A Place In the Vineyard

A Sermon for the Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 20, Year A)
September 20, 2026

Text: Matthew 20:1-16

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.

There are some parables of Jesus that are easier for us to hear than others. We understand what Jesus is trying to teach us, and we’re right there with him.

And then there are parables like the one we hear this morning that make us a little uncomfortable.

Because if we’re being honest, there’s something about this story that doesn’t seem quite fair.

Jesus tells his disciples about a landowner who goes out early in the morning to hire people to work in his vineyard. He finds some workers, agrees to pay them the usual daily wage, and sends them out to work.

A few hours later—around nine o’clock—he goes out again and finds more people who need work. So he sends them into the vineyard, too.

Then he goes out again at noon.

And again at three.

And then again—around five o’clock—he goes out when there’s hardly any time left in the work day.

Each time he goes out, he finds people who haven’t been hired yet, and he says basically the same thing: “You also go into the vineyard.”

Then, at the end of the day, the landowner gathers all the workers together and pays them.

And that’s when things get interesting.

The people who arrived at five o’clock—who had only worked for about an hour—receive a full day’s wage.

So naturally, the people who’ve been there the longest get excited. They probably think to themselves, “If they got that much, imagine what we’re going to get.”

But when their turn comes, they receive the same amount as everyone else. And they’re not happy about it.

And I have to admit, I understand where they’re coming from.

They worked all day. They did most of the work. And these other people showed up at the last minute and received exactly the same thing.

It doesn’t seem fair, does it?

But I wonder if sometimes we get so focused on the workers in this story—who worked the longest and who received what—that we miss out on the person Jesus really wants us to notice.

That’s the landowner.

There’s something remarkable going on with the landowner.

He doesn’t just go out once looking for workers.

He goes out again and again looking for people to work in the vineyard.

And if we see the landowner as an image of God, then maybe Jesus is trying to tell us something important about who God is.

God never stops calling people into the vineyard. God never stops calling people to follow the way of Jesus and to work for the building up of his kingdom.

That invitation began a long time ago.

Jesus called disciples like Peter and Andrew and James and John.

“Follow me,” he said, and they did.

Then eventually, others joined them.

Then more came after that.

And through the centuries, generations of Christians have followed.

Until finally—somewhere along the way—someone told us about Jesus and invited us to follow.

The same thing is true about St. Mary’s.

None of us started this church. None of us started the work that God has been doing here since the 1940s.

Generations of people were worshiping and praying and loving their neighbors through this parish long before most of us ever walked through those doors.

Some of you have been part of St. Mary’s for decades.

Others have only been here a short time.

But every one of us stepped into something that was already happening long before we arrived.

And one day, our chapter in the story of St. Mary’s will be over.

Someone else will sit in our pew.

Someone else will serve at the altar.

Someone else will prepare the meals and teach the children and visit the sick and sing in the choir and serve on the vestry and do all the other things that make up the life and ministry of this parish.

Because, like I mentioned in my sermon last week, this church doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to God.

And part of our responsibility here is to make room for the people who will come after us—to invite others to join us in ministry.

As your priest, I see it all the time.

I’ve watched people come into this community who were new and weren’t quite sure where they fit in or what they had to offer.

And then someone invited them to get involved.

Maybe they stopped at a table during a Ministry Fair. Or maybe they had a conversation with someone who was already involved in a ministry and that person said, “Come and join us.”

And they started to notice that they had gifts to offer as well.

They found things they enjoyed doing and formed relationships with new friends.

And before long, they weren’t simply attending St. Mary’s anymore.

They had become part of the ministry of this church.

Sometimes all it takes is an invitation.

That’s what the landowner does in our parable this morning.

He goes out. He meets people who are looking for work. And he says: “You also go into the vineyard.”

There’s a place for you here.

I think that’s something we all need to hear.

Because sometimes we assume ministry is for other people.

It’s for the people who’ve been here the longest or the people who already know how everything works.

Or maybe we think ministry is only for the people who have their lives figured out or people who are more faithful than we are.

But if you don’t hear anything else from my sermon this morning, please hear this: there is no pre-requisite for serving God.

God meets us where we are and calls us all to work in the vineyard.

Whether you’ve been here thirty years or thirty minutes, there’s a place for you at St. Mary’s to discover how God is calling you to serve.

But, of course, that still leaves us with the uncomfortable part of Jesus’ story. Because at the end of the day, everyone gets paid the same.

And the people who’ve worked the longest don’t like it.

But we should remember something about the beginning of the story. The landowner hasn’t cheated anyone.

He gives them exactly what he promised. Their problem isn’t really with what they received. It’s what everyone else received.

They see the landowner’s generosity toward those who arrived later, and suddenly what seemed fair that morning no longer seems fair at all.

In this story, Jesus isn’t talking about wages. He’s talking about grace.

Because grace isn’t something God gives us according to how much we deserve or how much we try to earn.

Grace isn’t a paycheck for doing hard work.

It’s a gift.

We don’t accumulate more of God’s love because we’ve been Christians longer or because we’ve served on more committees or volunteered more of our time or given more money.

God’s grace is freely given.

And that means the work we do can never be transactional.

We don’t serve God so that God will love us more. We serve because God already loves us more than we can possibly imagine.

We don’t serve in order to earn God’s grace. We serve because we’ve already received it.

That’s why everything we do in service to God and others—whether it’s volunteering our time at Rice and Beans or serving in worship on Sunday morning—should be done with a spirit of gratitude and thanksgiving.

Later this morning, after worship, we’ll be having our annual Ministry Fair.

When you walk into the Parish Hall, you’ll see tables and displays set up around the room representing many of the different ministries that make up the life of our church.

And yes, there will be opportunities to sign up and volunteer.

But what I hope you’ll see this morning at the Ministry Fair is something more than just a recruitment drive.

I hope you’ll see it as a sign that ministry is happening all the time here at church, and there are so many opportunities to serve.

Because church is more than just what happens here on Sunday mornings. We don’t come here one a week, spend an hour with God, and then put our faith away until next Sunday.

What we do here prepares us for what we do out there.

We hear the Word of God. We pray. We confess our sins. We gather around the table and receive the Body and Blood of Christ. And then we’re sent out.

Ministry doesn’t end on Sunday mornings. It’s where ministry begins.

There are plenty of ways to serve God during worship, and all of that’s important. But the ministry of this church continues throughout the week.

It happens when hungry people are fed or when someone who is sick or homebound receives a visit.

It happens when children and young people learn about the love of God and are reminded that God is always with them.

Ministry happens when someone prepares a meal or washes dishes.

It happens when people gather to make prayer shawls or when people donate coats and blankets for those in need.

All of that is ministry.

So when you walk into the Parish Hall this morning and see all those tables set up, I want you to think about our Gospel lesson for this morning.

Every table—every display—represents some little corner of the vineyard that God is calling us to tend.

And the invitation is open to everyone: “Come and join us.”

Come and see what God is doing in and through this church.

Come and discover the gifts God has given you.

Come and find your place in ministry.

Or maybe you’re already involved in several ministries and your call for today is to invite someone new to join us in the work that God has given us to do.

That’s what the landowner does.

Early in the morning, he goes out and looks for people to tend the vineyard. And then again and again, he goes out. Still looking, still inviting.

Because there’s still work to be done.

There are still people to be welcomed.

There are still gifts waiting to be discovered.

That invitation began long before us and will continue long after we’re gone.

But for this moment, this is our part of the vineyard—our part of God’s Kingdom—to tend.

So whether you’ve been here for decades or you’re brand new to our church, hear the invitation again:

God is calling people to work in the vineyard.

And there’s room for you, too.

Amen.

We Belong to Christ

A Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19, Year A)
September 13, 2026

Text: Romans 14:1-12

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.

From Paul’s letter to the Romans: “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”

These words from Paul express something about what it means to be the Church. We don’t exist because we all think alike or have everything figured out. We exist because we belong to Christ—and because we belong to Christ, we belong to one another.

Many of you have heard at least some of the story of how I found my way into the Episcopal Church. But some of you haven’t.

And since today is Come and See Sunday, I wanted to share that story with you again—along with some of the things I love most about the Episcopal Church.

In my junior year of studying music at Auburn, a fellow member of the Auburn University Concert Choir told me that his church was looking for a bass to sing in the student choir, and he asked me if I knew anyone who might be interested.

It was an Episcopal church, and the members of the choir received a small stipend for singing each week during the service.

I had never even heard of the Episcopal Church. But earning a little extra money each week and getting connected with a church sounded appealing. So I told him I was interested.

Chelsea and I went together that first Sunday to St. Dunstan’s in Auburn.

I sang in the choir, and she sat in the congregation. And it turned out to be one of the best decisions we ever made.

The worship was very different. The prayers and hymns were unfamiliar, and there were moments during the service when everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do while I was completely lost.

But even then, there was something about the community that felt familiar. It felt like coming home.

The people of St. Dunstan’s showed a genuine love for one another. People from all backgrounds and walks of life were welcomed into the community.

