Author: MASadmin

“For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. After agreeing with the laborers for a denarius for the day, he sent them into his vineyard. When he went out about nine o’clock, he saw others standing idle in the marketplace, and he said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went. When he went out again about noon and about three o’clock, he did the same. And about five o’clock he went out and found others standing around, and he said to them, ‘Why are you standing here idle all day?’ They said to him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard.’ When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, ‘Call the laborers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.’ When those hired about five o’clock came, each of them received a denarius. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received a denarius. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, saying, ‘These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.’ But he replied to one of them, ‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for a denarius? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?’ So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Matthew 20:1-16

My sermon from the 17th Sunday after Pentecost (September 20, 2026) on Matthew 20:1-16.

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So I find myself doing something I haven’t done in over two decades – and that’s paying attention to high school sports. My athletic career was very short and I knew a few of the talented athletes at my school who hoped to play in college and beyond. I, however, was completely clueless about how many goals they scored, what their personal best for the breast stroke was, and even if their team had a shot at making the playoffs. The world, though, has changed and information about any athlete can be found with a few simple swipes on our phones. Before the stadium lights are turned off after a Friday night football game, the score and all the stats are uploaded to a variety of websites. Every result, every completion, every highlight, and every mistake becomes available for all to see. This score keeping is more than noticing who won and who lost. It’s also used as a public record for whatever future the athlete is trying to build. All the scholarships, all the attention, the recruitment, and feeling as if we’re winning at who we want to be shapes how we see ourselves and others. If we’re not too careful, this kind of score keeping shows up in other areas of our lives too. The interactions and experiences we have with our partners, our families, our jobs, and our communities ends up evolving into something we’re trying to win. We keep score by noticing what we’ve done, what we’ve thought, what our intentions were, as well as what’s been done to us. And we hold in our hearts a scorecard listing all points we feel we’ve earned. When others who we believe have a lower score than us end up living the life we want, we grow angry, fearful, and very resentful. Keeping score turns life into a competition against everyone who comes our way. And when every situation and all our relationships turn into something we’re trying to win, this “us vs them” attitude consumes who God calls us to be. 

Now one of the keys to understanding our reading from the gospel according to Matthew is to remember the question Jesus was responding to. A young person had, in the chapter right before this one, asked Jesus: “What good deed must I do to have eternal life?” It’s a question that, to me, sounds like score keeping. He wanted to know what he could do to rack up points with the divine. We often treat this young person’s question as a sign of how low his score truly was. But when we’ve lost our purpose and are living through situations that break our hearts – finding that one thing we can grab to guarantee our connection with the divine is a very human thing to do. Jesus answered by reminding them to follow the commandments, especially those around how we treat one another. The young person responded that their score, in that regard, was already very high since they’ve been doing that all their life. Jesus, then, kept talking and told this young person to sell everything they owned and give that money to the poor. This was a step too far and the one who asked the question walked away filled with grief. The disciples, who witnessed the whole conversation, didn’t know what to think because they didn’t think the young person had lied. For them, following God should lead to the kind of security, comfort, and peace similar to what wealth did in a world where most had no idea where their next meal was coming from. When we run up our score with God, we expect some tangible benefit to come our way. Yet the righteous one with the score we want, ended up turning himself away instead. 

Jesus, then, told a story about how God keeps score. And it began with a landowner showing up at the ancient version of a  Home Depot Parking Lot. Everyone gathered in that place were looking to feed themselves and their families but we shouldn’t assume everyone was exactly the same. Some were those who had the skills and physical capacity to till the land, dig ditches, and plant the seeds. Others, though, were the ones we would never hire in the first place. The landowner, most likely, picked the ones who were always picked, and agreed to pay them the usual daily wage. Yet as the day grew long, the landowner returned to the lot over and over again promising to pay “whatever was right” while hiring everyone in sight. The first, second, and maybe even the third group who were picked knew what it was like to work in all kinds of fields. Those, however, who were hired last might have never worked in a field at all. When the day was done and everyone came to be paid, we know which workers had the higher score. The ones who were there at the beginning should, out of fairness, receive the greater reward. But rather than being fair, the landowner chooses to be generous. I’m sure those who were hired last were thrilled to receive a full day’s wage. Yet those who did most of the heavy lifting couldn’t believe those who were so undeserving received the same as them. According to the scores we keep, only one group of workers should have come out ahead. The landowner, though, chose to pay less attention to the scores we hold in our hearts and more to what they had the power to give. 

