Author: MASadmin

Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” And they said, “Some say John the Baptist but others Elijah and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.

Matthew 16:13-20

My sermon from the 13th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 23, 2026).

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There’s only a handful of days left of summer vacation so I spent a few this week at the beach. The Jersey Shore this time of year is pretty awesome since the water is warm and the boardwalk is full of life. I spent a bunch of hours watching two of my kids get hammered by waves over and over again with big smiles on their faces. When we needed to take a break from our aquatic adventures, we built a sandcastle on the beach. But that endeavor wasn’t exactly easy since my expectations for how the waves would function was disrupted by a recent beach replenishment project. I, based on prior experiences, came up with a plan for our sandcastle extravaganza. We piled together a lot of sand, shaped and formed walls and towers, and dug a large moat we expected would slowly fill with water. Our plan, however, came quickly undone and our moat became a lake devouring the base of the fortress we built. Sandcastles are kind of amazing since they mimic buildings designed to withstand whatever we throw against them. As we dig, pack, and craft, we act as if every cannon, catapult, sea monster, and hurricane would never prevail against our faithful creation. These castles, though, are always temporary and it isn’t long before an unexpected wave or inattentive person strolling along the beach return our fortress to its tiny building blocks. Sandcastles are physical things but they’re mostly an experience lingering in the hearts and souls of those who made them. That experience, rather than the tangible thing we create, is what truly matters. And I wonder if the image of a sandcastle might help us understand a little bit more of what Jesus said to Peter in our reading today from the gospel according to Matthew.  

Now the story of Jesus standing near the town of Cesara Phillipi when Peter declared him to be the Messiah is one we hear every year. The city was founded by local leaders as a way to flatter the Roman Empire and a nearby hill was covered in temples devoted to a variety of gods and the Emperor himself. Peter, in the midst of everything Rome represented, proclaimed that it was Jesus who mattered and there were those who imagined Jesus would raise up his own army to push the Roman Empire into the sea. Peter’s words were more than spiritual and I’ve often taken time to describe his confession as the rock the church is built on. Yet in my years as a preacher, I’ve haven’t really talked about the thing which, in Matthew, Jesus gave. The so-called keys  and the binding and loosening Jesus describes doesn’t appear anywhere else in Scripture. Mark’s and Luke’s version of this story shifts immediately towards words we’ll hear next week when Peter and Jesus argue about what the Messiah might be. The interlude about a rock, the gates of Hades, and a tool we use to unlock doors is a word that must have mattered to Matthew’s community since he took time to include it. We often treat the gospels as mostly a chronological description of Jesus’ ministry in the world. Yet these words were compiled, edited, and brought together by Christians living two generations after the Resurrection. Jesus’ story was, to them, more than a recent history of God’s activity in the world. These words were also an opportunity to take a moment and reflect on the formation of the church itself. And while some of this activity has passed down to us in the writings of Paul, those attributed to various apostles, and the book of Acts, a lot of the more intimate details about the church remain a mystery. We don’t know, for example, why folks within Matthew’s community chose to be there. And we never hear, specifically, how their neighbors, family members, and friends invited them to discover this God who valued them. The big and small ways they formed them into their community is a history we haven’t heard. And yet we know this work made a difference since we are the descendants of those who heard Matthew’s words for the very first time. I wonder, then, if the keys, this binding, and this loosening, was something more than simply some kind of theological declaration or belief for Matthew’s community. It might have also been some kind of tangible experience that shaped who they knew themselves to be. 

