Wholeness
Summary
Dominic Jackson explores Jesus’ command to “be perfect” and confronts the quiet pressure many feel to measure their spiritual lives through performance, comparison, and self-evaluation. Drawing from the Sermon on the Mount and the story of the rich young ruler, he reframes perfection not as flawlessness, but as wholeness—a life fully oriented toward God. Rather than calling us to achieve moral perfection, Jesus invites us into a deeper trust that reshapes how we understand sin, growth, and identity.
At the heart of the message is a challenge to release the need for control and to surrender whatever we rely on for security, meaning, or worth. Spiritual formation, Dominic suggests, is not about striving harder or managing behavior, but about learning to live from a place of being already known and loved by God. As we let go of what we cling to and trust God more fully, we begin to experience the kind of completeness Jesus describes—one rooted not in our efforts, but in his presence.
Questions for reflection
When you think about your spiritual life, do you tend to evaluate yourself more through performance or relationship? What does that look like in practice?
Where do you feel the pressure to be “perfect”? How does that pressure shape your view of God?
What is one area of your life you are trying to control because you don’t fully trust God with it?
When you fall short, do you tend to say “I messed up” or “I am messed up”? Why does that distinction matter?
How does understanding “perfection” as wholeness or completeness change the way you hear Jesus’ command?
What are you currently looking to for identity, security, or meaning apart from God?
If someone observed your daily life without any explicit religious signals, what would (or wouldn’t) point to your faith?
What is one practical way you can practice surrender or trust this week instead of striving or self-improving?
-
The Jackson household is in the middle of potty training. Yes — those sounds from the parents in the room. Flashbacks. Pray for us.
We are in the middle of potty training, and by we I should clarify: the kids are in the middle of potty training. If you've been there, you know this process often feels like two steps forward and one step back. Our oldest recently had an accident. And I have to confess — dad didn't handle it very well. I said things I shouldn't have. At one point I even said, "I thought we were past this. What's going on?" Which definitely didn't help. Not my proudest moment.
In response to my reaction, my toddler looked at me and said: "I messed up."
I tried to walk it back: "No, no — it's okay. Everyone makes mistakes."
She said it again: "I messed up."
And then a moment later, she said something slightly different — whether it was a slip of language or whether she was somehow speaking from the heart, I don't know. But she said: "I'm messed up."
I felt like the worst father in the world. I started singing the potty song, tried bribery, tried everything to make it fun again. But whether it was a mix-up in words or not, here was a child who saw only two paths: perfection and failure. And in that moment she put herself firmly in the second category.
I'll be honest — that's often how I look at my own spiritual walk too. I hold myself to a high standard, which might sound like a virtue, but it doesn't always come from a healthy place. Anything short of perfection becomes, in my mind, further proof of how sinful and messed up I am. Intellectually, theologically, I know God loves me. But in my heart I'm still trying to earn that love — just in case he changes his mind.
Some of this is my own stuff — thank you, therapy. Some of it came from the theological tradition I first encountered faith in, where the default sermon was essentially: you are a carnal, sinful, wretched creature and God should hate you, but he tolerates you. And some of it, if I'm honest, is just poor Bible reading on my part.
Because Jesus seems to imply — at least at first reading — that my spiritual journey can be divided into exactly those same two categories: perfection and rejection. Anything short of perfect means the latter. Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect. After over two decades of following Jesus, there are still sins I've been battling the whole time — my ego, my selfishness, my anger. I should be further along than this by now, right? That's how my prayers sometimes sound.
Or maybe — maybe I'm going about this all wrong.
That's where we're headed this morning.
Prayer
Holy, perfect God, we seek you. We seek you in our songs, our teaching, our community, our conversations. We seek you for understanding. Teach us what true perfection is. Give us a whole picture of sin — yes — but also of redemption, of reconciliation, of transformation, and of love. We pray this in the name of Jesus. Amen.
Wrapping Up the Series
This is our final Sunday in the Movement series, and we're landing the plane on what I think is one of the hardest movements of all — not measured by distance or time, but by trust. We're talking about the movement of the heart: control, devotion, and perfection.
The Progress Report We Make for Ourselves
First, a confession. When I read the scriptures — the Old Testament, the New Testament, working through the Bible — I sometimes catch myself comparing myself to the people I'm reading about.
Am I doing better than David did in that story? Half the time, I hope yes. How would I rank against Elijah? Better than Jonah? And then my favorites — am I doing better than the Pharisees? I know I have room to grow, but at least I'm not as bad as ________. I fill in the blank.