We didn’t feel as though we had to understand everything or believe the same way as everyone else did.

They simply opened their arms and welcomed us in.

Week after week, we worshiped, broke bread together, and offered our prayers for one another and for the world.

St. Dunstan’s also taught me that Church isn’t just about what happens on Sunday morning. It’s where we are nourished by the sacraments, formed through our common life, and strengthened to follow Jesus in the world.

It’s also where I came to know my good friend and mentor, Father Wells, where I was baptized and later confirmed, and where the first seeds of my calling to ordained ministry were planted.

The people of St. Dunstan’s changed the course of my life, and I’ll always be grateful for the love and hospitality they showed us.

That experience shaped what I love about the Episcopal Church and what I hope people encounter here at St. Mary’s.

If you’re visiting with us today for the first time, welcome. You may not know what to expect. You may not know when to stand, sit, or kneel during worship, or even what you believe about God. And that’s okay.

Because the Church was never meant to be a place for people who know everything. It’s a community of people learning together what it means to follow Jesus.

That’s what our lesson from Romans this morning is all about.

Paul is describing the kind of community where people from very different backgrounds are learning how to cooperate and live together as one Church.

You have to remember that the early Church in Rome included both Jewish and Gentile Christians. Jewish Christians had been raised within the covenant traditions of Israel. Practices involving food and special days of observance were part of their cultural and religious identity and how they honored God.

Gentile Christians, on the other hand, had not grown up with those traditions, and many believed that life in Christ freed them from those practices.

Now these two different groups were trying to come together as one Church. They worshiped the same Lord but disagreed about what following Jesus should look like.

The problem was that those disagreements were starting to tear the Church apart. They were judging one another and beginning to believe that faithfulness required everyone else to see things exactly as they did.

So Paul writes, “Welcome those who are weak in faith, but not for the purpose of quarreling over opinions.”

Paul wasn’t saying that what they believe doesn’t matter. He wasn’t asking them to pretend their differences weren’t real. Instead, he reminds them that something deeper holds them together.

“Whether we live or whether we die,” Paul writes, “we are the Lord’s.”

We don’t have to agree about everything to belong to one another because, first of all, we belong to Christ.

That’s one of the things I’ve come to love most about the Episcopal Church.

There are many others—and since today is Come and See Sunday, I’d like to share some of those with you.

I love that there’s room here for questions.

We’re allowed to wrestle with our doubts without feeling shame or that we’re somehow being unfaithful. We can come to church without having to check our brains at the door. Our minds are gifts from God, and we believe that honest questions can lead us more deeply into faith.

I love that when we say “all are welcome,” we mean that ALL are welcome, with no exceptions. And not only that, but you’re invited to bring all of who you are.

God sees you, and God knows you. You don’t have to hide the complicated parts of your life or the parts that no one else understands. You can bring your faith and your doubts, your joys and your sorrows, your hopes and your fears. God meets us where we are—not where we pretend to be.

I love the beauty and reverence of our worship and the way our prayers connect us with something much greater than ourselves.

These prayers have carried generations of Christians through every season of life. Now they carry us. Our worship is rooted in ancient tradition, but it’s still very relevant to our lives. Each week, we gather to worship, and we bring with us our gratitude, our fears, and our hope for the world. All of it’s gathered into prayer.

I love that we can disagree and still worship together.

That doesn’t mean our disagreements don’t matter. It means we don’t have to agree on everything in order to belong. We don’t gather because we all think alike. We gather because we belong to Christ. We carry different experiences, opinions, and beliefs. But, we listen to the same Scriptures, speak the same prayers, and kneel at the same Altar. We find unity—not in thinking exactly alike—but in turning together toward God.

And I love that our faith is incarnational—which means embodied in the way we live and move and have our being.

Faith isn’t just about what we believe or what we express with our words. It’s about how we live. In worship, we stand, kneel, and sing together. We exchange the peace. We hold out our hands and receive the Body of Christ so that we can go into the world and become the Body of Christ.

The grace we receive here becomes food for the hungry, companionship for the lonely, care for those who are suffering, welcome for the stranger, and love for our neighbors. At the end of every service, we are sent out with words like, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” It’s a reminder that, even though our worship has ended, our service continues.

Before we’re Episcopalians, before we’re members of St. Mary’s, before we agree or disagree about anything, we belong to Christ. And because we belong to Christ, we belong to one another.

The Episcopal Church isn’t perfect, and neither is St. Mary’s. Sometimes we fall short of our call to walk in love. But our failures don’t change who God is calling us to become.

Christian community gives us people who will pray with us when we can’t find the words, rejoice with us when life is good, and sit with us when life falls apart. It also gives us a place where our gifts can be discovered and offered for others.

That kind of belonging has the power to change the direction of a life. I know because it changed mine.

Years ago, I walked through the doors of an Episcopal church because someone invited me to sing in their choir. I had no idea where that small invitation would lead.

But Chelsea and I found people who welcomed us. We found room to wrestle with our doubts and ask questions. We found a  way of worshipping God that spoke to our lives and a community that allowed us to belong while we were still finding our way.

Most importantly, through all of those things, we found Jesus.

And that’s what I hope every person finds here at St. Mary’s. If you’re visiting today—or if you’ve been coming for a while but still consider yourself new—you don’t need perfect faith, and you don’t need to have everything figured out. You’re invited to pray, ask questions, and discover alongside us what it means to follow Jesus.

And for those of us who already call St. Mary’s home, today is a reminder that welcome is more than just something we say.

It’s a way of life.

It means making room for people as someone once did for us—including those who are different than we are. It means listening before judging and inviting others to share in our worship, ministries, and common life together.

It means remembering that this community doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to God, and we belong to Christ.

And anyone Christ brings through these doors is someone we’re called to receive with love.

That’s the Church I discovered all those years ago at St. Dunstan’s.

And that’s the Church I believe God is calling us to become more fully together.

Not a church with all the answers, but a church willing to ask honest questions.

Not a church where everyone agrees, but a church gathered around the same Lord.

Not a church filled with perfect people, but a church where we can experience the transforming love of God in Christ.

Here, we can bring all of who we are.

Here, we are nourished by the grace of God.

And from here, we are sent to embody that grace in the world.

So whoever you are and wherever you are on your journey with Christ, you are welcome.

There’s a place for you here at St. Mary’s.

Amen.

Another Way

A Sermon for the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 18, Year A)
September 6, 2026

Text: Matthew 18:15-20

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.

There are some passages in the Gospels where it’s difficult to understand exactly what Jesus is asking us to do. Our lesson for today isn’t one of them.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus gives his disciples a very simple set of instructions. If another member of the Church sins against you, go and speak to that person privately. If the two of you can’t resolve the matter, take one or two others with you. If the problem still can’t be resolved, bring it before the whole church.

The “what” of Jesus’ teaching is easy to understand.

The deeper question—and the one I’ve been asking myself a lot this past week—is “why”.

Why does Jesus care so much about how to deal with conflict?

Why does he give his disciples this carefully thought out process for addressing hurt or wrongdoing?

I think the answer has to do with the kind of life Jesus was calling his disciples to live.

Jesus didn’t call people to follow him as individuals. He called them into a community. He brought together people who would pray together, eat together, learn together, serve together, and share in his ministry.

Jesus knew that this way of life could never be lived alone. Following him would require the gifts, faith, strength, and companionship of other people.

That’s certainly been true in my own life.

Some of the greatest gifts I’ve received through the Church have come through Christian community: long-lasting friendships, people who’ve become like family, and the privilege of working alongside others in ministry.

And we see that kind of shared life all the time here at St. Mary’s.

When we feed the marching band before an away game, like we did recently, it takes many hands to prepare and serve the food.

Our Rice and Beans Ministry and our Community Dinners at Thanksgiving and Christmas depend upon people cooking, packing meals, setting up, and delivering food.

The Bayou Feast we do each year would be impossible without the whole parish working together to sell tickets and prepare for the event.

The same is true every Sunday morning.

Worship is the work of many people working together: the Altar Guild, the choir, our wonderful and talented organist, the ushers, the readers, the acolytes, and all those who quietly take care of details behind the scenes that most people never even notice.

That spirit of cooperation is one of the things I appreciate most about our church. This is a congregation whose members know how to work together.

That doesn’t mean we always agree or that we never disappoint one another. It means that people here understand that the life and ministry of the Church belong to all of us.

Healthy churches are built by many hands.

But whenever human beings live and work together, conflict is inevitable.

Eventually, we hurt one another. We say something we didn’t really mean. We fail to listen. We make decisions that other people disagree with. We do something that causes hurt feelings, sometimes without realizing it and sometimes because we’ve behaved wrongly.

A healthy church isn’t a church where conflict never happens.

A healthy church is one that’s learned how to deal with conflict honestly and graciously.

