6 Pentecost

 July 5, 2026

Matthew 11:16–19, 25–30

+ Let’s face it.

We’re all kind of weary right now.

We have all been through a lot

Certainly in our own personal lives.

Certainly as a country.

(Happy 250, by the way!)

Just in general.

There is just a kind of weariness that comes from simply being alive.

It’s not always physical exhaustion, either.

Sometimes—oftentimes—it’s a spiritual weariness.  

Sometimes it’s just a weariness of trying to get it right.

Trying to be the right kind of person.

Trying to say the right thing.

Trying to believe the right things.

Trying to live up to the expectations of other people.

Trying to live up to our own expectations.

And sometimes—if we are very honest—it is the weariness of trying to live up to what we think God expects of us.

That, I think, is the kind of weariness Jesus is talking about today.

But first, Jesus says something rather strange.

He says the people of his generation are like children in the marketplace:

We played the flute for you, and you did not dance;

we wailed, and you did not mourn.

Of course!

Nothing is ever quite right.

John the Baptist came fasting, living ascetically in the wilderness.

And people said what?

He has a demon.

Then Jesus came.

Jesus ate with people.

 He drank wine.

 He sat at tables with sinners and tax collectors and all the wrong people.

 And what did they say?

 Look, he’s a glutton.

 He’s a drunk.

 John was too severe.

 Jesus was not severe enough.

 There’s no winning.

 I think we all get that.

 We live in a world in which everyone seems to have an opinion about how everyone else should live their lives.

 You’re too much of this.

 You’re not enough of that.

 You’re too religious.

 You’re not religious enough.

 You’re too traditional.

 You’re too liberal, too progressive.

 Nothing is ever quite right.

 And if we spend our lives trying to satisfy every voice calling to us from the marketplace, guess what?

 We’re gonna get exhausted.

 We’re gonna be. . . weary.

 And that is what Jesus is talking about.

 Come to me, he says. All you who are weary.

 Notice what he’s not saying.

 He doesn’t say, get your act together first.

 Be more religious first.

 Figure it all out out first.

 Stop doubting.

 No. He simply says, Come.

 Come to me, all you who are weary.

 Come to me, all you who are tired of trying to prove yourselves.

 Come to me, all you who have been carrying things you were never meant to carry.

 And what happens if we do?

 “I will give you rest,” he says.

 Jesus is not promising that life will suddenly become easy.

 The rest Jesus offers is something so much deeper.

 It is the rest that comes when we finally understand that we don’t have to earn the love of God.

 We don’t have to work to get God to love us.

 We don’t have to get everything right.

 We don’t have to prove our own worth.

 We don’t have to carry around every judgment someone has made about us.

 We don’t have to keep punishing ourselves for just being who we are or what what we are.

 But, we should be clear.

 We’re not promised an easy life.

 There will be things we just have to carry in this life.

 We don’t get to have no burdens.

 There are burdens we are actually called to carry.

 We are called to carry one another.

 We are called to carry the needs of the poor.

 We are called, sometimes, to carry a cross.

 But the other stuff?

 God never asked us to carry all those thing.

 Like the burden of shame.

 The burden of perfection.

 The burden of pretending we’re something we’re not.

 The burden of trying to make everyone happy.

 The burden of believing that God is somehow perpetually disappointed in us.

 Those are dangerous burdens, especially if you’re already weary.

 Those burdens will crush us.

 What does Jesus say to us?

 Put them down.

 He says instead, Take up my yoke.

 Now, that’s an interesting turn of images if you ask me.

 Put down your burdens.

 But take up my yoke.

 But there’s something very enlightening about that image.

 A burden is something carried alone.

 A yoke however is something shared.

 You’re yoked to something else.

 Jesus doesn’t promise us a life without difficulties.

 He promises us instead that we will never carry these burdens alone.

 Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, he says.

 Walk with me.

 Move with me.

 Let me carry this with you.

 For I am gentle and humble in heart.

 That may be one of the most beautiful things Jesus ever says about himself.

 Because by saying that he is telling us what the heart of God truly is.

 The heart of God is gentle.

 The heart of God is not cruel.

 The heart of God is not waiting for us to fail.

 The heart of God is not expecting us to be. . . perfect.

 The heart of God is gentle.

 Jesus says, Listen to my voice.

 I am gentle.

 Come to me.

 Perhaps today we need to ask ourselves:

 What am I carrying that God never asked me to carry?

 Whose voice am I listening to?

 What am I still trying to prove?

 And to whom?

 And what would happen if I simply came to God as I am?

 Not as I think I should be.

 Not as someone else thinks I should be.

 But as I really am.

 Tired.

 Weary

 Imperfect.

 Hopeful.

 But still afraid.

 Faithful.

 But still doubting.

 Human.

 Come to me, Jesus says to us.

 Not tomorrow.

 Not when you’ve figured it all out.

 Not when you’ve become the person you think you should be.

 Now.

 Come to me.

 And when you do, bring your weariness.

 Bring your burden.

 Bring the whole complicated truth of who you are.

 And when we do, it is then that we will find our rest.

 Amen.

 

5 Pentecost

 

June 28, 2026

 Jeremiah 28:5–9; Matthew 10:40–42

 + There are some messages we want to hear.

 And there are other messages we need to hear.

 In today’s reading from Jeremiah, the people desperately wanted good news.

  They had been invaded.

 Their future looked uncertain.

 Into that uncertainty stepped the prophet Hananiah, proclaiming exactly that everyone hoped was true: the crisis would soon be over.

 Peace would come quickly.

 Everything would return to normal.

 Jeremiah almost wishes Hananiah were right.

 “Amen,” he says. “May the Lord do so.”

