If I Only Had...

Week 3 of There's No Place Like Home

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Cowardly Lion.

As a kid, I loved him because he was funny. As an adult, I love him because he’s painfully familiar. The Lion spends the entire movie convinced that he lacks courage, even as he repeatedly does courageous things. He assumes that because he feels afraid, he must be a coward. If I’m honest, that’s a mistake I’ve made more than once myself.

This week’s sermon continues our journey through Oz by exploring one of the most persistent lies many of us carry: the belief that we are missing something essential. More courage. More wisdom. More faith. More confidence. Drawing on the stories of Dorothy’s companions, Paul’s encouragement to Timothy (2 Timothy 1:5-7), and his reflections on spiritual gifts in Corinth (1 Corinthians 12:4-11), we consider the possibility that what we are searching for may not be nearly as far away as we imagine.

Perhaps the journey of faith is not about becoming someone entirely different. Perhaps it is about learning to recognize the gifts, grace, and belovedness that God has already placed within us.

“If I Only Had...”

Over the last two weeks, we’ve been making our way through Oz together. Two weeks ago, we talked about Dorothy’s longing for something more, that deep sense that there must be a place somewhere over the rainbow where she could finally belong. Last week, we followed the Yellow Brick Road and discovered that the journey becomes possible because of the companions who walk beside her.

This week, we spend some time with Dorothy’s companions and the surprising discovery that what they are searching for may have been with them all along.

One of the funniest things about The Wizard of Oz is that the audience figures out the joke long before the characters do. The Scarecrow spends the entire movie searching for a brain. The Tin Man wants a heart. The Cowardly Lion is desperate for courage. Together they set out for Emerald City, convinced that the Wizard can give them the very things they lack. The audience, however, sees something different. We watch the Scarecrow solve problems, the Tin Man care deeply about everyone around him, and the Lion repeatedly step into situations that terrify him. From the very beginning, we can see that they already possess the qualities they are searching for. Everyone can see it except them.

I’ve always found that fascinating because I think it reveals something deeply human. Many of us spend a surprising amount of our lives focused on what we think we lack. If only I were smarter. If only I were stronger. If only I had more faith. If only I were more confident. If only I knew what I was doing. If only I were brave enough.

Part of the problem is that human beings are often much better at noticing our weaknesses than our strengths. Psychologists call this the negativity bias. We tend to remember criticism more easily than praise, mistakes more vividly than successes, and shortcomings more readily than gifts. We can spend years focusing on what we think is missing while overlooking what is already present.

We carry these assumptions about ourselves for so long that they begin to feel like facts. What starts as a feeling gradually becomes an identity. We stop saying, “I’m afraid,” and start saying, “I’m a fearful person.” We stop saying, “I don’t know what to do right now,” and start saying, “I’m not wise enough.” We take a momentary experience and turn it into a permanent truth about who we are.

That’s exactly what happens to Dorothy’s companions. The Scarecrow assumes that because he never received an education, he must not be intelligent. His understanding of wisdom is tied to credentials and diplomas, and because he doesn’t have those things, he concludes that he lacks a brain. Meanwhile, he spends the entire journey solving problems and coming up with ideas. The Tin Man believes he lacks a heart, yet he is the most emotionally expressive character in the story. He feels deeply, cares deeply, and weeps openly. The very thing that convinces him he doesn’t have a heart is the thing that shows us he does. The Lion makes perhaps the most common mistake of all. He assumes that courage means never feeling afraid. Because he experiences fear, he concludes that he must be a coward. Yet again and again, he chooses to keep going. He enters the forest. He faces danger. He stands by his friends. The presence of fear does not mean the absence of courage. In fact, courage often reveals itself precisely in those moments when fear is present.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve always identified most strongly with the Lion. If I’m being honest, there have been many moments in my life when I haven’t felt particularly brave. Coming out. Leaving behind the theology I was raised with. Going to seminary. Moving across the country. Pursuing a doctorate. Taking on leadership roles that often felt bigger than my confidence. At the time, none of those experiences felt courageous. Most of them felt terrifying. Looking back, however, I can see something that I couldn’t see then. The fact that I was afraid did not mean I lacked courage. It simply meant I was doing something that mattered.

A few years ago, while I was serving a church in Illinois, there was a member of the congregation who would occasionally remind me that leadership requires brains, heart, and courage. Then she would point to the characters from The Wizard of Oz and tell me that I had all three. I always appreciated the compliment. I always thanked her. But I’m also someone who doesn’t receive compliments particularly well. When someone says something kind, I usually smile, say thank you, and then spend the next week deciding whether I believe them. So, I would go home and think about what she had said. Was it true? Was she just being kind? Had she mistaken me for someone more capable than I actually was?

The truth is that I’m still not entirely sure I believe her. Some days I do. Some days I don’t. But over time, I’ve come to realize that her words were asking a different question. The question wasn’t whether I always felt wise, compassionate, or courageous. The question was whether those qualities were already present in ways I couldn’t yet fully recognize. That’s the lesson the Lion has been trying to teach me for years.

In many ways, that’s also the lesson Paul is trying to teach Timothy. When we hear today’s reading from 2 Timothy, it’s easy to focus on the familiar line, “God didn’t give us a spirit that is timid but one that is powerful, loving, and self-controlled.” But Paul begins somewhere else.

He begins by reminding Timothy of his sincere faith. He remembers Timothy’s grandmother, Lois. He remembers his mother, Eunice. He remembers the ways faith has already taken root in Timothy’s life. Before Paul tells Timothy what to do, he reminds Timothy who he is. Before he offers encouragement, he offers recognition.