Conflict within a church can be especially painful because a church is more than just a civic organization. It‘s a community of faith. In many ways, it’s like a family. We pray together. We stand with each other at baptisms, weddings, and funerals. We come to the altar together to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

When a relationship within the Church is wounded, that wound rarely affects only the two people involved. As St. Paul often reminds us, we are one body. When one part of the body is hurting, the whole body feels it.

That’s why Jesus begins today with a very simple instruction: go and speak directly to the person who’s hurt you.

Not to everyone else.

Not behind their back.

Go to that person privately and tell the truth.

There’s grace in the privacy of that first conversation. Jesus is protecting that person from unnecessary shame. He’s creating space for honesty, repentance, and forgiveness before the conflict spreads through the whole Church.

It’s not meant to be an attack. The goal isn’t to win an argument or prove that one person is right and the other is wrong. Jesus says that if the person listens, “you have regained that one.”

That’s the whole reason for this process: to regain a brother or sister, to heal what’s been broken, and to restore a relationship when restoration is possible.

This passage isn’t about dividing the Church into sinners and saints. If it were, none of us would know which side of the line to stand on.

It’s an acknowledgment that all of us will eventually fall short of our call to love one another, and all of us, at some point, will need someone to tell us the truth when we’ve caused them pain or suffering.

What Jesus describes in this passage is a simple process, but it’s not easy.

Most of us don’t enjoy conflict. I know I don’t.

We would rather avoid an uncomfortable conversation, bury our resentment, or convince ourselves that the problem isn’t that important.

And when someone tells us we’ve hurt them, often our first instinct is to defend ourselves.

We say things like, “That’s not what I meant.”

Or “You misunderstood me.”

Or “You hurt me, too.”

We try to explain ourselves when what the other person really needs is for us to acknowledge the pain we caused.

In our Rector’s Forum last Sunday, we talked about the things we sometimes need to say “no” to in order to say “yes” to God.

Maybe one of those things is trying to protect ourselves from ever having to admit that we were wrong.

Sometimes following Jesus means saying no to our pride, no to our defensiveness, and no to our need to have the last word.

Sometimes it means saying “I was wrong, and I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

But Jesus is realistic.

Not every conversation will immediately lead to reconciliation. Some people will refuse to listen. Some will deny the harm they’ve caused. Some patterns of behavior are so destructive that appropriate boundaries or even a period of separation may be necessary.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending that harmful behavior is okay.

Reconciliation can’t be forced, and trust may take a long time to rebuild.

And in some circumstances, it may never be safe or possible to restore a relationship to what it once was.

Jesus doesn’t ask us to deny the truth for the sake of keeping the peace.

He gives the Church a way to be honest, to seek accountability, to protect those who’ve been harmed, and to seek reconciliation.

Eventually, Jesus says that a person who refuses to listen should be regarded “as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

That sounds harsh at first—like a command to cast the person out. But we should remember how Jesus himself treated Gentiles and tax collectors.

He continued to reach out.

He told them the truth. He didn’t approve of everything they did, but also didn’t declare them beyond the reach of God’s mercy. He continued to offer an invitation to repentance, healing, and new life.

Sometimes a boundary has to be drawn. Sometimes reconciliation isn’t possible right away. But grace doesn’t require us to lock the door and throw away the key.

Grace leaves room for repentance. Grace keeps the door open for the possibility of healing.

And that may be one of the most important gifts the Church can offer the world right now.

We live in a time when people are quickly divided into one side or another.

We assume the worst about people who are different than we are.

We talk about people behind their back.

We publicly shame those who fail.

And we use disagreement as a way to put up walls between us.

Jesus calls his Church to walk a different path.

The Church’s witness isn’t that we never disagree. It’s not that we never hurt one another or that we somehow rise above all the struggles of human relationships.

Our witness is how we respond to each other when those things happen.

Because of Jesus, we can speak the truth without being cruel.

We can acknowledge wrongdoing without humiliation.

We can forgive without denying the harm that’s been done.

We can respect boundaries.

We can learn to heal wounded relationships when healing is possible.

St. Paul tells us in today’s reading from Romans that all the commandments are fulfilled in the words, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

We love each other because God first loved us.

We forgive because we’ve been forgiven.

We offer mercy because every one of us depends on God’s mercy.

That truth is woven into our worship.

Every Sunday, we confess our sins together. All of us acknowledge that we’ve sinned against God and our neighbors and that we need mercy and forgiveness.

Then we exchange the Peace. The Peace is more than a friendly greeting or a break before Communion.

It’s a sign of reconciliation.

Before we approach the Altar, we turn to each other and share the peace of Christ.

Then we gather at one Table—not because we all agree about everything, not because every relationship is perfect, and certainly not because any of us is worthy.

We gather because God invites us all to receive the gift of God’s grace.

When Jesus promises, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them,” he’s speaking directly to the difficult work of reconciliation.

Christ is present when two people sit down and have an honest conversation.

Christ is present when someone finds the courage to say, “You hurt me.”

Christ is present when another finds the humility to say, “I’m sorry.”

Christ is present when we start to forgive, when trust is slowly rebuilt, and even when boundaries must be drawn while the hope of healing remains.

This is difficult and holy work. But we don’t do it alone. Christ is among us.

In a world that would rather be divided than healed, the Church is called to walk a different way and to show the world what reconciliation looks like.

Not perfectly, but faithfully.

We tell the truth.

We seek healing.

We leave room for reconciliation, when it’s possible.

We protect those who’ve been harmed.

We forgive because we’ve been forgiven.

And we trust that, through it all, Christ is with us.

Not just for our own sake, but so that our life together may be a sign to the world—a sign that the love of God has the power to change lives and draw us into deeper relationship with God and each other.

Amen.

Follow Me

A Sermon for the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 17, Year A)
August 30, 2026

Text: Matthew 16:21-28

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.

If you’ve ever been to a baptism here at St. Mary’s or in any Episcopal church, you know that there are certain things to expect during the service. For example, there’s a moment in the liturgy when we ask the candidate for baptism a series of questions.

We call these the renunciations and affirmations.

Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?

Do you renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?

Do you renounce all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God?

And each time, the answer is the same:

I renounce them.

Then, the questions turn from what we’re leaving behind to what we’re taking on.

Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior?

Do you put your whole trust in his grace and love?

Do you promise to follow and obey him as your Lord?

And each time, the answer is, “I do.”

We renounce the evil powers of this world and all sinful desires that draw us from God’s love and we turn to Jesus and promise to follow and obey.

Those words are very familiar to most of us.

But did you know that Christians have been answering questions like these at baptism for more than seventeen hundred years?

The exact wording has changed over the centuries, of course, but the basic pattern is very similar: What do you renounce? Whom do you believe in? And whom will you follow?

And in the early Church, those questions weren’t answered only with words.

They also answered them with their bodies.

Imagine going back seventeen or eighteen hundred years ago.

It’s the night before Easter, and everyone is gathered for the Easter Vigil—the traditional time when candidates for baptism would be presented.

You’ve spent months—perhaps even years—preparing for this moment. And now, in the darkness of the Easter Vigil, you’re standing with others who are about to be baptized.

But before you go down in the water, you’re told to face west—the direction of the setting sun. The west represents darkness.

And facing west, you renounce Satan and the powers of evil.

In some parts of the Church, you might even stretch out your arms as you spoke the words—a physical way of rejecting the old life you were leaving behind.

Then you’re told to turn around.

You turn from the west toward the east—from the darkness toward the place where the sun will soon rise.

And facing that direction, you confess your faith in Jesus Christ.

Then you go down into the waters of baptism.

The whole thing is almost like a sermon preached with the body.

As if to say, “This is the way I was going. Now this is the way I choose to go.”

It’s a powerful image and I think a helpful reminder for all of us that getting baptized and becoming a Christian isn’t just about believing certain things about who Jesus is.

It’s about changing directions.

It’s about deciding whom we’re going to follow.

Will we choose to follow our own way or will we follow the way of Jesus?

And I think that’s exactly the question Jesus puts before Peter in our Gospel lesson this morning.

In my sermon last Sunday, I talked about how Peter got everything right.

Jesus asked the disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”

And Peter answered correctly: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus praised him and told him that he would be the rock on which he built his church.

But almost immediately, everything changes.

In our Gospel reading for today, we hear Jesus explaining to the disciples what he must go through.

He tells them that he must go to Jerusalem. That he will suffer. That he will be rejected and killed.

And that on the third day he will be raised.

But Peter doesn’t accept what Jesus has to say.

He takes Jesus aside and begins to rebuke him.

“God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.”

It’s obvious that Peter cares deeply for Jesus and doesn’t want to see any harm come to him.

But there’s more to it than that.

This wasn’t the plan he thought it would be.

This wasn’t what he or any of the disciples expected in the Messiah.

The Messiah was supposed to come and save them from oppression and restore the kingdom of Israel.

They were looking for a great warrior who would lead them in a fight, not someone who was getting ready to die.

So you can understand Peter’s reaction.

He was expecting a Messiah who would triumph over Rome—not one who would end up on a Roman cross.