But what that experience might be isn’t entirely clear. And these words have been used to define leadership structure within the church as well as an image for what happens when we die. If we’ve ever imagined Peter standing in heaven in front of pearly gates deciding who goes in, and who doesn’t, we can thank this reading for that image. For centuries, the kingdom of heaven has been mostly treated as a location – the place where angels live and where people go when they die. The keys, then, are for that door leading into what we want heaven to be. This way of thinking, though, shifts from noticing the keys to imaging the locks they’re supposed to open. And while we might say this determination belongs only to God, the church has often used the keys to proclaim who belongs and who doesn’t. The keys become a confession or statement of belief or Christian denomination or even a cultural expectation that opens a lock to the fortress of the divine. This, however, isn’t the only possible interpretation of Jesus’ words and I wonder if Matthew’s community saw this kingdom of heaven as something other than a location we’re desperately trying to get into. Jesus, after all, told people during his teachings, healings, and dinner parties that they were – in that moment – experiencing the kingdom of God come near. The kingdom, then, wasn’t only  a castle meant to withstand whatever life threw against it. God’s kingdom was also on the move – meeting people in the lives they actually lived. Peter, then, wasn’t given keys designed to open the lock on a door based on the life we’ve lived. These keys were, rather, meant to unlock the opportunity for those on earth to experience a more heavenly kind of life too. That doesn’t mean Jesus was saying that a holy life would be without struggle, pain, or grief. Peter’s own story was full of failures, anxiety, and all kinds of suffering. Loss and joy; laughter and tears; new beginnings and unexpected endings were things Peter – and Matthew’s community – knew all too well. They had experienced the fullness of what life was like and yet, because of Jesus, had also discovered they were part of what God was doing in the world. They, exactly as they are, were, even then, being empowered by God to live out what the kingdom of heaven is all about. The binding and loosening, then, wasn’t about determining who was worth God’s love but rather by seeing how Jesus’ own ministry showed what should be bound and what should be loosen. Those who follow Jesus were called to bind love and welcome, healing and compassion, wholeness and mercy, in all they said and did. Those who Jesus claimed as his own were invited to loosen from themselves the ways wealth, power, and human points of view encourage us to judge one another rather than to include. What we bind and what we loosen should reflect the grace at the heart of the one who has bound us in what God is all about. And while some of this work is meant for us to do on our own, the fullness of what we can become is made real in a community who embody God’s commitment to care and serve. Life is less about building fortresses for God and more about living out our experience of the divine. And while we will often disagree about the details of what it means to bind and loosen, the experience of God others have will always be at its strongest when we show how God’s walls of grace, hope, and love surround them too. 

Amen.

Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.” But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, “Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.” He answered, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.” He answered, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” She said, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” Then Jesus answered her, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter was healed from that moment.

Matthew 15:21-28

My sermon from the 12th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 16, 2026) on Matthew 15:21-28. Preached at Trinity, Long Island City in honor of the building’s 100th anniversary.

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Earlier this week, I visited a wellness center in Northern New Jersey to see if we could partner in a new ministry happening at my church. We’ve noticed a lot of folks within our community have recently become caregivers to parents and spouses living with various forms of dementia and Alzheimer’s. These caregivers often become caregivers after an unexpected crisis interrupts their lives. The process of figuring out all the legal, medical, and financial stuff to become parents for their parents isn’t always easy. Caregivers need a lot of information to care for those who will, eventually, forget who they are. And everyone of these caregivers need help handling their own anxieties, fears, and worries. We’re hoping that by partnering with professional therapists, we can help caregivers realize they are not going through this experience alone. I’ll admit, though, I wasn’t entirely sure how this meeting would go. There was a chance we’d spend the entire hour dreaming up all the incredible things this relationship could be. But I also know that, sometimes, things don’t work out. And I was worried the meeting would include long bits of silence that felt overwhelming and full. As we wandered through their building exploring all the different spaces where important mental, physical, and emotional work could be done, I knew this was a place where caregivers could recharge their souls. The long silence that would signify the end to our partnership before it even began – never materialized. Many of us, though, know how overwhelming and hurtful certain silences can be. And while the opposite of sound is often refreshing, there is a type of silence that feels way too final. Silence has a way of forcing us to confront all the anxiety, fear, and worry we carry. So it was a little strange that when Jesus visited the land of Tyre and Sidon, he responded to a Canaanite woman with the kind of silence we do everything to avoid. 

Now Matthew’s version of Jesus’ life is full of all kinds of silence. Jesus regularly hiked up mountains to be by himself while he prayed and he often remained silent when he knew his words wouldn’t be heard. Matthew, I think, invites us to recognize that Jesus – in a very human way – knew when to speak and when to stay quiet. Yet his actions in today’s reading doesn’t feel like Jesus at all. After taking time to feed thousands with a few loaves of bread and fish and then healing those living on the other side of the Sea of Galilee, Jesus and his friends left the area where he grew up and headed towards the coastal cities of Sidon and Tyre. These communities were once independent kingdoms who fought against ancient Israel over power and wealth. And while the Roman Empire had, in theory, united the region under one rule, the vast cultural, religious, and historical barriers between these cities and Israel still remained. Matthew doesn’t tell us why Jesus took his friends towards the Mediterranean Sea but we can assume he went to heal, teach, and connect with the large Jewish populations that called these cities home. As he neared the coast, I can imagine the conversation with his friends centered on all the amazing things they expected would come next. But as they walked, an unnamed local woman who didn’t share their ethnicity got in their way. Being interrupted was something that Jesus experienced all the time and he regularly stopped what he was doing to compassionately pay attention to those in need. This mom’s behavior, though, was a bit different. And she didn’t really follow the cultural expectations of what should happen when a non-Jewish woman tried to talk to a male religious leader. Instead of throwing herself down at his feet and waiting to speak until Jesus spoke first, she shouted and yelled and filled the entire space with sound. She called him Lord and even identified him as the Son of a king who, a thousand years before, led armies against her people. Those around Jesus might have seen her actions as a betrayal of her own identity or maybe as a really terrible attempt at flattering the ego of the religious leader in her midst. She, however, was desperate and in front of all her neighbors and friends, she pleaded for mercy. Jesus, who was used to this kind of attention, saw and heard her cry. And yet, unlike other situations, his initial response to her was filled with silence. 