Now when it comes to keeping score, we track things other than simply the work we and others do. We also have all kinds of stats around every slight, every disagreement, and everything that has ever made us feel anything less than we imagine ourselves to be. The interactions we have with others become, for us, a kind of competition we desperately want to win. These scores we keep regularly involve our partners, our children, our families, and even our closest friends. We’re not always honest admitting the things we track. Yet whatever feels unfair lingers deep in our bones. Generosity should be about making things right and affirming the high scores we believe we’ve earned. But like those who worked the entire day in Jesus’ story, we can’t imagine how those with a lower score should ever be equal to us. God, though, doesn’t keep score like we do and noticing what God pays attention to is a big part of a life with faith. We have, after all, a God willing to live and love, laugh and shed tears, as well as break bread with those who we assume are always beneath us. A Jesus who was constantly misunderstood and yet stayed with the disciples anyways and washed the feet of the one who would betray him – is a God who is something more than fair. God’s generosity doesn’t keep score like we do when it comes to who is worthy of grace, love, and care. Generosity looks at what it can give and chooses how everyone is worthy of these gifts too. We are, through baptism and faith, united with a God who never stops being generous with us. And if a generous God is willing to wipe away the scores we keep while on the Cross, then maybe we can change how we keep score too. 

Amen. 

Realizing that their father was dead, Joseph’s brothers said, “What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back in full for all the wrong that we did to him?” So they approached^[a] Joseph, saying, “Your father gave this instruction before he died, ‘Say to Joseph: I beg you, forgive the crime of your brothers and the wrong they did in harming you.’ Now therefore please forgive the crime of the servants of the God of your father.” Joseph wept when they spoke to him. Then his brothers also wept,^[b] fell down before him, and said, “We are here as your slaves.” But Joseph said to them, “Do not be afraid! Am I in the place of God? Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today. So have no fear; I myself will provide for you and your little ones.” In this way he reassured them, speaking kindly to them.

Genesis 50:15-21

My sermon from the 16th Sunday after Pentecost (September 13, 2026) on Genesis 50:15-21.

