Let Mutual Love Continue

A Sermon for the Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 17C)
August 31, 2025

Texts: Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 and Luke 14:1, 7-14

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I have a friend from seminary who’s now a priest in the Episcopal Church. One day, someone came up to him and asked him, “Why go to church?”

I’ll never forget his answer.

It wasn’t a long, theological explanation.

He just said, “Sometimes you need someone to show up at your door with a casserole.”

And he’s right.

Church isn’t just about Sunday worship or beautiful prayers.

It’s about people who show up when life is hard. It’s about having a family to lean on—especially in times like these.

Because these past couple of weeks have been tough.

I’ve felt it, and I know many of you have, too.

Our dear friends, Johny and Sandra Odom, lost their daughter, Jenny, this past week. She left behind a loving husband and three wonderful children, including our beloved Maci, who watches over our children in the nursery.

We had a beautiful memorial service for Jenny yesterday at her church in Red Level.

Our dear sister in Christ, Joanne Boswell—mother of Debbie Grimes—is with God now.

I was with Joanne and Debbie and their family on Tuesday afternoon, as we gathered around Joanne’s bedside in the hospital and prayed Last Rites together.

It was a beautiful and tender moment, and I know it’s what Joanne would have wanted.

And a little over a week ago, our former rector at St. Mary’s, Mother Cindy, died unexpectedly and entered into the nearer presence of God.

She touched the lives of so many of us here, and countless others in this community and beyond. She was a faithful priest, a dear friend, and she will be deeply missed.

I don’t name these losses to open fresh wounds.

I name them because they are real, because they are heavy on our hearts, and because this is what it means to be church—we hold these things before God together.

We don’t walk through them alone.

I’ll be honest.

There’ve been moments this past week when it felt overwhelming, like the grief was piling up faster than I could catch my breath.

Phone call after phone call. Email after email. Services to plan, volunteers to line up, prayers to offer.

It’s been a lot to take in at one time.

And yet—in the midst of all this sadness—I’ve also witnessed something holy.

I’ve seen people step up and volunteer to serve, to bring meals, to sit quietly with those who are hurting, to simply show up and pray.

I’ve seen people drive to and from Birmingham to celebrate the life of a friend and former priest and offer condolences to a grieving family.

Many of those people are here today, and I want to say, “Thank you.”

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for being present.

Thank you for doing all the little things I don’t even know about.

In these small but powerful ways, you’ve been embodying the words of Scripture we heard earlier this morning in our lesson from Hebrews:

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality.”

That phrase, “Let mutual love continue,” has stayed with me all week. 

It’s short. Simple. Easy to remember.

But it’s also powerful.

In fact, I want us to hold onto it as a kind of refrain this morning—as a touchstone for our life together in this moment of grief and hope.

So, if you don’t remember anything else I say, I want you to remember this: Let mutual love continue.

Let’s say it together: Let mutual love continue.

The passage we heard this morning from Hebrews comes at the very end of the letter.

We don’t know who exactly wrote Hebrews, but we do know it was written to an early group of Jewish Christians who were tired, discouraged, and struggling to keep their faith. 

They were facing pressure from the culture around them, and some were even tempted to turn away from their faith in Christ.

The whole letter—from beginning to end—is a reminder that Jesus is worth holding onto—that he is greater than the angels, greater than Moses, greater than the sacrifices and rituals of the old covenant.

And when you get to the last chapter of Hebrews, the author gets practical:

Here’s how you live, here’s how you keep the faith, here’s how you care for one another.

And it begins right here in our lesson this morning:

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

For me, the word that really stands out in this passage is “hospitality.”

Now, normally, when we think about hospitality, we think about someone who gives it and someone who receives it—a host and a guest.

But, in Scripture, it’s never one-sided.

It’s not just about the host giving and the guest receiving. Both are important, and both are blessed in the exchange.

And that’s exactly what Hebrews is pointing to.

Hospitality isn’t just about setting out a nice table or offering someone a comfortable chair or holding the door open for someone.

It’s about opening your life—your time, your resources, your heart—to another person and being blessed in the process.

It’s about making room for others, seeing them as a guest of God.

It’s about treating the stranger not with suspicion, but as if they might be an angel in disguise.

That’s a radical, risky kind of hospitality—the kind that Jesus calls us to.

And it’s the kind of hospitality I’ve seen in you—especially over this past week.

Every time you’ve delivered a meal, or written a card, or shown up to a funeral, you’ve been practicing hospitality.

You’ve been saying to those who grieve, “You are not alone. You are loved. And you don’t have to carry this burden by yourself.”

And in that love—in that hospitality—you’ve been living out the command: Let mutual love continue.

In our Gospel reading today from Luke, we heard the Parable of the Wedding Banquet, the one where Jesus says, “When you are invited, don’t sit down at the place of honor, but take the lowest place.”

At first, it might seem like a lesson in manners.

But, it’s more than that.

It’s really about humility.

It’s about remembering that the Kingdom of God doesn’t work like the kingdoms of this world.

The world tells us to climb higher, to seek places of honor, to claim what’s rightfully ours.

But Jesus flips the script.

He says the guest who humbles himself is the one who is honored.

The one who takes the lower place is the one who’s lifted up.

C.S. Lewis said it this way: “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less.”

In other words, humility isn’t about denying your worth or pretending you don’t matter.

It’s about turning your gaze outward—making room for others, giving attention to their needs, and finding joy in lifting them up.

That sounds a lot like hospitality, does’t it?

It sounds a lot like what I’ve seen in this parish—people setting aside their own comfort to care for others, people showing up without needing recognition, people making room for one another in the midst of grief—simply because it’s the loving thing to do.

It’s humility and hospitality, woven together by one simple refrain: Let mutual love continue.

If you want another way to think about it, it’s also what we practice every time we gather at this table.

In the Eucharist, we practice mutual love.

Christ is both the host and the guest.

He welcomes us to feast at God’s Table and pours out upon us the gift of grace.

And at the same time, he makes his home within us. We welcome Jesus into our hearts and carry him with us wherever we go.

At this table, the proud are humbled and the humble are lifted up.

Here, the hungry are fed, and the grieving are comforted.

And from here, we’re sent back out into the world to extend the same love and welcome we’ve received.

So in our grief, in our service, in our worship, let us hold fast to these words. Let them be our touchstone, our anchor, our calling: Let mutual love continue.

When sorrow weighs heavy on our hearts and we start to feel overwhelmed or afraid, let mutual love continue.

When meals are shared and prayers are offered with those who grieve, let mutual love continue.

When we gather at the table of our Lord, let mutual love continue.

When we step back into the world, carrying both our grief and our hope, may those words go with us still: Let mutual love continue.

Because it’s in that love—in mutual, humble, hospitable love—that we find Christ present with us.

And that’s what will carry us through.

So, say it with me again: Let mutual love continue.

Amen.