Now many of us, I think, know exactly what this kind of silence is like. When life tears at our souls, healing and wholeness and the resurrection feels very far away. What we want and long for is a God who breaks the silence that is overwhelming us. Yet when that long quiet lingers, it fills our everything within and around us. Matthew doesn’t tell us what thoughts and fears raced through the Canaanite woman’s head. Instead, he lets Jesus’ disciples articulate all that dread and fear instead. They encouraged Jesus to send her away since this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. And while Jesus doesn’t initially follow their advice, his spoken and unspoken words seem to confirm the worst parts of silence. It reads as if Jesus told this mother – and her daughter – that they weren’t going to be part of what God was up to in the world. In the presence of the One she had identified as the Lord, this unnamed Canaanite woman had the very human experience of feeling completely alone. That silence could have been – and for those around Jesus should have been – this story’s final words. Not only had she failed to ask for help in the way they expected; she was doing everything she could to get in the way of where Jesus was going. Jesus, in that moment, embodied the fullness of how harsh and unforgiving silence can be. And none of those watching Jesus felt as if the silence shouldn’t be the start of his goodbye. This unnamed woman, however, refused to let this silence be the final word. She kept going – pestering and badgering and not letting Jesus go. She, with guts and all kinds of courage, reminded all of God’s agents – including Jesus himself – to be exactly who she trusted he could be. Jesus could have kept walking, letting his silence and his harsh words be all that needed to be said. Yet he, in that moment, decided to the culturally unexpected thing of partnering with this unnamed woman so that the silence wouldn’t be the last word too. Maybe he knew that, after embodying the same kind of silence he would later experience while praying in the garden of Gethsemane before the Cross, that it was time to remind this woman, his friends, and even himself, that there is always still one more thing to say. When the waters of baptism were poured over us and when faith stirred in our hearts – the promise that you matter, that you are loved, and that you are seen and known – is a word no silence can ever overcome. It’s a promise we often struggle to hear or feel or even recognize while living through everything life throws our way. Yet God’s words to you will always remain. This doesn’t mean that every one of our prayers will be answered in the ways we want or that, if we badger God enough, we will finally get our way. But it does mean the silences we live through will never ultimately determine our value or our worth. We can – and should – be persistent in asking for help and inviting all of God’s agents – including ourselves – to embrace our responsibility in loving, caring, and supporting those in need. Yet whenever the silence feels way too full, you can trust the One who heard the Canaanite woman and who broke open the silence of the tomb – this Jesus won’t let the silence you’re living through be the last word of your story too. 

Amen.

Immediately [Jesus] made the disciples get into a boat and go on ahead to the other side [of the sea of Galilee], while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, “It is a ghost!” And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

Peter answered him, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and, beginning to sink, he cried out, “Lord, save me!” Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

Matthew 14:22-33

My sermon from the 11th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 9, 2026) on Matthew 14:22-33.

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One of my summer traditions is going through all the crafts, handouts, and pieces of paper my kids brought home during the school year. When summer break finally begins, the handful of pieces I’ve curated over the last seven months are overwhelmed by the overstuffed bags coming through the door. It takes me a bit of time to go through it since the total number of items is  overwhelming. I’ve noticed, however, that with two of my kids getting older, the piles of stuff have started to shrink. The documentation of the learning they’ve done is primarily living in an online space. And rather than seeing their growth in pages covered in various colored pens, the results in the form of a grade are mostly what I see. Sometimes those results are actually all I really do need since the education they’re receiving in their public school is amazing. Those grades, though, aren’t necessarily the foundation for what their learning is all about. The work of learning – all that paying attention, developing drafts, editing, understanding, thinking, and noticing how other voices enhance our own – is the foundation they’ll carry wherever life takes them. The results of their work should be celebrated. But what will hold them through all the future experiences that will change their thoughts and points of view is the practice of learning itself. Being mindful of what serves as the foundation for life isn’t always very easy to see. And I wonder if Jesus, in today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew, was inviting Peter and all the disciples to pay attention to the foundation at the heart of our lives too.