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It’s never easy to jump into the end of a story but that’s sort of what we’re doing today in our first reading from the book of Genesis. The entire arc of Joseph’s life is thirteen chapters long and a lot of stuff happened before he made a promise to his brothers and their children. Any summary of this story is going to leave out a lot of details. But when we put these verses back into scripture, their meaning becomes a little more full. Joseph was the 11th son of a man named Jacob and his great-grandfather was Abraham. Abraham grew up in modern day Iraq and was called by God to build a home in what is now Israel, Syria, Jordan, and parts of Egypt. Abraham’s household was nomadic, traveling from place to place with large herds of sheep and goats. Abraham was the one who received from God the promise that his descendants would outnumber the stars and it would be through his family that the entire world would be blessed. Abraham, though, also tried to sacrifice his own son which reminds us how the holiest of families can be pretty messy. This drama continued two generations later when it became obvious to everyone that Joseph was Jacob’s favorite. One of Joseph’s talents was the ability to interpret dreams and so when he shared with his older brothers a dream where they all would bow down to him, they conspired to murder him. They took him out into the desert and threw him into a pit. But instead of ending his life, they chose to change his future by selling him into slavery to a merchant traveling by. The brothers told their dad that a wild animal had killed his favorite son. Yet Joseph, at the time, was being brought to Egypt and he was sold to an official working for the Pharoah. His time within that household was full of its own kind of drama and he was eventually tossed into prison. It just so happened that at that time the Pharaoh was tormented by dreams no one could explain. He heard about Joseph and demanded he tell him what these dreams might mean. Joseph did exactly that and the Pharaoh soon trusted Joseph’s words. The Pharaoh kept Joseph as his own personal slave but gave him the power and authority to tell others what to do. After interpreting another of the Pharoah’s dreams as a plan for how the kingdom could thrive during an upcoming famine, Joseph became the Pharoah’s second in command. Joseph was still enslaved and he couldn’t do whatever he wanted. Yet it wasn’t uncommon in the ancient world for those enslaved to be given all kinds of power. When the famine came, Joseph’s brothers soon ran out of food. They heard, though, that Egypt was full of food. They arrived in the kingdom as a kind of refugee and they went to see the important official in charge. They didn’t recognize the one who was giving all the orders but Joseph recognized them. After some back and forth, he finally revealed who he was. Joseph reunited with his father and invited everyone to build a new home for themselves within Egypt’s borders. It appeared as if everyone was going to be okay and that their relationship had been repaired. But when their father died, the brothers weren’t sure if Joseph’s friendly behavior would last. They were worried Joseph would seek out the righteous justice he deserved. Joseph, though, forgave them and invited them into the kind of future they tried to take away from him. 

Now it sounds as if Joseph’s story turned out okay. And even though his brothers turned on him and he ended up spending years as someone else’s slave, he became incredibly successful. Not only was he Pharoah’s right-hand man, he even convinced all free Egyptian citizens to pledge their loyalty to him. His years of suffering were capstoned by an incredible abundance he was allowed to share. His words to his brothers – that even though they intended to do him harm, God intended it for good – can feel like an appropriate summary for everything that had come before. And these words have sometimes been a source of comfort when we are going through all kinds of terrible moments too. When life gets hard and tomorrow looks bleak, we want to trust that there’s a holy purpose behind all the grief and sadness. This is one of the ways we try to find meaning out of all the things that happen to us. When we step back and look at the bigger picture of our lives, we look for the ways God leads us through all the good times and the bad. We might not end up with the kind of wealth, power, and prestige needed to change our family’s future but we hope to find a reason for why our life was lived. And that reason is often defined by the various outcomes for those we love. When we say things like “God is love” or “God is good,” we want these proclamations to be visible in our lives and in our world. And so our words about God can grow into being very focused on the outcomes we want with God. And when these outcomes become what we assume faith is all about, we might begin to wonder what our life might be like if we truly believed. 

I wonder, though, if this focus on outcomes might make faith way too small. Joseph’s story is powerful but it can be used to act as if suffering, pain, and grief is God’s plan for our lives. I’m not sure if those in Joseph’s story who ended up in prison and who suffered and who died would be perfectly okay with their outcomes even though Joseph’s family was saved. I don’t believe God views life to be that expendable as long as the right outcome takes place. A God who treats creation and human beings as merely pieces in some kind of game isn’t the God who would choose to experience the outcomes that show up in our lives everyday. The outcome of having friends abandon us while we’re harmed or in pain; the outcome of noticing how much pain is in the world and weeping at a loved one’s tomb; the outcome of being met by a divine silence while seeking a sign we’re not alone; and the outcome of being truly human while doing everything we can to pretend we are not. If God only looked at our outcomes, then the outcomes that break our heart would be meaningless to God. God, though, truly cares and God knows that the outcomes from our relationships, our career, our families, and everything else won’t always match our hopes and dreams. You are not expendable to God nor does God love you less just because you don’t have access to Joseph’s power, authority, or wealth. God did not force his brothers’ to try and end his life nor does the outcome of his story justify all the pain and suffering within it. God, instead, refused to let us be the limit of what our future can be. And the vision God has for our lives is one that is always more life-giving, more compassionate, more merciful, and more true. You, through baptism and in faith, are already wrapped up in the new chapter that’s still being written through Jesus’ resurrection and ascension. And while our lives are filled with outcomes that tear at our souls, the promise we have in God and through Jesus Christ knows we really will make it through. 

