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.

 

3 Pentecost

 

June 14, 2026

 +This past Thursday, I celebrated the 22^nd anniversary of my ordination to the Priesthood.

 It’s been an amazing journey, so far.

 At supper on Wednesday night, after our Eucharist, Stephanie asked me if I had any regrets.

 It’s always a good question.

 I said, I have no regrets about being a priest, or about my calling.

 But, I have many regrets about my relationships with others, especially those in authority over my career.

 I joked that I often felt like Don Quixote, fighting windmills.

 Also, on Wednesday night, we heard the Gospel reading for the feast of Barnabas.

 That Gospel was the Gospel read at my ordination.

 And it’s also the Gospel we just heard Deacon John read.

 It’s a good ordination Gospel.

 “Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness.”

 Ministry, then we realize,  begins with Jesus himself.

 Before there are apostles, before there are priests or deacons or bishops, before there is even a Church, there is Jesus walking back roads, entering forgotten villages, seeking out the sick, the grieving, the lonely, the lost.

 And Matthew tells us something striking.

 Jesus looked upon the crowds and “had compassion for them.”

 That also is ministry in a nutshell.

 The Greek word used here for compassion suggests being moved in the depths of one’s being.

 I hope I’m not being too graphic here, but it means to be moved in own’s bowels.

 This is not pity from a distance.

 It is not concern offered from a position of safety.

 It is divine love aching to encounter human suffering.

 Jesus sees people as they are.

 Exhausted, frightened, confused, mourning, depressed, anxious, beaten down, burdened, vulnerable.

 In other words, he sees us.

 The older I get, the more convinced I become that much of the spiritual life begins simply with allowing ourselves to be actually seen by God.

We spend enormous amounts of energy trying to appear stronger than we are, more faithful than we are, more certain than we are.

Yet Jesus looks beneath all of that.

He sees our fears, our regrets, our griefs, and our hidden wounds.

And he loves us anyway.

The Gospel says that the people were “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”

That description could easily be written about us.

Right here.

Right now.

Let’s face it, we are constantly seeking information.

We are starving for some elusive wisdom.

We are connected to everyone and often known by no one.

We carry anxieties that previous generations could scarcely even imagine.

We worry about the future of our nation, our communities, our families, our Church, and sometimes even our own souls.

And still Jesus looks upon the crowds with compassion.

And still Jesus sends laborers into the harvest.

Notice that Jesus does not tell the disciples to solve every problem.

He doesn’t ask them to save the world.

He just asks them to go.

To go where people are hurting.

To go where hope has grown thin.

To go where the Kingdom of God needs to be announced once again and again.

 And the disciples themselves are not exactly impressive by any sense fo the word.

 What are they?

 They’re fishermen.

 They’re tax collectors.

 They’re ordinary people with ordinary limitations.

 One of them ius going to deny Jesus.

 Three times.  

 One of them will actually betray him.

 Most are going to flee when everything gets really hard.

 Yet these are the people Jesus chooses.

 That, more than anything, should encourage every single one of us.

 God called a rebellious, oftentimes bitter poet to be a priest.

 And here he is!

 22 years later!

 For better or for worse.

 God’s work has never depended upon perfect people.

 It’s always depended on willing people.

 When I think back to my ordination, that perhaps is what stands out most clearly.

 I knew when I was ordained I was not a perfect person.

 I knew I had some inadequacies.

 But the priesthood really drives home those inadequacies.

 Every priest discovers sooner or later that they cannot heal every wound, answer every question, fix every broken thing.

 But, then, that has never been the point.

 What is the point?

 The point is. . . faithfulness.

 Real faithfulness.

 The point is. . . .just showing up.

 The point is being willing to stand where Jesus places us and to do what Jesus gives us to do.

 And let’s be clear----

 that calling belongs not only to priests or deacons or bishops.

 Oh no.  

 The mission we hear Jesus give today in our Gospel reading belongs to all of us who follow Jesus.

 Every baptized person is called to embody the compassion of Christ in this the world.

 To be Christ to those who need Christ.

 To embody Christ in very being.

 How do we do that?

 For some, it’s through preaching.

 For others, it’s through teaching.

 Others, it’s through caregiving.

 Or chaplaincy.

 Or just plain friendship.

 For some, it’s through intercessory prayer.

 For many, it’s through acts of quiet kindness and love that no one else ever notices.

 The Kingdom happens not only through great achievements but through all those little acts of true faithfulness offered up and outward every day.

 Jesus tells the disciples: “Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment.”

 In other words, share what you have been given.

 That is the essence of what it means to follo0w Jesus, of being ministers of the Most High God.

 We don’t have to manufacture some kind of grace.

 We don’t have to create some kind of hope.

 We don’t have to force forgiveness.

 We simply pass on what God has first given to us.

 We love because we have been loved.

 We forgive because we have been forgiven.

 We show mercy because mercy has been shown to us.

 As I look back on these 22 years and think about our Gospel reading for today, I find myself truly gratitude.

 Grateful for the people who have walked with me so far and helped shape my faith.

 Grateful for the privilege of standing at altars and baptismal fonts, and hospital bedsides and gravesides.

 Grateful for moments of great joy and truly deep sorrow shared with you---God’s loved people.

 And above all, grateful for a God whose compassion never ends.

 Let’s face it.

 The harvest is still plentiful.

 The world is still hungry for real hope.

 People are still searching for meaning, for forgiveness, for belonging.

 People are still searching and yearning for God.

 And, for all of those people, Jesus is still sending us, his disciples, into the world.

  Not because we’re perfect.

 Not because we’re without flaws.

 Not because we’re sufficient.

 But because God’s mercy is.

 Amen.