And this is how I often approach the teachings of Jesus — especially the Sermon on the Mount. I'll read it and start filling out my own progress report. Strength and weakness? Could do better, but okay. Loving my enemies? Depends on the day. Thirsting for righteousness? Solid A, actually. I decide that though I have room to grow, I'm still doing better than some of the characters I read about, or the person down the street, or myself twenty years ago.
And then, just as I'm starting to feel good about my self-assigned grade, I come across a verse like today's: Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect. And all of a sudden, nobody asked for this progress report — least of all me.
So how does Jesus expect us to be perfect? Since Jesus himself was perfect, is the goal to reach a place in our faith where we no longer need a Savior? Have you ever tried to go 24 hours without sinning? You wake up, today's the day — and then you get in the car. Maybe tomorrow. Jesus lived an entire perfect life. Is that the standard?
But what if that's the point? What if the invitation of Jesus is to tear up the self-grading system entirely and instead see ourselves the way God sees us?
That sounds great in theory. But it raises an obvious question: why would Jesus tell us to be perfect at all?
A Definition of Perfection
Here's the thing: Jesus doesn't define perfection when he says be perfect. But a little further on in Matthew's gospel, he does give us a definition. Fair warning — at first it's going to feel like a gut punch. Then we'll get some context and feel better. And then Jesus will come back with another gut punch, as he often does. But this one isn't coming from a toxic or shaming place. It's meant to free us.
Turn to Matthew 19:16.
"Just then, a man came to Jesus and asked, 'Teacher, what good thing must I do to get eternal life?'"
It's worth noting: in a first-century Jewish context, this isn't really a question about heaven. He's asking how do I live a life pleasing to God? How do I live abundantly? How do I live as if I'm not lacking?
"'Why do you ask me about what is good?' Jesus replied. 'There is only one who is good. If you want to enter life, keep the commandments.' 'Which ones?' he inquired."
I love that response. Which ones? Who hasn't asked that? Jesus, what's the bare minimum here? Are you talking about all of them, or just some of them? The man clearly knows what the commandments are — he's testing the boundaries.
Jesus starts naming them: don't murder, don't commit adultery, don't steal, don't give false testimony, honor your father and mother, love your neighbor as yourself.
"'All these I have kept,' the young man said. 'What do I still lack?'"
Notice that question. What do I still lack? There are people in this room who could ask the same thing. I show up every week. I volunteer. I give. I worship. And yet there's a part of me that still feels empty, still feels like something is missing.
"Jesus answered, 'If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.' When the young man heard this, he went away sad, because he had great wealth."
Well. There it is.
From a cold first reading, it sounds like Jesus is saying: to be perfect, you must own nothing. Pass around the bins, drop in your car keys, hand over your bank information. Is this what God is asking? You're not doing enough. You have too much. Prove your faith by giving it all away.
Maybe. Let's slow down and get some context.
What Does "Perfect" Actually Mean?
First, is Jesus saying that if people do enough, they can become without sin — God-like, no longer in need of a Savior? Because if so, I have some theological problems with that. But I don't think that's what he's saying.
Consider: in Matthew 9:13, Jesus says, "I desire mercy, not sacrifice. For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners." And for someone who was perfect, Jesus was noticeably not a perfectionist. Look at who he spent time with. Look at the places he went. Look at his reputation. Jesus was perfect — but he was not a perfectionist.
Now here's where it gets really interesting. The Greek word translated as perfect in this verse is teleios. And here's what most English readers miss: almost every other time this word appears in the Bible, translators render it not as perfect but as complete — or sometimes complete and whole, using two words to capture the one. It's used to describe a mature crop, a full circle, a finished piece of pottery. Something that has been made whole. Something that lacks nothing.
There is a subtle but important distinction in the second use of the word later in the verse. When Jesus says "be complete, because your Father is complete," there's also a finished quality implied — a recognition that completeness has already been accomplished. Any first-century Jewish reader would have felt the weight of that.
And remember where this verse sits: right in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, in the middle of Jesus describing an upside-down kingdom. The way to power is weakness. The way to defeat evil is goodness. The way to combat hate is love. Everything is backwards.
Brennan Manning captures it beautifully in The Furious Longing of God: "The men and women who are truly filled with light are those who have gazed deeply into the darkness of their own imperfect existence."