Now it’s important to remember where we are in this version of Jesus’ life. Jesus, after learning about the execution of John the Baptist, got into a boat, pushed out into the Sea of Galilee, and headed towards a deserted place alone. People, however, heard what Jesus was up to and a crowd formed near the place where Jesus wanted to land. The folks in that crowd needed help and so Jesus, filled with compassion, got out of the boat to meet them. When evening came, the disciples were worried these fragile people would be hungry and defenseless once night finally arrived. Jesus, though, wasn’t done making a difference. Using a few loaves of bread and some fish, he created a feast the disciples dished out. This wasn’t the first time Jesus’ friends had been empowered to be like Jesus. They had, in Matthew 10, been sent out by Jesus to heal the sick, cast out demons, and show what it’s like when God’s kingdom comes near. The disciples didn’t always understand what they were doing when they experienced that power. But I wouldn’t be surprised if those moments made them feel as if their faith was truly paying off. Jesus’ work was their work and it was only a matter of time, they imagined, before the results of Jesus’ ministry would become their own. They had not only experienced God’s mercy and grace for themselves; they had also been God’s power and joy. And so, after feeding and healing thousands, Jesus invited his friends to get on that same boat and leave him alone so he could pray, recharge, and ponder what his next steps might be. 

It’s during that journey, however, when the disciples’ situation changed. The longer they were out at sea, the faster the wind began to blow. Quite a few of Jesus’ friends were fishermen or had grown up by the sea so they probably weren’t that scared at first. But as the waves grew bigger, they knew trouble had come. They spent most of that night doing whatever they could to stay afloat. I imagine some of the disciples were pretty annoyed by what they were currently going through. If Jesus had kept them by his side for one more day, they wouldn’t be shoveling water out of the bottom of a small fishing boat. Some might have also questioned why they were going through this storm in the first place. Jesus, a few chapters before, had stopped a storm with simply a word. After expressing Jesus’ own power several times in their own ministry, it wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable for them to assume they could tame the wind too. This power was, to them, the result of the faith they already exhibited. The wind, however, kept blowing and when dawn broke, they saw Jesus walking towards them on the water. 

There’s a tendency, I think, to read Jesus’ words to Peter as some kind of criticism. If he simply had more faith, Peter could have stayed above the waters. But what we mean by “more faith” isn’t entirely clear. And that’s because we don’t really have a good way to measure faith so we act as if the results from faith define what a life of faith actually looks like. Having faith should involve asking fewer questions, experiencing less fear, and rarely having any kind of doubt. Faith, we believe, means we’re at peace and all those things that make us incredibly uncomfortable should simply go away. If we had enough faith, that doesn’t mean life would be easier. But it would, at least, feel easier since we’d have the answers we needed to face all the struggles that come our way. Faith, as it sometimes appears in the Bible, includes a lot of healing, wholeness, comfort, and a sense we’re part of the new future that is already on its way. A life with enough faith should result in something other than what we often experience right now. And that result ends up being that faithful foundation for how we live our life today. I wonder, though, if Jesus wasn’t inviting Peter and those who followed him to see the results of their faith as the foundation for what it means to live with their God. Rather, faith itself, is that foundation that will hold us through everything that comes our way. A life with faith doesn’t mean storms won’t come. Rather, a life with faith knows that because of God, there’s always a way through it. Those storms won’t always be something we can defeat or avoid through the many choices we have to make everyday. But during those moments when we’re above the water or when we sink far below, we aren’t going through this life alone. Our best days and our worst days aren’t the only things that define us. Jesus promised to Peter – and he promises to us – that God already has a hold on you. Faith doesn’t mean we won’t ask questions or have doubts or need signs that grace, goodness, and hope really do exist in our world. Faith, however, trusts that all our sadness and grief and anxiety and happiness and fear are things God has experienced too. Life is what happens when we’re experiencing joy and sorrow all at the same time. And if faith was only about the result, then Jesus’ initial presence on the water should have been enough to still that storm. That storm, though, kept raging until Jesus reached out, caught Peter, and they both fell back into the boat. Jesus doesn’t want Peter to trust the results of faith – results that will never meet his expectations since our human assumptions and points are way too small and narrow. Rather Jesus wants those who follow him to recognize the foundational promise they already have. Because of the Cross, through your baptism, and because Jesus has already chosen you – we know and can trust that God will never let you go. 