Amen. 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life,^[a] and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it.

John 1:1-5

My sermon from Creation in Christ Sunday (September 6, 2026).

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In 1989, the ecumenical patriarch of Constantinople – the spiritual leader of Eastern Orthodox Christians all around the world – invited the entire Christian community to pray for Creation. The Eastern Orthodox have, for centuries, set aside September 1st as a special day where they recognize Creation and Christ’s ministry within it. This “Feast of Indiction” was originally part of the civic calendar of ancient Rome, acknowledging the start of the harvest as well as the beginning of the imperial year. Like we have done with New Years Eve and New Years Day, Christians in the Greek speaking regions of the old Roman Empire integrated this civic celebration into their own calendar. They recognized how the harvest represents the kind of order God brings into the world. And while we often talk about creation in April around the celebration of Earth Day, our church calendar doesn’t intentionally point out how God’s work in creation is why we’re here in the first place. So in 2024, scholars and leaders from a variety of denominations and traditions began to explore what it might look like to add an Eastern Orthodox Feast day into the ways we tell time. These feast days are always more than pointing to something special or as a way to pray about a specific need in our world. A feast day – like Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, and the Ascension – is always a recognition that God’s work of salvation is still going on. This work, though, doesn’t happen in a vacuum and it’s in the universe we actually live in where God’s love meets and claims us as God’s own. 

Now the gospel reading assigned for this proposed feast Day includes the very first five verses from the gospel according to John. These verses are often described as the “The Prologue” since they’re about the beginning before the beginning actually began. Before there was Christmas and before the magi brought gifts of frankincense, gold, and myrrh to baby boy; before a twelve year old Jesus ran away from his parents to hang out in the Holy Temple during the celebration of  Passover; before Jesus began his public ministry after hearing how his friend John the Baptist – not gospel writer – had been arrested; and before the women discovered an empty tomb – this Prologue invites us back to the foundation of it all. Its opening words are the same words that began the Greek translation of the book of Genesis that early Christians used within their own worshipping communities. These words were not meant to simply be a generic intro for Jesus’ story. John wanted to proclaim how even before the universe took shape, Jesus was part of it all. And while the book of Genesis imagines this time as a kind of cosmic soup full of chaos, disorder, a void, and some kind of water before rivers, oceans, and the sky exist – John introduces us to “the Word.” There are quite a few different theories about what exactly this Word might be since it first appeared as a philosophical concept in Greece around the year 500 BCE. John, though, provides his own definition since he identified Jesus as it during the act of creation itself. Dr. Karoline Lewis, in her commentary about this gospel, wrote “God is about creating, about life, about abundant-life. God is a life-giver at every turn in this story. And, as it turns out, so is Jesus.” And this life giving – this Word – is, itself, a creating act itself. For John, Jesus’ ministry wasn’t a bunch of words telling us what life might be like if our love matched the love God always offers us. Rather, what Jesus does is creation itself. New life, new birth, and new ways of being in the world represents the heart of Jesus’ work. And this work is intimately tied to who God chooses to be. The threefold claim within the very first verses of John reveal not only where Jesus is from and how he is God in the world – but also how Jesus’ relationship with the divine and with all creation is the same kind of relationship he has with us. To be with Jesus is to be wrapped up in the ongoing work of creation itself. And while the universe did eventually grow to be filled with all kinds of stars and planets, insects and animals, as well as way too many to do lists, heartbreaks, griefs, and joys – God’s light still shines and Jesus is at the heart of it all. 