Then Paul says, “to revive God’s gift that is in you.” Once again, Paul assumes the gift is already there. Timothy does not need to become someone else. He does not need to go searching for something he lacks. He needs to nurture and trust what God has already placed within him.

Paul isn’t telling Timothy about a gift he didn’t know existed. He’s reminding him not to neglect the one he already has.

Only then does Paul say, “God didn’t give us a spirit that is timid but one that is powerful, loving, and self-controlled.” Some translations say, “a spirit of fear.” Others translate it as “a spirit of timidity.” Either way, Paul is not suggesting that faithful people never feel afraid. Scripture is filled with people who were afraid. Moses was afraid. Jeremiah was afraid. Mary was terrified. The disciples were afraid.

The issue isn’t fear itself. The issue is allowing fear to define us. That’s exactly the mistake the Lion makes. Because he feels fear, he believes that he is a coward. Paul refuses to let Timothy make a similar mistake. Timothy may feel uncertain, overwhelmed, or inadequate, but those feelings do not tell the whole story. Paul points him back to the gift already within him and reminds him that God’s Spirit is still at work.

In other words, Paul is inviting Timothy to see himself more truthfully.

I think that’s one of the reasons this story resonates so deeply during Pride Month. Many LGBTQ+ people spend years hearing messages about who they are supposed to be, what they are supposed to feel, or who they are allowed to become. Some of those messages come from culture. Some come from family. Some come from churches. And after a while, it can become difficult to tell the difference between what others have said about us and what is actually true.

For many of us, part of the journey is learning to separate those voices from the truth of who God created us to be. It’s learning that fear, shame, rejection, or misunderstanding do not get the final word. It’s discovering that we are more beloved, more gifted, and more whole than we were ever led to believe.

In that sense, Pride is not simply a celebration of identity. It is also a celebration of recognition. It is the slow, sometimes difficult, sometimes joyful work of learning to see ourselves more truthfully and trusting that God sees us even more clearly than we see ourselves.

That’s one of the reasons I find Dorothy so interesting in this part of the story. As she travels with the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion, she learns something important about people. She learns that longing often reveals identity. The Scarecrow longs for wisdom because he values wisdom. The Tin Man longs for love because he values love. The Lion longs for courage because he values courage. Their deepest desires reveal something true about them long before they are able to see it themselves. Dorothy also learns that people need to be seen before they can see themselves. She never mocks their dreams or dismisses what they’re longing for. Instead, she treats them with dignity. She takes them seriously. She sees their gifts even when they cannot.

By the time they finally reach the Wizard, the audience already understands what the characters have not yet realized. The diploma, the heart-shaped clock, and the medal are not what changed them. The journey did. More accurately, the journey revealed what had been true all along. The Scarecrow didn’t suddenly become wise. The Tin Man didn’t suddenly become loving. The Lion didn’t suddenly become brave. Those qualities had been present from the beginning. The journey simply gave them the opportunity to recognize them.

I suspect many of us know what that feels like. The caregiver who wonders whether they can keep going, asking if they have enough left to give. The person grieving a loss, wondering if they’re strong enough for the road ahead. The person who looks around at the world and asks whether they have anything meaningful to offer. It is remarkably easy to mistake a feeling for a fact. To confuse fear with cowardice, grief with weakness, uncertainty with incompetence, and struggle with failure. To convince ourselves, we lack something simply because we don’t experience it perfectly.

That’s why Paul’s words to the Corinthians matter as well. The church in Corinth was struggling with comparison, competition, and questions about whose gifts mattered most. Some gifts seemed more impressive than others. Some people appeared more important than others. Sound familiar?

Paul responds by reminding them that all gifts come from the same Spirit. Wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, discernment, leadership, generosity, service. The gifts may look different, but they all have the same source. More importantly, every gift is given for the common good.

In other words, Paul is not handing out spiritual report cards. He is not ranking people from most gifted to least gifted. He is reminding the church that God’s Spirit is already active in every person. The question is not whether God has given you a gift. The question is how God has gifted you.

That changes everything. Because the goal is not to become someone else. The Scarecrow does not need to become the Tin Man. The Tin Man does not need to become the Lion. The Lion does not need to become the Scarecrow. In the same way, we are not called to spend our lives wishing we had someone else’s gifts. We are called to recognize, nurture, and share the gifts God has already placed within us.

And perhaps that’s one of the reasons comparisons can be so damaging. The moment we start measuring ourselves against someone else, we stop paying attention to the work God’s Spirit is doing in us. We become so focused on the gifts we wish we had that we overlook the gifts we’ve already been given.

There’s a moment I keep coming back to. When the Wizard pins the medal on the Lion, he doesn’t suddenly become a different animal. He doesn’t transform. He just finally believes what had been true the whole time. And you can see it. Something in him settles. Something that had been braced against itself relaxes. He stands a little differently than he did before.

I think that’s what it feels like when someone finally sees us clearly. Not when we become something new, but when we’re recognized for what we already are. And I think that’s part of what God’s Spirit is always doing in us. Revealing gifts we have overlooked. Nurturing gifts that are still growing. Calling forward possibilities we struggle to see in ourselves.

The gift was never missing. We just couldn’t see it yet. And perhaps that’s one of the things the road is for. Not to give us what we lack, but to show us what we’ve carried all along.

A Benediction for the Gifts You Carry

May you find the courage you thought was missing,
the wisdom you overlooked,
and the gifts you have carried all along.

May you be surrounded by people who see you clearly,
encourage you gently,
and remind you of who you are when you begin to forget.

And when the road feels long or uncertain,
may you trust that God’s Spirit is still at work within you,
revealing grace, nurturing possibility,
and leading you toward a deeper truth.

Go in peace.
You are more beloved,
more gifted,
and more capable
than you know.

Amen.