Amen.

Now when Jesus heard [of the beheading of John the Baptist], he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled, and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.

Matthew 14:13-21

My sermon from the 10th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 2, 2026) on Matthew 14:13-21.

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So I’m curious: what’s your favorite part of a meal? 

I’ll admit on most days, I don’t eat many meals. I consume a lot of my food while standing in the kitchen or staring at some kind of screen. My eating is primarily focused on staying alive and avoiding all that comes with caffeine withdrawal. But one of the gifts God has given me are lots of family members and friends who know how satisfying meals can be. They are the ones who live to eat and know how to cook, craft, and embrace the magic that happens when we gather with our friends and our loved ones around a table. Meals happen in restaurants filled with foods we can’t even pronounce as well as in backyards with only a few hamburgers, grilled corn, and ice cream. Meals include a lot of eating but also extend into the planning, cooking, and cleaning that’s required to make them happen. A meal is how we get to know who people truly are and become a foretaste of what our future together might be. Some of the best meals we’ll ever had cost hundreds of dollars and involved traveling far from home. Yet some of the most memorable include only a few neighbors and whatever change we find under the couch cushions. Meals change who we are in ways we don’t always immediately recognize or understand. So I’m curious: what’s your favorite part of a meal? 

Now one of the very fun things about Jesus is that he rarely ever turned down a meal. He regularly gathered with friends, strangers, and even those who didn’t like him to eat, drink, and talk.  One of the main complaints leveled against Jesus was the fact he broke bread with people the religious, spiritual, and faithful pushed aside. And when Jesus reclined at the table with the people he shouldn’t, the crowds and as well as his disciples didn’t always know how to handle it. The meals Jesus participated in didn’t always include a physical table and our reading today from the gospel according to Matthew began in a place where the supplies for any kind of dinner party were very far away. Jesus, we’re told, retreated to a deserted place after learning his friend John the Baptist was executed by those in power. Jesus’ public ministry began, according to Matthew, when John was arrested after speaking out against political leaders who cared only about themselves. Their corruption and greed compelled them to harm the most vulnerable and fragile in the community. Some supported these leaders because they valued the status quo or wanted their leaders to harm those they couldn’t stand. Others, though, supported John and his popularity kept increasing even while behind bars. Those in charge, then, decided it was time to end his story once and for all. And so Jesus, in response, got on a boat to find a place where he could be alone. I imagine he, at the time, was very concerned about his own safety and the safety of those around him. He also needed time to mourn the death of his friend. The eating Jesus planned to do, I assume, was focussed primarily on trying to survive since a biblical wilderness doesn’t have any of the things we build for our own safety and comfort. Word, however, soon spread about what Jesus was up to and his retreat from the world became everyone else’s destination. Matthew doesn’t tell us why people tracked Jesus down and it’s possible some came thinking they could help keep Jesus safe. Others, though, had heard from their family and friends what Jesus was all about and they came seeking that wholeness for themselves or for the person they carried to him. Jesus, who wanted to be alone, was greeted by people who needed help. And so he gave everything he had to a crowd full of fragile and vulnerable people. 

We don’t know how long Jesus spent showing others compassion but I assume the need kept growing. When darkness drew near, the disciples urged Jesus to call it a day because asking people who were suffering to spend a night in the desert without food or shelter wasn’t a very loving thing to do. For Jesus’ friends, the most merciful thing they could do was encourage the crowd to turn around while the sun was still in the sky. Jesus, though, doesn’t believe mercy should ever be delayed since those who are in pain shouldn’t have to wait for other people’s intervention to come. And this, I think, is the moment when we also discover the part of the meal Jesus loved the most. Jesus does choose to immediately respond to the needs of those around him by making sure they have something to eat. But he also knew that meals mattered too. In the words of Professor Matthew Skinner, “we would have a different story if Jesus …[instructed] the crowds to come forward and take their loaves and fish from a central distribution point. More different still if a full plate magically materialized in front of each person.” The giving of food is vital for those who are hungry. Yet Jesus knows that a future full of life, wellness, and hope rely on the connections and relationships at the heart of the kingdom of God. Jesus, in Matthew, doesn’t do everything himself. He invites those who follow him to “[look] again and again into hopeful and delighted eyes as they move from one hungry body to the next.” The moments they shared with each person wouldn’t be the same since I’m sure some would be quiet, others would talk, and still more wouldn’t believe what they were being given. Some of those who were fed would be able to reach their hands out to grab what the disciples gave. But many would need the disciples to bend down and feed those without the strength or ability to do it themselves. And what the disciples shared in the midst of all the silence, awe, wonder, and words was more than enough to help them through whatever came next. 