In response to Peter, Jesus says to him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

Those are harsh words, and it’s easy to imagine that Jesus is casting Peter out, almost like saying, “Get away from me. I’ve had enough of you.”

But if we closely at the original Greek, a more helpful translation of that verse might be, “Get back in line.”

A disciple follows the teacher, not the other way around.

Peter’s problem is that he’s forgotten his place as a disciple.

He’s trying to impose his own will—his own plan, and in the process, he becomes a stumbling block for Jesus, an adversary to what God is trying to do.

And Jesus says, “No.”

Get back in line.

Remember your place.

Follow me.

Peter isn’t an evil person.

But he is resisting the way Jesus has chosen to walk—the way of the cross—the way of self-giving, sacrificial love.

Jesus tells him, “You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Peter wants Jesus to go his way and to be the Messiah he wants.

Jesus is calling Peter to trust him and to follow God’s plan.

That’s really what this Gospel is all about and where it meets us in our own lives.

Do we choose our own way and try to impose our will over God’s will?

Or do we trust and follow Jesus?

Jesus says it this way:

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

There it is again.

Follow me.

Get behind me.

Let me lead, and I’ll show you the way.

That reminds me of those ancient Christians waiting for baptism on the night before Easter.

Facing one direction.

Renouncing the evil powers of this world.

And then turning toward the light.

Friends, that turning doesn’t happen just once.

We only get baptized once.

But we spend the rest of our lives learning how to live more fully into our baptism.

That’s one of the reasons we often renew our Baptismal vows.

It’s not just something nice we do in church from time to time. We do it because we need to be reminded of who we are and who we’ve chosen to follow.

We do it because every day there are moments when we find ourselves standing exactly where Peter stood, faced with the choice of following our own way or the way of Jesus.

Paul gives us some good examples in our reading this morning from Romans.

Our way says, “Look out for yourself.”

The way of Jesus says, “Extend hospitality to strangers.”

Our way says, “If someone hurts you, hurt them back.”

The way of Jesus says, “Bless those who persecute you.”

Our way says, “Get even.”

The way of Jesus says, “Do not repay anyone evil for evil.”

Our way says, “Hate your enemies.”

The way of Jesus says, “If your enemies are hungry, feed them.”

Paul sums it all up when he writes: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

These may seem like small decisions. But over time, they determine the direction of our lives.

And in those moments, the question is the same:

Whom do we follow?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer once put it in very simple terms:

“Your ‘Yes’ to God demands your ‘No’ to all injustice, to all evil, to all lies, to all oppression and violation of the weak and the poor, to all godlessness and mocking of the holy. Your ‘Yes’ to God demands a brave ‘No’ to everything that will ever hinder you from serving God alone, whether it be your profession, your property, your house, your honor before the world. Faith means decision.”

I love that last line.

“Faith means decision.”

Maybe not one big decision all at once.

But a thousand small decisions made over a lifetime.

A thousand opportunities to say “no” to what draws us away from God and “yes” to what brings us closer to God.

There will be countless times when we realize that we’ve put ourselves and what we want in front of what God wants.

We start telling God where we think we should go instead of allowing him to lead us.

We start deciding what we think discipleship should look like instead of allowing him to form us.

We start setting our minds on human things rather than divine things.

But in those moments, Jesus doesn’t cast us aside.

He says, “Get back in line.”

Remember your place.

Follow me.

That’s what the Christian life looks like.

We renounce evil.

We turn toward the light.

And we follow the one leads us to abundant life with God.

And when we discover that we’ve started walking our own way again, by the grace of God, we turn back.

Back toward Jesus.

Back toward the way of the cross.

Back to the one who says to Peter, and to every one of us:

Get behind me.

And follow.

Amen.

Just You

A Sermon for The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 16, Year A)
August 23, 2026

Text: Matthew 16:13-20

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.

Earlier this year, I was wandering through a used bookstore when I came across a book by Nadia Bolz-Weber called Accidental Saints. Some of you may be familiar with Nadia. She’s a Lutheran pastor and author, and she’s probably not what you would expect when you hear the words “Lutheran pastor.”

She’s covered in tattoos. She’s very open about her complicated past, and she’s known for being pretty blunt and honest about her own struggles with faith.

I’d heard of the book before, and it was only a few dollars. So I picked it up, brought it home, and did what I often do with books I intend to read: I put it on the shelf.

And there it sat for several months.

Until recently, when I picked it back up and started reading.

And there’s one story in particular from the book I want to share with you this morning.

Several years ago, Nadia was invited to speak at a national youth gathering in New Orleans.

And it wasn’t just a youth retreat with fifty or sixty kids. We’re talking about tens of thousands of teenagers gathered inside the Superdome.

And at first, Nadia wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. When she was invited to speak, she said no.

She didn’t think she was the right person for the job. She didn’t think she knew how to talk to teenagers. And she certainly didn’t think she had anything to say that they would find meaningful.

The organizers asked her again, and she still said no.

But eventually, she agreed to do it.

And almost immediately, she began wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.

She asked people what they thought she should talk about. She bounced ideas off of trusted friends and family members.

Nothing seemed right.

And there was something else.

Not everyone was happy that Nadia Bolz-Weber had been invited to speak at the event.

Her story isn’t exactly neat and tidy. She had struggled with addiction. She had spent years away from the Church. Her path to becoming a pastor had been anything but ordinary.

And there were people who wondered whether someone with a story like hers was really the person who should be standing in front of thousands of teenagers talking about Jesus.

I imagine that only made the question in the back of her mind that much louder:

“What could someone like me possibly have to offer?”

But then something happened on the way to New Orleans.

On the flight there, Nadia was sitting next to a teenage girl named Chloe. Chloe had pink bangs, and she was quiet and kept mostly to herself.

And as they began to talk, Nadia discovered that Chloe knew something about what it was like to feel different—to feel like maybe she didn’t quite fit the mold of what other people expected her to be.

Nadia knew something about that, too, and as they talked, she began to realize something.

Maybe she didn’t need to figure out how to become the kind of person who could speak to thousands of teenagers.

Maybe the thing she had to offer was simply her own story.

Finally, the moment came.

Nadia walked onto that stage in the Superdome and looked out at thousands of young people.

And she told them the truth.

She told them about herself. About the ways she had struggled. About the mistakes she had made. About the ways her life hadn’t always followed the nice, straight path we imagine a Christian is supposed to follow.

She didn’t give them some polished version of herself.

She gave them the truth of who she was.

And somehow, God was at work in all of it.

The person who was convinced she had nothing to say to these teenagers connected with them in a way she never could have imagined.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that story this week—and about how easy it is to believe that we have to be the perfect Christian, or the perfect disciple, before God can really use us.

And I think our Gospel reading for this morning has something to teach us about that.

In our lesson from Matthew, Jesus asks the disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”

They give him the answers they’ve heard. Some say John the Baptist. Others say Elijah, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets.

But then Jesus makes the question personal.

“But who do you say that I am?”

Peter answers the question.

“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus responds, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah,” and then he says something extraordinary:

“You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.”

Of all the disciples, Peter is the one who first confesses Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of God.

If you know anything about Peter, you know he’s anything but the perfect disciple.

He isn’t a scholar or religious leader.

When Jesus meets him for the first time, he’s working as a fisherman with his brother Andrew when Jesus simply says, “Follow me.”

And Peter does.

From that point on, Peter follows Jesus faithfully—but not perfectly.

As we heard in our Gospel lesson a couple weeks ago, Peter is the one who sees Jesus walking across the water and actually has enough faith to climb out of the boat and walk toward him.

But then he notices the wind and waves. He becomes frightened and begins to sink.

“Lord, save me!” he says.

That’s Peter.

Faithful enough to climb out of the boat but frightened enough to doubt.

And perhaps the best example comes right after the story in today’s Gospel.

Peter has just answered correctly.

He says to Jesus, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus praises him and calls him the rock on which he’ll build his church.

But then, only a few verses later, Jesus begins explaining to the disciples that he must go up to Jerusalem, suffer, and die.

Peter pulls him aside and rebukes him.

And Jesus responds, “Get behind me, Satan.”

That’s quite a turn in the story.

One moment, he says to Peter, “On this rock I will build my church.”

A few verses later, he says, “Get behind me, Satan.”

And of course, much later in the Gospel, Peter says to Jesus that even if everyone else abandons him in his time of need, he will never leave him.

And we all know what happened there.

On the night when Jesus is arrested, Peter denies even knowing who Jesus is. Not once, but three times.

And yet this is the man Jesus chooses.

Because Jesus knows Peter.

He knows his courage and his fear.

His faith and his doubts.

He knows Peter will sometimes get things right and sometimes fall short.

And still Jesus looks at him and says:

I will use you to build my Church.

Not some future version of you.

Not the Peter who’s finally figured everything out.

Just you.

I wonder how many of us have a hard time believing that about ourselves.

Because it’s easy to fall in the trap of believing that God can only use us if we’re the perfect disciple.