In many ways, to be complete is to let go of our own definition of perfection. The more imperfect we realize we are, the more we recognize our need for a Savior — and paradoxically, the closer to wholeness we actually become. Be perfect because I am perfect — one of those statements is prescriptive. The other is descriptive. And the order matters.
What Jesus Is Really Going After
So good news and bad news about the rich young man.
The good news: I don't believe Jesus is asking for your retirement account. He's not going after your money.
The bad news: he's going after something far more significant.
Consider how Jesus treats other people in the gospels. The Pharisees — wealthy, by the way — he doesn't tell them to sell their stuff. He says, "Why do you break the commands of God for the sake of your tradition?" He goes after their religious practices, their doctrine, their pride. When people full of judgment drag a woman caught in adultery before him, he doesn't say, "Sell your things and then you may stone her." He says, "Whoever is without sin, cast the first stone." Money doesn't come up.
Jesus meets all kinds of people from all kinds of economic backgrounds. He does not tell them all to give everything away — just this particular man.
And why? Because this man's wealth was the specific thing he was clinging to. It was the thing he was looking to for comfort, security, and meaning. It was the one place he would not let Jesus in. For the men ready to stone the woman, it was their pride and power. For you and me, it's whatever we hold up and say: Jesus, you can have any part of my life — except this.
Martin Luther said: "Whatever your heart clings to and confides in — that is really your God, your functional savior."
For some it's identity. For others, politics. Jobs, status, comfort zones. A bigger house that we think will finally make us feel safe. A better school district. A nest egg. A younger appearance. Fitness. Popularity. Titles. And yes, for some, money. None of these things are bad in themselves — but they are not what we are meant to put our trust in. They should not be what makes us feel complete.
Here's one way I take my own pulse check: if someone looked at my life — removed the Bible verses from the walls, set aside my LinkedIn profile that says I work for a church, ignored the scripture references in my social media bio — could they tell I was a Christian simply by how I live? By how I spend my money? By how I speak to my spouse? By my work ethic, my habits, my relationship to my stuff?
Whatever it is that we believe will bring us happiness apart from God — whatever we cling to, whatever we think will give us purpose or meaning or joy — here is Jesus saying: be complete. See yourself as whole. Not because of anything you've achieved, but because of the one who is actually perfect, who gives us our meaning, our purpose, and our identity.
All those other things might feed the appetite. But they will not fill you up.
Whatever is holding us back from experiencing completeness — that is exactly the place to invite Jesus in. To trust him with. To let go of.
An Invitation Into Lent
Next week we begin a new series, and we enter into the season of Lent. In many ways, Lent is the ultimate act of letting go of control. It's the renewing of how we see and understand ourselves. It's the practice of turning to God before we turn to our comforts — filling our spirits before we fill our stomachs, or our entertainment feeds, or our habits.
Whether you've observed Lent every year, whether it's a familiar part of your faith tradition, or whether it's entirely new to you — wherever you are on your journey, I want to encourage you to pray about joining us. It's 40 days. And in those 40 days, I've found some of the clearest, closest experiences of God I've had in my twenty-plus years of faith — when I've removed the distractions and turned toward him.
If you feel like that young man in Matthew 19 — if you're asking, what am I lacking, God, because I still feel far from you — this is a perfect opportunity to reignite your faith. And if you're feeling full and spiritually nourished, it's an opportunity to go deeper. Wherever you are, I invite you to consider joining us as a church in this season of decreasing so that he may increase in our lives. A chance to go, to learn, to reset, to be formed in the Spirit.
And spiritual formation — honestly, what I told my toddler after I got it wrong the first time — looks like this: You are doing a great job. You are seen and known and loved. Every day is a new day. All I ask is that you try your best. And remember that my love is not based on what you do or how well you do it. And by the way, daddy is working on a whole lot of stuff himself. Maybe we can cheer each other on as we go.
Maybe that's what these next few weeks can be for us too.
Closing Prayer
Lord, you are perfect. You are complete. And though we are far from perfect, we are made perfect in you. When the Father looks at us, he sees his perfect Son.
May we find our identity, our meaning, our purpose, our completeness — not in our stuff, our jobs, our education, our families, our roles, our money. All of which are good things. They just don't belong in the place you belong.
Let us see ourselves as complete, because you, Lord, are complete.
I pray for this season of Lent as we enter it. Let it be a time of refreshment, of refinement, of reconnection to you. Help us to rediscover our love for you. Fill us up as we turn away from the things of this world and toward you — our living water and our daily bread. Amen.