So when it comes to the meals, maybe it’s the eating, the cooking, or who you’re with that’s your favorite part. Maybe it’s the stories, jokes, and words that make that meal what it’s supposed to be. Meals can be so loud that we can’t even hear ourselves think. But they can also be extremely quiet since being together might be the only thing that needs to be said. Our favorite meals might involve coming home with twelve tupperwares full of leftovers we consume before they go bad. And they’re also the experiences that remind us we truly belong during those moments in life when the night feels way too long. Meals are how we make care and compassion real in our lives and in our world. And since we – through baptism and in faith – have been brought to the eternal meal Jesus has already set for us, we get to show our families, friends, neighbors, and even strangers the welcome, grace, and love that makes us who Jesus knows we can be. 

Amen.

[Jesus] put before them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.”

He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and reburied; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

“Have you understood all this?” They answered, “Yes.” And he said to them, “Therefore every scribe who has become a disciple in the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”

Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

My sermon from the 9th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 26 2026) on Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52.

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So even though I know how to follow a recipe, I don’t really know what a “measure of flour” actually means. I’m familiar with cups, tablespoons, pints, quarts, and weighing ingredients on a scale. But measuring a measure is a metaphor that is slightly over my head. I’m sure most of us know what it’s like when a metaphor doesn’t connect in the way it should. We’re left feeling a bit dumb we don’t get it or confused why others don’t see things the way we do. One metaphor isn’t always enough to break through which is why, I think, Jesus used a lot of different kinds of metaphors to describe the kingdom of God. Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew gives us a taste of what it must have been like listening to Jesus speak. The crowds around him were often very diverse – full of merchants, fishermen, farmers, shepherds, slaves, servants, the sick, the healthy, the faithful, the doubters, men, women, old, young, those who worked in their home, and those without one. Not everyone was excited to see Jesus speak and most didn’t become his disciples immediately he preached and shared. Jesus, though, wanted everyone to experience what it means when God’s kingdom comes near and so he used many different metaphors as a way to let his stories linger in their minds and souls. As we listened to these words, the mustard seed or pearl or the net might have been the image that spoke to you. But for me, it was the dough that made me pause and wonder. 

Now most of Jesus’ stories contain a setting, a plot, a cast of characters, and a few verbs. And while those details are easier to see in the longer stories Jesus told, this one sentence about a woman baking bread can still be enough. For thousands of years, people have noticed something happens when a little piece of old dough is left on the kitchen counter. When given enough time and a little moisture, the old dough expands and changes while its carbohydrates are converted into gassy bubbles. This fermented dough can then be used to transform freshly made dough into bread that is bigger, flufflier, and delicious. This process is how dough is leavened and, when used as a metaphor in our Bible, is typically seen as a bad thing. Yet in Jesus’ story, this process is a good thing because it describes what the kingdom of God looks like. It wasn’t until the 1800s that we finally identified the  microscopic fungus, aka yeast, that makes this fermentation happen. But folks in Jesus’ day knew that the sticky, wet, and smelly batch left to fend for itself in our kitchens could create a lighter bread that was fun to eat. We have our own starter dough at home or maybe we’ve made it during those moments when bread making becomes a very trendy thing to do. But based on the number of bread machines that are donated to our Trash and Treasure rummage sale every year, we prefer to focus on the crusty bread rather than the process itself. But, for Jesus, it isn’t the end that defines what God’s kingdom is. Rather, God’s kingdom is the source and start of everything that comes next. 