We think to ourselves, “If I only knew the Bible better…”

Or “If I only prayed more…”

Or “If only my faith were stronger…”

Or “If only I hadn’t made those mistakes…”

Maybe then God could use me.

So we hold back.

Because somewhere deep inside of us is that same question Nadia was asking herself:

What could someone like me possibly have to offer?

And if you think priests and clergy are immune to that question, I’ve got something to tell you.

We aren’t.

There are moments in my own life—even after eleven years of being a priest—when I question myself and wonder what in the world God was thinking when he called me to this ministry.

But one of the amazing things about Scripture is that it’s filled with so many beautiful examples of how God calls imperfect people—like Peter—to do extraordinary things.

Throughout history, the Church has been filled with imperfect people. People who were courageous one moment and frightened the next. People who loved Jesus but also struggled to be faithful.

People like Peter and Nadia.

People like us.

And maybe that’s where God’s grace comes in.

God doesn’t expect us to be perfect.

God meets us where we are and begins working through us there.

God takes what we have to offer and does things with it that we never could’ve imagined.

That’s what Nadia discovered at that youth gathering all those years ago.

She thought she needed the perfect message or the perfect words.

But all she really needed was to be herself.

And God used it.

Some of the things she thought made her unqualified to speak were the things that allowed her to connect with those teenagers.

And I wonder if that’s sometimes true for us, too.

Maybe some of the things we wish we could erase from our past are the very things that allow us to recognize someone else’s pain.

Maybe our struggles have taught us compassion.

Maybe our failures have taught us humility.

Maybe the places where we’ve needed grace the most have become the places where we can offer grace to someone else.

God can use all of it.

When I hear Jesus say to Peter, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church,” I hear something wonderfully hopeful for all of us.

You don’t have to have everything figured out.

You don’t have to have the perfect words.

You don’t have to become some perfect version of yourself before God can work through you.

You just have to be willing to offer what you have.

Your gifts.

Your experiences.

Your story.

Your faith—even when it’s not perfect.

Your authentic self.

God is asking for you—just as you are.

Whatever you may think you have—or don’t have—to offer, you are enough.

Jesus looks at you just as he did with Peter and says, “I will use you.”

Not some future version of you.

Not the you who’s finally figured everything out.

Just you.

Amen.

Magnify

A Sermon for the Feast of St. Mary the Virgin (Transferred)
Sunday, August 16, 2026

Text: Luke 1:46-55

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’ve been thinking a lot about my friend, Salem, over the past couple of weeks.  Salem was a beloved priest in our diocese who served as priest-in-charge at St. Anna’s Episcopal Church in Atmore.

He passed away a few weeks ago after a long series of complications in the hospital.

Last Friday, a few of us from St. Mary’s who knew Salem drove down to Pensacola for his funeral at Christ Episcopal Church.

It was a beautiful service.

Bishop Russell was there to lead the service and to preach, and people came from all over the diocese. 

There were friends, family members, parishioners, and a great many clergy who had traveled from near and far to remember Salem, to give thanks for his life and ministry, and to commend him into the loving hands of God.

And as I sat there listening to the Bishop preach, I found myself thinking about the life Salem lived.

He had already lived a full life of service before he ever became a priest.

For many years, he practiced medicine in Brewton.

Then, after retiring from medicine, he eventually discerned a call to ordained ministry. He went through formation, was ordained, and served our diocese in many ways.

But Salem was also someone who loved God’s creation.

He had a tree farm outside Evergreen that he loved dearly. If you spent much time around Salem, it probably wasn’t long before he invited you to come out and see it. I think it was one of the places where he felt closest to God.

Over the past several years, he invited people from around the diocese to gather there during Easter season for a special service called Worship in the Woods. He wanted people to walk through that beautiful place and experience something of the wonder and beauty of God’s creation.

Eventually, Salem also built a chapel out there.

I had heard about it for some time, but I finally got to see it for myself this past January when our vestry went out to the tree farm for a retreat.

Salem and his wife, Dianne, welcomed us with the same hospitality with which they welcomed so many others. Their home, their land, their chapel—it was all something they were willing to share.

That was Salem.

On a personal level, I had the privilege of getting to know him a little better during his formation for the priesthood. In his final semester at the local school for ministry, I served as a sort of mentor for Salem.

He came here to St. Mary’s several times, and we had some wonderful conversations about ministry and priesthood and this strange and beautiful work to which God had called us.

Salem and I shared a certain tendency. We both like to stay busy.

And I remember telling him more than once, “Salem, you’ve got to slow down! You can’t do everything. You don’t want to burn yourself out!”

Which is advice I occasionally need to hear myself.

Salem even preached here at St. Mary’s. He became friends with a number of people in this parish.

And whenever I saw him, he almost always greeted me the same way. He would give me a big hug and say, “Hey, brother. How are you?”

And I loved that.

Because when Salem said it, you knew he meant it. He made you feel like he was genuinely happy to see you. He made you feel welcomed and cared for, which is a rare gift.

And I’ve been thinking about that a lot these past couple of weeks.

I’ve been thinking about all the things Salem did in his life. He was a healer and pastor and lover of souls. He cared for the land. He welcomed people to his home. He preached the Gospel, not just with his words but with the way he lived his life.

And it occurs to me that there’s a word in our Gospel lesson for today that describes something of the life Salem tried to live.

Magnify.

Today is St. Mary’s Day—the day when we celebrate the Feast of St. Mary the Virgin, our patron saint, and mark the beginning of a new program year here at church, and in our Gospel lesson we hear perhaps the most famous words ever spoken by Mary:

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

Those words come from a particular moment in Luke’s Gospel.

The angel Gabriel has come to Mary with amazing news: she will conceive and bear a son, and through this child God will do something extraordinary.

Mary says “yes” to God, even though she can’t possibly know everything that her “yes” will require.

Then she goes to visit her relative Elizabeth, who is also expecting a child.

When Mary arrives and greets Elizabeth, the child she’s carrying—John the Baptist—leaps for joy in her womb, and Elizabeth recognizes that something remarkable is happening.

She blesses Mary and the child she’s carrying.

And then Mary sings her song:

“My soul magnifies the Lord.”

I love that word: magnify.

To magnify something doesn’t mean we change the thing itself.

A magnifying glass doesn’t make an object larger. It helps us see more clearly what’s already there.

And that’s exactly what Mary does.

Mary doesn’t make God greater than he already is. She helps us see the glory of God more clearly.

She doesn’t bring attention to herself. She turns our attention toward God.

God has looked with favor upon the lowliness of his servant. God has done great things. God has lifted up the lowly, filled the hungry with good things, and remembered his promises of mercy.

Mary’s Song points beyond herself and helps us see what God has done and what God continues to do.

In a way, Mary shares something with the child who leapt in Elizabeth’s womb that day.

John the Baptist would spend his whole ministry pointing beyond himself toward Jesus.

Later he would say, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

Mary says, “My soul magnifies the Lord.”

John says, “He must increase.”

They both know what their lives are for.

And I think my friend Salem understood something about that too.

He didn’t become a doctor so that people would admire him. He didn’t become a priest so that people would think more highly of him. He didn’t open a tree farm or build a chapel or give so freely of himself so that people would say, “What a remarkable person he is.”

His life pointed beyond himself.

Through healing. Through hospitality. Through friendship. Through a love for creation.

He helped people see something of the goodness of God.

He magnified the Lord.

And here’s what I want all of us to hear this morning. If you don’t hear anything else, hear this:

You don’t have to be a priest to magnify the Lord.

You don’t have to wear a collar. You don’t have to stand behind a pulpit or have a degree in theology.

Every one of us is called to live in such a way that others can see the goodness of God at work in our lives.

Sometimes that happens in very ordinary ways.

You notice someone who’s lonely and take the time to sit down and talk.

You make room for the newcomer who walks through the door.

You sit with someone who’s grieving and offer a listening ear.

You feed someone who’s hungry.

You forgive.

You pray.

You offer your gifts.

You show kindness when it’s hard.

That’s what it means to magnify the Lord—not thinking only of ourselves but making the love of God known.

And what’s true for each of us individually is also true for us as a community of faith.

Today we celebrate the life and witness of St. Mary, our patron.

But we also celebrate the life and witness of this parish.

We give thanks for this church, for its history, for the saints who’ve gone before us, for the ministry that happens here each week, and for all that God has done in this place.

And as we stand at the beginning of a new program year, we pray that God’s blessing will be upon us and all we have to offer.

We pray that God will continue to guide us and strengthen us for the work we’ve been given to do.

And we pray for a renewed sense of commitment to serving as the hands and feet of Christ, in our parish and in our community.

But our deepest purpose isn’t to have successful ministries or programs. It isn’t to stay busy or to even grow the size of our church.

Our purpose is to magnify the Lord.

St. Mary’s doesn’t exist for our own sake.

We exist so that through the life we share here, others might come to see and know the love of God in Christ Jesus.

We gather here to encounter the risen Christ in Scripture and Sacrament, in prayer and fellowship, and then we carry Christ with us when we leave this place.

We follow the example of our patron saint.

