They are stumped, and have no answers.
Often, this riddle is understood as Jesus beating the religious leaders at their own game. Jesus is the smartest, wisest person among them.
Sure, maybe.
But as one commentator I read suggested, what if Jesus is trying to give them good news? They expected a Messiah like the great Israelite king David —someone who would bring political victories over oppressive rulers.
But Jesus points them toward someone greater than David, with the promise that his enemies will be put beneath his feet. One pastor I’ve read suggest a connection between these two exchanges: the command to love our neighbor and the question of who the Messiah is.
And I think the connection is this:
Christ does for us, what we cannot do for ourselves.
Try as we might, we cannot love our way into the kingdom of God. The command to love exposes our failure, however hard we try. The good news rests in what Christ has accomplished for us.
The Relief of God’s Grace
Too often, we turn Jesus into another self-help guru—someone teaching us how to become better fish, with more scales to give away —and church becomes a TED Talk about how to become our best selves.
For adults, the lesson can become: Being a good person means continually giving of yourself. And when you run out, you need to produce more.
Otherwise, what does that say about the kind of person you are?
Every opportunity becomes another test of our goodness. Every failure becomes evidence against us.
For many of us, the pressure is to prove ourselves to other people: to prove that we are caring, generous, worthwhile people. But the good news is that Jesus offers us relief from the need to keep proving ourselves.
God’s grace frees us from needing to establish our worth.
Others may still think we haven’t given enough. We may still disappoint them. But their judgment does not determine our worth and value in God’s eyes.
Better—God’s grace frees us to love our neighbors —not because we ought to do it or we need to prove our own goodness —but rather because in Christ, God’s love has been so generously given to us.
We love because Christ first loved us.
Even then, God’s abundant love doesn’t mean we possess unlimited scales. It means our limited, imperfect love no longer must establish our worthiness.
There will still be times when we fail to love well. We’ll snap at a friend or colleague. We’ll see someone in need and keep going. We’ll resent being asked to give again.
But God’s grace is still present when we fail. Our connection to God rests in Christ’s grace, even when our love falls short.
And there will also be times when we have genuinely reached our limits. We can honestly say, “This is my last scale. I don’t have another to give. I’ve done what I can.” We can trust God is not dependent on our efforts, without treating every limit as a verdict of our goodness.
We still care about our neighbors. Their needs still matter. We give and share where we are able. But we no longer must prove our worth through meeting them.
God Is Already in the Room
Once a week, I work an overnight shift as a chaplain at St. Anthony North Hospital.
Being up late is hard for me, And no matter how I plan my day, by the time I finish rounding, it’s about ten at night—well past when I’m usually in bed—and I’m tired.
I try to prepare. I drink plenty of water. I’ve even started bringing a snack. But after encounters with patients or staff, I often find myself wishing I could have done more, offered more… been more.
What I keep trying to remind myself is that I’m not manufacturing God’s loving presence for these patients and staff.
I’m simply trying to carry it.
Just a few weeks ago, I was rounding the halls near the end of the Broncos game.
I kept sneaking a peek into patient rooms, looking for someone watching so I could follow along. After getting a few nervous looks from nurses as I lingered outside doorways, I rounded a corner and nearly cheered.
There was the game, on a big screen in a waiting room.
Finally, I thought. I can sit in peace for a few moments and watch the final minutes. As I approached, I noticed a man sitting on the couch near the television. He was watching but didn’t seem quite as enthralled as me.
I said hello and introduced myself as a chaplain.
“I don’t envy that job,” he said. “You have to walk into some hard rooms.”
“Yes, I do,” I agreed.
He mentioned he was religious, So I told him what helps me walk through those doors:
I trust that God is already in the room ahead of me.
That my task is to be a reminder of God’s love & presence. He then mentioned that he was there for a family member who was near death.
Suddenly, the outcome of the Broncos game didn’t seem quite so important.
In that moment, I offered to him what I had to give.
“God’s peace be with you,” I said.
And then I left —perhaps still a little annoyed that I hadn’t gotten to watch the end of the game, but also grateful for the opportunity to share God’s love and kindness with a neighbor.
I’m still learning to trust what I told that man: God is already here.
God’s loving presence doesn’t begin or end with what I’m able to offer.
The gift Jesus offers us isn’t another demand to become better humans or grow more scales to give away.
The good news is Jesus himself.
Jesus helps us love our neighbors and fills in where we fall short.
Thanks be to God.