And what comes next is always meant to be a lot. I learned while preparing for today’s sermon that in our current context, a measure of flour is 1 cup. Yet in the ancient world, a measure of flour was a whole lot more. According to scholars, that measure would have weighed between 20 and 60 lbs. The amount of dough in Jesus’ story was incredible and it would have been handled by a person who didn’t have a commercial motorized mixer. She would have done everything by hand and it began by taking a tiny bit of yeast and hiding it within a mountain of flour bigger than her. Jesus doesn’t tell us why she’s making this huge pile of dough but we know it must have been for something that was immediately about to happen  since she wouldn’t be able to set any of it aside. It sounds as if she is making bread for a kind of gathering her entire village could go to. And what that gathering might be is something we get to decide for ourselves. Maybe she was getting ready for a wedding, celebrating a joyous event where her child was invited to make a household all their own. Or maybe grief was stirring in everyone’s heart while they prepared to host a feast in memory of someone who had made an incredible difference in their lives. As she worked the dough by hand, we can imagine her kitchen was full of words while people shared stories, laughed, cried, and talked about what was about to come. When the dough was finally mixed, it would need time to rest and so the rest of her life would go on as she took care of her family, friends, and everything else the world brought her way. But once the dough was fully leavened, the baking could begin. And once the loaves were crispy and fresh, a feast would be shared with all. 

We often imagine, I think, that every word, verse, and story in our Bible should be able to answer whatever questions we have. Yet I wonder if Jesus’ parables are sometimes less about answering a question and more about showing who our God chooses to be. We want the so-called kingdoms that make up our lives – such as our families, our homes, our neighborhoods, and every community we’re a part of to appear strong and good. They should be full of joy and working towards an outcome that matches what we think it means to be successful and true. Only the messy bits of life that lead to something positive should ever be on display. When folks view our life from afar, they should be envious of how good our life appears. It’s a way of life that focuses on the end results others see. And the stuff that makes us vulnerable, fragile, imperfect, and truly human are the things we’re supposed to hide. Yet it’s in those hidden bits of life where, according to Jesus, God’s kingdom is found. God’s kingdom will always be messy since it’s in that mess where love, care, mercy, and compassion are shared. It’s through our tears and laughter, our confidence and confusion, our fears and joys, where God’s presence, power, and persistence breaks through those kingdoms we try to build on our own. And while we often want our life to be less smelly, and way less funky that it is, it’s through the mess where we discover how beloved we already are. It isn’t the feast at the end that defines what being with our God is all about. Rather, it’s in the everyday things that feel hidden – such as grace and hope – where our eternal life is found. There is no one single metaphor that can fully measure or express God’s vision for our lives and our world. Yet, in baptism and through faith, the yeast of God’s kingdom is already in you. And it’s bubbling out in the welcome, the mercy, and the love we share. 

Amen.

[Jesus] put before [the crowd] another parable: “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field, but while everybody was asleep an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No, for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest, and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’ ”

Then he left the crowds and went into the house. And his disciples approached him, saying, “Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field.” He answered, “The one who sows the good seed is the Son of Man; the field is the world, and the good seed are the children of the kingdom; the weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are angels. Just as the weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!

Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

My sermon from the 8th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 19, 2026) on Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43.

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So one of the most common themes we see in superhero stories is the double life they lead. They, on one hand, can throw an asteroid into the sun but can’t fight back when the school bully tries to take their lunch money. The Superman films from the 1970s were very good at showcasing these moments in a rather funny way. Lois Lane, for example, once went to a gym to work out and Clarke Kent – aka Superman – went with her. A few gym rats tried to impress her by showing how strong they were while Clarke acted like he couldn’t lift a dumbbell. However, when Ms. Lane wasn’t looking, Superman tossed a bar covered in weights onto the tough guy who couldn’t believe what happened. The most common reason why heroes pretended to be something they weren’t was as a way to keep their families and friends safe. If villains knew where Ms. Marvel went to school, they could harm her classmates at Coles Academy in Jersey City. Those who were a bit more visible like the Fantastic Four or Black Panther used their wealth and power to shield those they were closest too. Yet every hero wrestled with what it means to be human when they couldn’t turn off their powers. Superheroes live a double life stopping Thanos from destroying the universe while making sure they pay their rent on time. a kind of double life that was always complicated. And I wonder if today’s words from the gospel according to Matthew might show us the kind of double life we live too.