Mary was called to be the mother of our Lord. She carried him in her womb and brought him into the world.

That’s our calling too—to say “yes” to God, to carry Jesus with us wherever we go, and to make him known.

So perhaps the question for us today isn’t simply, “What will we do this year?”

Maybe the better question is, “How will we magnify the Lord?”

How will our worship, our service to others, and the way we love one another make Christ more visible to those in our community?

May we join with Mary in singing her song:

“My soul magnifies the Lord.”

And may it become our prayer as well.

For our own lives.

And for this new year of ministry at St. Mary’s.

May we live in such a way that Christ increases.

And may our souls, together, magnify the Lord.

Amen.

Reaching Out In Love

A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14, Year A)
August 9, 2026

Text: Matthew 14:22-33

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.

One of the great blessings of being a parish priest is taking Holy Communion to those who are sick or homebound. It’s an opportunity to meet people where they are and to bring the Church to them when they can’t be here in person.

For the past few years, I’ve had the opportunity to visit someone in our community—not a member of our parish—but a retired Episcopal priest named Francis.

Because of his health, he’s no longer able to come to church. So every so often, one of his family members calls and asks if I’ll come pray with him and bring Communion, which I’m always happy to do.

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit Francis again.

I arrived at the house expecting an ordinary visit.

When I walked inside the house, I greeted Francis like usual and asked how he was doing.

Then I looked across the room and greeted the woman who lovingly cares for him, and I asked how she was doing.

She paused for a moment.

She lowered her head just a little.

And I could tell immediately that something wasn’t right.

Then she shared with me that, just a few months ago, her family had experienced a terrible tragedy.

With tears in her eyes, she told me that her youngest son had died unexpectedly, leaving behind a wife and two young children.

I don’t want to go into the details, because they’re not important.

What matters is that a mother was grieving the loss of her son.

As I sat and listened, my heart broke for her because I could tell she was really struggling.

And one thought kept running through my mind:

“What do I say?”

What do you say to a mother who’s lost her child?

What words could possibly make a difference?

As tempting as it would have been to move the conversation along and return my attention to Francis, I knew in that moment that she needed someone to listen.

So that’s what I did.

I listened.

I offered a few simple words of encouragement.

I gave her a big hug.

And I reminded her that our God is loving and merciful—a God who promises never to leave us or abandon us in our pain—a God who walks with us even when it feels like all hope is lost.

The truth is, there was nothing I could do or say that would make her pain go away.

There was nothing I could do to fix what had happened.

The only thing I could do was stay with her in that moment.

To listen.

To be present.

To give her the space to share what was on her heart.

I have no idea whether anything I said made a difference.

But I hope that, in some small way, my presence reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

After we all prayed together and shared Holy Communion, I drove home.

And as I drove, I found myself giving thanks to God for this calling and for being able to serve as an instrument of God’s healing.

I also found myself reflecting on something I need to be reminded of from time to time.

Maybe you do too.

We never really know what people are carrying.

We can go through an ordinary day assuming everything is perfectly fine while the person standing right beside us is living through the worst season of their life.

We never know how God might place someone in our path who is hurting.

And because we never know, kindness matters.

Compassion matters.

Showing up and being present matters.

Because God may be preparing to use us in ways we never expected.

God may be calling us to bring hope to someone who’s struggling to find it.

God may be using us to reach out a hand to someone who needs our help.

As I was getting ready for today’s sermon and reading through our Gospel lesson for this morning, my mind kept going back to that visit with Francis and his caregiver.

And I began to realize something. These two stories have something in common.

They’re both about people who are sinking.

In our lesson today from Matthew, after feeding the five thousand, Jesus sends the disciples ahead by boat while he goes up the mountain to pray.

During the night the wind picks up, the waves begin crashing against the boat, and the disciples become terrified.

Then, in the darkness, they see Jesus walking toward them on the water, but at first, they think it’s a ghost.

Peter says, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you.”

Jesus answers with one word.

“Come.”

Peter climbs out of the boat, and for a few moments, he actually walks toward Jesus.

But then he notices the wind.

He sees the waves crashing.

Fear overwhelms him, and he begins to sink.

As the water closes around him, Peter cries out, “Lord, save me.”

Then Matthew gives us one of the most beautiful sentences in the entire Gospel.

“Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.”

That line has stayed with me all week.

Jesus reaches out his hand.

He doesn’t stand back and wait for Peter to figure out how to save himself.

He doesn’t lecture Peter while he’s drowning.

He reaches for him.

And once he has him safely in his grasp, he says to Peter, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

For the longest time, I heard those words as criticism.

But, now I hear them differently.

I hear them as words of compassion.

Not the voice of an angry or disappointed teacher.

But the voice of a Savior who was there to save his friend.

It’s almost as if Jesus is saying, “Peter…I’m right here with you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

I think that’s important because it tells us something about the heart of God.

Jesus’ first instinct is compassion—not criticism.

His first instinct is to move toward the one who’s sinking.

His first instinct is to reach out his hand in love.

And if that’s who Jesus is, then perhaps that’s what we’re called to do as well.

There’s another story in the Bible that comes later—in the Book of Acts—about Peter and John, who encounter a man who’s been unable to walk since birth.

Every day he’s carried to the Beautiful Gate of the Temple to beg for money.

When Peter sees the man, he says, “I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk.”

Then the author of Acts tells us that Peter took him by the right hand and raised him up.

Peter reaches out his hand and heals him.

In my holy imagination, I wonder if Peter remembered the hand of Jesus in that moment.

The hand that reached out through the wind and the waves.

The hand that saved him from drowning in the sea.

Scripture doesn’t tell us what Peter was thinking, but it doesn’t really have to.

Peter experienced the compassion of Jesus, and he learned to show that same compassion to others.

That’s called discipleship.

Not simply believing in Jesus.

But becoming more like Jesus.

Receiving his compassion.

Then sharing that same compassion with someone else.

Friends, the truth is, we can’t solve every problem.

We can’t heal every broken heart, as much as we would like to.

We can’t carry every burden.

And we can’t save the world.

That work belongs to God.

But we can notice when someone’s sinking.

We can care when someone’s hurting.

We can visit someone who’s lonely or afraid.

We can pray and offer words of encouragement.

We can sit quietly beside someone who’s grieving.

We can listen without trying to explain away their pain.

We can be present.

And we can reach out a hand.

This week, someone around you may be struggling with a burden you’ll never see.

Or maybe you will.

Maybe you’ll have the opportunity to be the hands and feet of Jesus and reach out a hand to someone who’s hurting.

You may not have the perfect words.

You may not have any answers.

But Jesus isn’t asking you to have all the answers.

He’s asking you to be present.

To be kind.

To be compassionate.

To reach out your hand in love.

That’s what Jesus did for Peter.

That’s what Peter learned to do for others.

And that’s how Christ continues to reach people today—through our words and actions.

One act of compassion.

One quiet presence.

One outstretched hand at a time.

Amen.

Nothing Is Little In God’s Service

A Sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 12, Year A)
Text: Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

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.

Most years, during the season of Lent, it’s my practice to take on some kind of daily devotional—something short I can read each morning and carry with me for the rest of the day.

Several years ago, I decided to use the daily meditations offered by Episcopal Relief & Development, and that year, there was one meditation in particular that stayed with me. It was written by an Episcopal priest who began with a quotation from George Herbert:

“Nothing is little in God’s service.”

George Herbert was a seventeenth-century Anglican priest and poet. Early in his life, he seemed destined for a prominent public career. He studied at Cambridge, served in Parliament, and had connections to the royal court. 

But eventually, he left all that behind to follow God’s call to the priesthood. He became the priest of a small country parish in England, where his life was shaped by the ordinary work of ministry—praying each day, preaching, leading worship, visiting the sick, and caring for the poor.

In his well-known work, The Country Parson, Herbert reflected on the life and responsibilities of a parish priest. He believed that even the smallest and most ordinary parts of ministry could be offered to the glory of God.

His life wasn’t measured by status or popularity. It was shaped by faithfulness in one particular place, among one particular group of people.

So his words reflected his own experience in parish ministry.

“Nothing is little in God’s service.”

The author of that meditation went on to describe the ordinary work that filled most of her days as a priest. 

She wrote that most days weren’t especially glamorous or filled with excitement. Instead, they were filled with small things: speaking a kind word to a stranger, preparing a sermon, working on a newsletter, recruiting a Sunday school teacher, taking Communion to someone who’s lonely, praying with someone who’s lost a job, writing a thank-you note, saying her prayers, breaking the bread, and sharing the cup.

I connected with those words on a deep and personal level. Because even as a priest, I sometimes wonder whether the work I do really makes a difference.

And I imagine most of us have wondered that same thing at one time or another.

We look at the problems in the world and they seem overwhelming.

We see violence and division, poverty and loneliness, fear and uncertainty.

We see needs in our own community that are much greater than our resources.

And compared with all of that, what we have to give can seem so small.

We think, “What difference can one phone call make?”