 It is one of the most poignant moments in all of Scripture. Jeremiah is not eager to be the prophet of judgment.

 He would much rather proclaim restoration than catastrophe.

 But wishing something to be true and it actually being true are not the same thing.

 Truth is not measured by how comforting it is.

Jeremiah reminds the people that the true prophet is not simply the one who says what people want to hear.

 The true prophet is known by whether the word entrusted to them proves faithful to God’s purposes.

 That is a difficult lesson in every generation.

 We all have a tendency to seek voices that reassure us rather than voices that challenge us.

 We like sermons that confirm our assumptions.

 We like leaders who promise easy answers.

 We like religion that asks very little of us.

 But the Gospel rarely takes the easy path.

 Jesus sends disciples into a complicated world.

 He tells them they will not always be welcomed.

 They will not always be understood.

 Following Christ is not a guarantee of comfort or popularity.

 And yet today’s Gospel is surprisingly gentle.

 “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.”

 Notice what Jesus does not say.

 He does not say that only the great saints matter.

 He does not say only bishops, priests, or famous Christians carry his presence.

 He says that when we receive one another in his name, we receive him.

 The Kingdom often comes in very small ways.

 A shared meal.

 A listening ear.

 A hospital visit.

 A handwritten note.

 A prayer offered quietly.

 Even, Jesus says, a cup of cold water.

 Not because the water is extraordinary, but because love has transformed an ordinary act into something sacramental.

 That is deeply Episcopal.

 We believe that ordinary things become bearers of extraordinary grace.

 Water becomes the washing of new birth.

 Bread and wine become the means by which Christ feeds his people.

 Human beings, with all our imperfections, become living members of Christ’s Body.

 Grace delights in ordinary things.

 That also means ordinary acts of kindness are never wasted.

 Most of us will never stand before kings as Jeremiah did.

 Most of us will never become famous for our faith.

 But every one of us has opportunities every day to receive Christ in another person and to make Christ present through simple acts of generosity.

 The world often measures importance by size, influence, or visibility.

Jesus measures faithfulness differently.

A cup of cold water.

A welcome.

An open door.

A place at the table.

These are not insignificant things.

They are the very building blocks of the Kingdom of God.

Jeremiah reminds us that faithfulness requires truth.

Jesus reminds us that truth must always be accompanied by hospitality.

The Church is called to hold both together.

We do not simply tell people what they want to hear.

Nor do we merely tell the truth without compassion.

We welcome.

We listen.

We tell the truth in love.

We bear one another’s burdens.

We offer grace freely because grace has first been offered to us.

Every Sunday we come to this altar empty-handed.

We do not earn our place here.

We are welcomed.

Welcomed by Christ.

Fed by Christ.

Sent out by Christ.

And then we become the people through whom Christ welcomes the world.

May we be known not for easy answers or comfortable religion, but for steadfast truth, generous hospitality, and quiet acts of mercy that reveal the presence of Christ in our midst

4 Pentecost

 

June 21, 2026

 Matthew 10:24-39

 + I say it so much, you’re all sick of it, no doubt.

 I say it so much you no doubt just roll your eyes.

 And maybe, considering all that has happened over the these last few years in our country, you might not even believe me.

 And no, I’m not talking about chickens roosting.

 I’m talking instead about the most repeated command we find in scripture.

 Remember what that is?

 Do not be afraid.

 Fear not.

 But, I will say this about that.

 I say it mention it so much because I truly, truly believe it.

 I do.

 I believe it because, I believe it is true.

 It is true.

 And we hear it again today, in our Gospel.

 Jesus doesn’t offer comfort in a way we usually find him offering comfort.  

 He doesn’t promise that following him will make life easier.

 He doesn't say doing so will be peaceful.

 He sure doesn’t say that we will get some kind of security from following him.  

 Instead, he tells his disciples another kind of truth.

 If people don’t get him, they probablya ren’t going to get us.

 If anyone misunderstands his message of of inclusive love, his understanding that we are all beloved children of a loving God, then guess what?

 We’re  going to be misunderstood too.

 In other words, don’t expect people to always “get it.”

 That may sound discouraging.

 But I think Jesus is actually offering us a strange kind of freedom.

 So much of our lives is spent trying to manage what other people think of us.

 We want to be liked.

 We want approval.

 We want to avoid conflict.

 Yet Jesus reminds us that our primary calling is not to be admired but to be faithful.

 “Do not be afraid,” he says three times.

 Do not be afraid of what others say about you.

 Do not be afraid of those who can wound the body.

 Do not be afraid of losing status or reputation.

 The God who knows every sparrow that falls and every hair upon your head knows you completely and loves you completely.

 The heart of discipleship is trust.

 And then Jesus gives us those difficult words about taking up the cross.

 We hear them so often that they lose their force.

 The cross was not a decoration or a religious symbol.

 It was an instrument of death.

 To take up the cross meant surrendering one’s own agenda and placing one’s life into God’s hands.

 That does not mean seeking suffering.

 It means loving truth more than comfort, loving Christ more than approval, loving the Kingdom more than our own security.

 In every generation, Christians must decide what comes first.

 Family loyalties, political loyalties, personal ambitions, cherished opinions—all of these have their place.

 But none of them can occupy the place that belongs to God alone.

 There’s a wonderful in our Gospel today

 “Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

 The more we make everything about the almighty me, the smaller our lives really become.

  The more we center our lives on God, the more fully alive we become.

 The fact is that we don’t have to any of this alone.  

 The One who calls us to take up the cross is also the same One who carries it on the path we’re following.

 The One who tells us not to be afraid is the Word of our God, the same God who holds us in the hand palm.

 We have nothing to fear.

 Be courageous.

 Hold to the truth.

 Doing so, how can we be anything but courageous?

 Amen.