Now whenever we listen to one of the stories Jesus told, we shouldn’t immediately try to solve it. Jesus is, I think, inviting us to sit with his words as a way to see God more clearly. It’s why, I think, Jesus often used vivid images from nature and agriculture as a way to illustrate how God’s kingdom doesn’t operate like the kingdoms we work so hard to build and maintain. He wants us to step into his words; sit in a field full of wheat and weeds; and notice all the amber waves of grain. However, the kind of wheat Jesus was describing doesn’t match the same kind of wheat we use today. 2000 years ago, wheat stalks in the ancient Near East were 50% taller with tough husks surrounding each grain. When the stalks were disturbed, the husks would fall easily since that’s how the plant – in the wild – liked to spread. The wheat in Jesus’ day was taller, more fragile, and way harder to turn into flour. And when a field was weeded or harvested, a lot of the good stuff was harmed in the process. Weeds, of course, are always a problem and we’d love to dig them out before they interfere with the wheat’s chance to grow. But just like the wheat in Jesus’ day wasn’t the same kind of wheat we see today, it’s possible the weed was different too. The weed could have been a kind that wrapped itself around each stalk, making it impossible to remove without destroying the wheat. Or the weed Jesus was pointing to was the kind that looked like wheat until it was fully grown. If we had the choice, we’d want a field where wheat and weed could be easily identified and separated. We’d desire – or seek out – a kind of checklist showing all the weeds and the wheat at every part of its growing journey. Maximizing the amount of wheat is, after all, what a farmer is supposed to do. Yet the field Jesus described was one where removing any of the bad before the end would also end up destroying what is good before it even had a chance to grow.

And that, of course, feels a bit frustrating. Every field – the literal ones we sow and the metaphorical ones that represent ourselves, our lives, and our communities – are places where we want what is good and what is bad to be easily discerned. We know that life is often full of weeds and we are sometimes the people who plant them. Yet we hope, pray, and believe that at the end of the day, it’s the wheat that defines our lives. When the wheat and weeds are easy to see, life might be difficult but it still feels like something we can live through. But when our ability to distinguish between wheat and weeds breaks down, anxiety grows. We know that there is no perfect field and it’s reasonable, as well as very human, to know we won’t get everything right. But I find it interesting that when Jesus was asked to interpret his own story, he didn’t focus on the field. He doesn’t define people, communities, or life as the sum of its parts. Rather, it’s wheat – and wheat alone – that has an eternal future with God. I’ll admit that word is a bit hard to hold since that isn’t how we define ourselves. We are – and always assume – we should be valued by the sum of our story, history, abilities, and experiences. We see ourselves less as wheat and weed and more like a bundle – all mixed up while doing our best to be who we can be in a world that is full of incredible highs and heartbreaking lows. And while our culture, our world, and even the church has surrounded us with a deep list of what we can think, say, and do to become wheat, we’re never simply that one thing. We are complicated and we live a double kind of life where we do what we should and what we shouldn’t all at the same time. The field or a bundle or something mixed up but trying its best is the image we hold for ourselves. But wheat only being wheat and weeds only being weeds is the kind of binary distinction we wield against others but don’t imagine for ourselves.

I wonder, though, if the rush to make Jesus’ metaphor into something it isn’t might cause us to miss the promise Jesus declared. Even though there are weeds in the field, Jesus doesn’t let the wheat be trampled. Rather, it grows because love, grace, compassion, and hope is something our lives – and our world – always needs. Even though our ability to discern what is a weed and what is wheat is often disrupted by all the lists we create that say success, worthiness, and goodness looks a certain, God’s hasn’t. And a God willing to laugh, cry, and bleed when cut; a God willing to listen, to mourn, to recognize what we think is worthy of love and set a table for those we push aside instead – is a God who won’t let our doubled lives be the limit of what life can be. God’s promises are never partial nor are they designed to only speak into parts of our lives. Rather, the life we live is met by the promise God made in baptism and through faith that you are, regardless of the weeds you’ve planted, also wheat. This is different from saying we’re no longer weed-like since we’re still going to act as if compassion, mercy, and love is always a limited resource. Rather, when God named you beloved, you were granted a new identity as the hands and feet of the One who had nails driven into them for the benefit of all. The doubled life we lead is not merely trying to turn weeds into wheat by finding a special checklist of what is holy and true. It is, rather, about trusting you don’t have to be the only hero of your story since Jesus’ promise is always more than enough. The God who loves you, the God who is with you, and the God who was willing to experience not only the wheat and weeds of life but how we can be that wheat and weed too – knows you are already worthy of the promise God has made to you. And if Jesus has been a Christ to us – then the least we can do is embrace the wheat we are by being a Christ – with welcome, compassion, mercy, hope, and love – to others too.

Amen.