“What difference can one meal make?”

“What difference can one invitation, or one prayer, or one act of kindness possibly make?”

It’s easy to believe that if we can’t do something big or dramatic, then perhaps what we can do doesn’t matter very much.

But George Herbert’s words offer us a different way of thinking:

“Nothing is little in God’s service.”

And that brings us to this morning’s Gospel.

In our reading from Matthew, Jesus offers a series of five short parables about the kingdom of heaven.

The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed planted in a field.

The kingdom of heaven is like yeast hidden in flour.

The kingdom of heaven is like treasure buried in a field.

The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant searching for one pearl of great value.

The kingdom of heaven is like a net thrown into the sea, gathering fish of every kind.

These images come one after another, each giving us a different glimpse of what God’s kingdom is like.

And they all point us toward something important: God is at work in the world, but God’s work doesn’t always begin in ways that appear large or dramatic.

Sometimes the kingdom begins with something as small as a mustard seed.

Sometimes it works quietly and under the surface, like yeast hidden in flour.

Sometimes it remains buried for a while, like treasure in a field, waiting to be discovered.

We often expect the kingdom of God to be more obvious than that.

We look for God in large and impressive things. We imagine that the kingdom must come through dramatic moments of conversion or large crowds of people filling the pews at church.

And certainly, God can be found in those moments.

But when Jesus teaches his disciples about the kingdom of heaven, he points to a mustard seed—something small enough to disappear in the palm of your hand.

A mustard seed isn’t impressive. When someone plants it in the ground, you can’t see what it will eventually become.

You can’t see the roots that will spread beneath the surface. You can’t see the branches that will stretch outward. You can’t see the birds that will one day come and make their nests there.

At first, all you can see is the seed.

And once the seed has been buried, you can’t see anything at all.

But just because something is hidden doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

The same is true of the yeast. Once it’s mixed into the flour, it disappears. It can’t be separated from the dough.

For a while, nothing seems to be happening.

But beneath the surface, the yeast is working. Slowly and steadily, it makes its way through the whole batch of dough.

That’s how Jesus describes the kingdom of heaven.

It often begins in ways that seem small and works in ways that remain hidden for a long time.

But even though we can’t always see or measure it, we can trust that God is still at work.

We aren’t promised that every small act of faithfulness will produce a result we can point to. But we are assured that whatever is offered to God in love is never wasted.

The kingdom is near when someone notices that a member of the church has been absent for a while and takes the time to call and make sure they’re okay.

The kingdom is near when food is prepared for a grieving family or someone in need.

The kingdom is near when we take the time to invite someone to church or when we invite a stranger to sit down and share a meal.

The kingdom is near when we forgive someone, or visit someone who’s lonely, or offer a prayer that no one else will ever hear.

None of those things on their own are large enough to change the world.

But perhaps changing the whole world isn’t our calling.

Perhaps our calling is simply to plant the seed or mix in the yeast—to offer what we have, however small it may seem, and to trust God with the growth.

So much of God’s work happens beneath the surface and beyond what our eyes can see.

The mustard seed and the yeast teach us that God can work through what is small and hidden. The parables of the treasure in the field and the pearl of great value add something more: what appears small and hidden may actually be worth more than we can possibly imagine.

A treasure buried in a field might look like nothing more than an ordinary patch of ground. A pearl is small enough to hold in the palm of your hand.

But when their true value is discovered, everything changes.

The person who finds the treasure joyfully sells everything to purchase the field. The merchant who finds the pearl of great value sells everything to possess it.

Something can be hidden and still be precious.

Something can be small and still be worth everything.

The kingdom of heaven may not always attract the attention of the world. It may not look powerful according to the world’s standards. It may be found in places the world overlooks and among people the world considers unimportant.

But once we recognize the kingdom and understand its importance, it begins to reshape our lives.

We discover something worth giving ourselves to completely.

We begin to understand that no act of love, no work of mercy, and no offering made to God is ever wasted.

And because the kingdom belongs to God, its full reach—and its final outcome—cannot be controlled by us.

That brings us to Jesus’ final image in today’s reading: a net cast into the sea.

The net gathers fish of every kind. It doesn’t gather only the fish we would have chosen. It reaches farther and gathers more widely than we might expect.

God alone sees the whole catch, and God alone is qualified to judge it.

Our calling isn’t to decide which people are worth gathering or which seeds are worth planting.

Our call is to be faithful.

To cast the net.

To sow the seed.

To mix in the yeast.

To seek the treasure.

And to trust God with what follows.

Most of us won’t change the world through large and impressive acts of service.

More often than not, we’ll be given a thousand small opportunities to love God and to love our neighbor.

We may never see what grows from the seeds we plant. We may never know how a kind word is received, or what an invitation sets in motion, or how a prayer helps another person.

Like the yeast in the flour, much of God’s work may remain hidden beyond our sight.

But Jesus assures us that the kingdom of heaven is near.

God is working through small moments.

God is working beneath the surface.

God is working through ordinary people, in ordinary places, through ordinary acts of faithfulness.

And that includes us.

So plant the seed.

Mix in the yeast.

Make the phone call.

Write the note.

Offer the prayer.

Welcome the stranger.

And trust that the God who brings forth great branches from tiny seeds can use even the smallest act of love for the building of his kingdom.

Because nothing offered to God in love is insignificant.

Nothing done in the name of Jesus is ever wasted.

And nothing is little in God’s service.

Amen.

I Will, With God’s Help

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 7, Year A)
June 21, 2026

Text: Matthew 10:24-39

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.

There are some Sundays when the words of Jesus bring us a sense of comfort and peace. A good example that comes to mind is when Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

Sometimes, our Gospel lesson feels exactly like the word our souls needed to hear that day.

And then there are Sundays like today when the words of Jesus make us pause and ask, “What’s really going on here?”

“Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

“I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother.”

“Whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me.”

These are challenging words.

On the surface, they don’t really sound like Jesus.

They don’t sound like the same Jesus who teaches us to love our neighbors, the same Jesus who heals the sick, feeds the hungry, and welcomes sinners to the table.

So what do we do with words like these?

Well, I think the first thing we have to do is resist the temptation to explain them away too quickly. Jesus really does say these things to his disciples.

But, we also have to be careful not to misunderstand what he’s trying to say. Jesus isn’t saying that family doesn’t matter. He’s not telling us to reject the people we love. He’s not encouraging us to go looking for conflict.

What he’s doing here is telling the truth about what it means to be a disciple.

This reading comes near the end of a long passage in Matthew’s Gospel where Jesus is preparing his disciples to go out into the world and proclaim that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

And he wants them to know that this mission will not always be easy.

Not everyone will welcome them with open arms and receive the Good News.

Not everyone will understand what they’re trying to do.

Not everyone will be glad when the way of Jesus challenges the way things have always been.

He wants the disciples to know that following him will sometimes create tension and force them to make difficult choices.

Sometimes that tension may even show up among people they care about, including members of their own family.

Again, Jesus isn’t saying that we should love our families less. He’s telling us that God must be at the center of our lives.

No relationship or loyalty can take the place of our relationship with God.

And I think one of the best ways for us to understand that is through baptism.

In baptism, we receive God’s grace.

Before we make any promises to God, God says to us, “I have called you by name, and you are mine.”

You are my beloved.

That’s where the Christian life begins.

It begins with grace.

And then, by God’s grace, we say yes back to God.

That’s what our baptismal vows are for. They’re our way of saying yes to the life of Christ.

We say yes to coming to worship each week and making daily prayer a priority in our lives.

We say yes to turning away from evil and returning to God when we fall short.

We say yes to living and speaking the Good News.

We say yes to seeing Christ in other people.

We say yes to justice and peace and respecting the dignity of every human being.

Those are wonderful promises.

But they’re not just beautiful words we say at the font.

They shape the way we’re called to live our lives as followers of Jesus.

And every yes to God means there are some things to which we have to say no.

If we say yes to Christ, then we have to say no to the things that pull us away from Christ.

If we say yes to mercy, then we have to say no to cruelty.

If we say yes to loving our neighbors, then we have to say no to hatred, prejudice, and violence.

That’s why Jesus’ words in our Gospel lesson this morning are so hard.

He’s telling us that following him is not just something we do when it’s easy or convenient. Following Jesus means we have to reorder and reshape our lives.

It changes our priorities.

It changes how we speak, how we love, how we forgive, how we spend our time, and how we treat other people.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer called this “costly grace.”

Grace is freely given, but it’s not cheap.

It’s free because it’s God’s unearned, underserved gift.

But it’s not cheap because it lays claim to our lives, which is why it’s so important for us to understand the significance of baptism.

Baptism is God’s gracious yes to us, and it’s our yes back to God.

And that yes is beautiful, but it’s not always easy.

I was thinking about that last night during the wedding here at St. Mary’s.

The bride and groom stood here before God and the Church and made their marriage vows. And the words themselves were very simple: “I will.”

But anyone who’s married or lived any kind of covenant relationship knows that “I will” is both easy to say and hard to live out.

It’s easy to say “I will” in a beautiful church, surrounded by flowers and music and people who love you.

It’s much harder to live that promise day after day, when love requires patience, forgiveness, and sacrifice.

The same is true for baptism.

The Baptismal Covenant is a beautiful promise.

But it’s also costly.

It means our lives belong to Christ.

And that brings us back to the last line of our Gospel reading for today.

Jesus says, “Whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me.”

We need to be clear about what this means.

Taking up the cross doesn’t mean that every painful thing that happens to us is God’s will or that every bad thing happens for a reason.

It doesn’t mean accepting abuse or staying in situations or relationships that tear us down.

It doesn’t mean God wants us to be miserable.

The cross is not about suffering for the sake of suffering.

The cross is what the love of God looks like.

The cross is what happens when perfect love enters a broken world ruled by fear, violence, and selfishness.

And still, Jesus chooses love over hate.

Mercy over resentment.

Forgiveness over revenge.

Jesus remains faithful to God, even when that way leads to suffering and death.

So when Jesus tells us to take up the cross, he’s calling us to follow him in the way of self-giving love.

Sometimes that means telling the truth when it would be easier and safer to stay quiet.

Sometimes it means choosing forgiveness when we’d rather hold on to anger and resentment.

Sometimes it means standing with someone who’s been rejected, even when it comes with a cost.

Sometimes it means saying no to old patterns of sin and fear that draw us away from Christ.

None of these things are easy.

But it is the way of Jesus.

And it’s the life we’re called to live as Christians.

Every time we renew our baptismal vows, we make some bold promises.

Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?

Will you persevere in resisting evil?

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons?

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

And each time, we answer: “I will, with God’s help.”

Those last three words are important.

With God’s help.

Jesus doesn’t call us to follow him and then leave us alone to figure it out.

He gives us grace.

He gives us courage when the journey is hard.

He gives us love when love is costly.

He gives us strength to take up the cross and follow.

The way of Jesus isn’t always easy, but it is the way that leads, always, through the cross, into new and abundant life with God.

So we say yes.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because we’re strong enough on our own.

Not because we have it all figured out.

But because Christ is faithful.

And because every time he calls us to follow, he also gives us the grace to answer: “I will, with God’s help.”

Amen.

Sent Forth

A Sermon for the Third Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 6, Year A)
June 14, 2026

Text: Matthew 9:35-10:8

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.

Several years ago, while I was serving at my previous parish in Alabaster, I was contacted by a couple in the community who had heard about our Rice and Beans ministry, much like the one we have here at St. Mary’s.

They owned several laundromats in the area, and they wondered if our church might be interested in partnering with them in some way to help people in need.

I told them we would love to do that.

Their first idea was to give us laundry cards to put in our Rice and Beans bags, so when people came to receive food, they would also receive a laundry card that they could use at the laundromat to wash their clothes for free.

It was such a generous offer, and as the conversation continued, the idea began to grow.

They also suggested that we might partner together to begin a Laundry Love ministry. Once a month, members of the church would come to the laundromat, offering free loads of laundry to anyone in the community who needed it.

They would provide the machines. All we had to do was show up and bring dryer sheets and laundry detergent.

So that’s what we did.

And once we started, the ministry began to grow. More people started coming each month, and we had several members of the parish show up to help.

What began as a simple idea became a wonderful opportunity for the Church to show up in an ordinary place with compassion and generosity.

As I got to know this couple a little better, they started sharing stories about their faith.

And one of the things they told me was that at their church, there was a sign posted outside in the parking lot that you had to drive by as you were leaving. It was very simple.

It said, “You are now entering the mission field.”

“You are now entering the mission field.”

I love that image.

And I think it’s a helpful reminder for all of us, because far too often, church can almost feel like a means to an end.

We come to worship once a week. We sing the hymns. We say the prayers. We listen to the readings. We receive Communion. And then we go about the rest of our week not really thinking much about what happened on Sunday.

And if we’re not careful, we can begin to keep our faith separate from the rest of our everyday lives.

There’s church, and then there’s everything else.

There’s Sunday morning, and then there’s Monday through Saturday.

There’s what we believe in here, and there’s how we live out there.

But this was not Jesus’ idea of discipleship.

Jesus didn’t say to his disciples, “Come and worship me once a week.”

He didn’t say, “Come fulfill your church obligation and then get back to your real life.”

Jesus said, “Follow me.”

Now, of course, we love to worship. We gather here week after week to offer our praise and thanksgiving. We worship because God is worthy of our praise. We worship from a place of gratitude and love because of all the ways God has been faithful to us.

But worship is not the end of discipleship.

Worship forms us for discipleship.

We come here to be fed and nourished and reminded who we are and whose we are, so that we can then be sent back out into the world to live as followers of Jesus.

Our Gospel reading for today is a good example of what that looks like.

Matthew tells us that Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in the synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness.

And then Matthew gives us this beautiful image.

“When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”

Jesus saw the crowds.

He saw people who were harassed and helpless.

People who were worn down.

People who were wounded and in need of healing.

And he had compassion for them.

The Greek word that Matthew uses here for compassion is splagchnizomai, which refers to the bowels or the inner organs, the deepest part of the body.

In other words, Jesus doesn’t just feel sorry for the people.

He has a visceral, gut-wrenching reaction when he sees their suffering.

He is moved from the very depths of his being.

And that compassion moves him to act.

Jesus says to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

It’s Jesus’ way of saying, “There’s a lot of important work to be done but very few who have the will or desire to do it.”

So Jesus summons the twelve disciples.

Matthew lists them each by name.

Jesus gives them authority to cast out unclean spirits and to cure every disease and every sickness.

And then he sends them out with these instructions:

“Go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. As you go, proclaim the good news, ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons.”

Jesus is on a mission to bring healing and wholeness to the people.

But instead of doing all the work himself, he shares that work with his disciples.

He shares his mission.

He shares his authority.

He sends them out to do the very things he’s been doing.

To proclaim good news.

To heal what is broken.

To confront the forces that diminish and destroy human life.

To go to those who are lost, wounded, and afraid, and announce by word and deed that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

And that’s where the Gospel meets us today, because this story is about more than just something Jesus did a long time ago.

Jesus commissions us to do the same in our own time and place. As followers of Jesus, we share in his ministry.

That’s really why the Church exists in the first place.

The Church doesn’t exist only for our own benefit.

The Church doesn’t exist just so we can have a beautiful place to worship or programs that meet our needs.

All of those things matter.

But they are not the end.

We gather here week after week to be fed and nourished so that we can then be sent out to do the work of healing God has given us to do.

Sometimes we do that in organized ways through the ministries of the Church—like feeding our neighbors through Rice and Beans or helping people wash their clothes at Laundry Love.

We do it when we visit the sick, care for the grieving, and offer hospitality to those who walk through our doors.

But more often than not, we’re called to be ministers in those ordinary, everyday places where we live most of our lives.

At work.

At school.

At the baseball field.

At the grocery store.

In conversations with friends.

In moments when someone is hurting and we have the opportunity to listen.

In moments when someone is lonely and we have the opportunity to notice.

Anytime we see a need that we can help fill, there’s an opportunity to participate in the healing work of Jesus.

This is the work of the Gospel.

We are sent out as missionaries.

When we hear the word missionary, it’s easy to imagine that mission work only happens somewhere else.

In another country or part of the world.

And certainly, God calls some people to that kind of mission work.

But first and foremost, I believe God calls us to share the Gospel right where we are.

In our own towns and communities.

In our own daily lives.

Because there’s plenty of work to do right here.

There are plenty of people in our own community who are hungry—not just physically but emotionally and spiritually as well.

There are people who feel overlooked and forgotten.

People who are lonely, anxious, and afraid.

People who have been cast out and told they are worthless.

There are people who have been made to believe they are unworthy of God’s love and have no place in the church.

And we have the opportunity, wherever God leads us, to help heal those wounds.

We have the opportunity, here and now, to be instruments of God’s healing and mercy.

To remind people that they are loved.

To remind them they are worthy of God’s love.

To offer forgiveness and hope to those who feel worthless and beyond redemption.

To proclaim, not only with our words but with our lives, that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

We may not have a sign in our parking lot that reads, “You are now entering the mission field.”

But we do have words that remind us of what we are called to do. We hear them every week in worship.

At the end of the service, after the closing hymn, we hear the words of the Dismissal.

“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

It’s not just a nice way of saying the service is over.

It’s a re-commissioning.

It’s a reminder that the work of ministry—the work of discipleship—is not confined to this building.

It extends beyond our walls into a world that is desperate for good news—a world full of people who are harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.

A world that God longs to heal and make new.

So when we come to the end of today’s service—and every Sunday for that matter—may those words be planted in our hearts.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

Go into your homes.

Go into your workplaces.

Go into your schools and neighborhoods.

Go into the ordinary places of your life with compassion and mercy.

And carry with you the Good News of God in Christ.

“The kingdom of heaven has come near.”

Amen.