The Feast of Creation in Christ, however, is about more than just us. We, after all, have plenty of feast days – Pentecost, Christmas, Reformation, All Saints – that remind us of who Jesus chooses to be. A Jesus who was born; a Jesus who was taken care of; a Jesus whose feet were covered in dust while walking from place to place and who knows what it’s like to laugh and shed tears knows how full life can be. If we could, through our own intelligence, will, strength of character, and ability align our lives with the divine, then all we’d need from God are a few words to light our way. Yet even our best and most faithful choices can fail to embrace the love God grants us every day. So God brought new life into our lives by living life as we know it to be. But God’s involvement in creation isn’t only for those who can share way too many words on scrolls, in books, and through our phones. Jesus wasn’t only here for people; Jesus is also for everything that makes creation exactly what it is. And when John proclaimed all things came through Him, that included the trees, mountains, forests, and even weeds growing out of the cracks in the sidewalk. Jesus’ journey to the Cross wasn’t only for those who could articulate Jesus’ story. God’s commitment to creation also extends to those bits of the universe that don’t even know people exist. 

It’s not always easy to recognize how Creation is always bigger than us. Even though we’re a part of it, we act as if we’re meant to be above or beyond it. However, every storm that comes our way, every natural disaster that devours our soul, and even those moments when we patiently wait for the tomatoes in our garden to finally turn red, we are suddenly reminded how small we actually are. A towering tree, a giant blue whale, a beetle rolling on the ground, and star light that is hundreds of thousands of years old before we even see it – all of this is a vivid reminder how we are created too. The God who made you in God’s own image also refused to give us our own private day of creation in the opening words of Genesis. We aren’t, I think, meant to assume we are the center of Creation’s story. Rather, since Jesus is already at the center of everything that has and will be made – every life can become more full and true. The fish in the Woodcliff Lake Reservoir; the leaf on the tree that has slowly begun to change color; the groundhog under our shed, and the geese taking way too long to wander through our parking lot are not something we are supposed to dominate or control. Instead, they are – like us – intimately connected to the divine and they also have a God who promises to never let us go. 

Amen.

From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes and be killed and on the third day be raised. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance[a] to me, for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any wish to come after me, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?
“For the Son of Man is to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay everyone for what has been done. Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

Matthew 16:21-28

My sermon from the 14th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 30, 2026).

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One of the things I’m grateful for is how Sunday always comes. Regardless of whatever happened during the week, we get to gather and know Jesus is with us. It doesn’t matter if the last few days were filled with laughter and joy or left us with a hole in our soul we know we will never fill – Sunday is right there for us. And while I know not every Sunday feels as special as we’d like it to be, Sundays are always a tangible reminder that God has already written a new chapter for you. Sundays are amazing but they can also be a little scary since there’s always another sermon I need to write. This usually isn’t a problem since preaching is one of my favorite things. Yet it can become a little difficult when I’m fighting through a short summer cold. I’m feeling okay today but a combination of nasal congestion, brain fog, and extra strength cold medicine means I wrote most of this sermon while feeling completely spaced out. I’m sure many of us have had to give presentations or a speech when we know we’re not at our best. And there have been plenty of moments when we aren’t entirely sure we can trust the words coming out of our mouths. And when this happens, what we end up sharing usually reveals the stories, points of view, expectations, and assumptions we hold deep in our souls. When we’re too worn out to think and ponder and imagine that what we know might not be all there is to know – then the things we’ve learned from our families, communities, culture, and world become the truth we share instead. And even if an authoritative and trusted source told us that what we were saying wasn’t true, we wouldn’t actually be able to hear what they said. When our bodies, minds, and souls are worn down by all that life can bring, it’s hard to imagine that the default stories, ideas, and beliefs that make us who we are might limit who we get to be instead. 

Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew is part two of a story we began last week. Jesus and his friends were near the city of Ceasarea Phillippi and I imagine they weren’t quite sure why they were there. The city was, after all, founded by local leaders as a way to flatter the Roman Empire and a temple on a nearby hill celebrated the Roman Emperor’s so-called divinity. Jesus had, by this point, also developed the reputation of being a kind rabble rouser who kept proclaiming that a kingdom other than Rome had now come near. Peter and the other disciples knew that the area they were in wasn’t safe since those in power had recently executed John the Baptist for saying similar kinds of things. I imagine that the lack of safety and an anxious feeling of dread felt like a heavy weight on the shoulders of Jesus’ friends. Even though they had seen Jesus cure the sick, feed thousands with a few loaves of bread, and calm a storm – the threat of violence surrounded them. They tried their best to stay focused on the ministry of compassion, healing, and wholeness that Jesus practiced in all he said and did. But while wandering within view of a place embodying everything the Roman Empire represented, they were worried that something dangerous might be hiding around the bend. As they drew closer to the city, their fear and their anxiety grew – making it difficult to talk freely and openly. When Jesus asked them “who do you say that I am?,” their minds kept returning to those stories and ideas that were already a part of them. They didn’t have the energy, the space, or even the opportunity to imagine that what they know might not be the limit of what life could be. And so when Peter declared Jesus to be the Messiah, Jesus – rightly – praised him for an insight that he had received from above. Yet when Jesus began to tell Peter what he was about to go through, the default story Peter carried within him couldn’t trust that what Jesus was saying was actually true. 

We’re not 100% sure what exactly Peter disagreed with since the gospel writers never tell us and there wasn’t a Messiah checklist floating around 2000 years ago that everyone agreed with. But we get the sense that when people imagined God intervening in the world in this way, that it would resemble how power tends to operate in our world. Power, to him, was all about making other people do what you want. The Messiah wouldn’t only embody God’s healing and mercy; the Messiah would also do everything they could to push the Romans back into the sea. A Messiah would need to raise up an army and turn their disciples into commanders who would then conquer nations in the name of the Lord. A kingdom of heaven couldn’t be a kingdom unless it resembled all other kingdoms in the world. Peter’s Messiah would wield power over others rather than experience all the ways we use power to proclaim who has value and who doesn’t. And so when Jesus began to talk about how others would try their best to  overpower him, Peter couldn’t even hear what he said. While standing in view of a kingdom that assumed it was destined to rule the world, the story of how God would intervene in the world that gave Peter life required him to tell the Son of God that Jesus’ words weren’t true. Power over others was what life was all about. And a Messiah who acted otherwise couldn’t be the kind of Messiah the world actually needed. 

Now I wouldn’t be surprised if Peter didn’t realize how essential to his own identity the story of the Messiah had become. And that’s because we don’t always recognize how certain stories, ideas, and expectations shape who we understand ourselves to be. These are the words we assume are always true because we can’t imagine life existing in any other way. And they come to us through all the different ways our families, friends, communities, and world shows us who has value and who doesn’t. These default stories linger within us even when, through prayer and study, we’ve learned they aren’t necessarily true. Yet when our minds and bodies and souls are at their weakest, that’s when what’s deep inside begins to climb to the surface. The old ideas of who matters and who doesn’t; the old experiences of who is good and who should be pushed aside; the old realities of how power works in our world and what it means to have it; and what our life would really look like if we had God on our side – the things we cling onto when life becomes too much has a way of disrupting who God has invited us to become. Yet Jesus, after hearing Peter’s expectation for his life, doesn’t choose to cast him aside. Even after he calls him Satan, Jesus keeps Peter in the fold. Jesus reminds him that there’s something more than merely those old expectations that define us when our souls feel tired and worn. There’s something other than the words others have shared with us that shape who we get to be. God won’t let our expectations about goodness, mercy, and hope be the limit of the life we live. And while we often act as if our words, our experiences, our stories, and our choices represent the fullness of who we are, whose we are matters too. When our story isn’t enough, God’s story becomes the thing that holds us through. It’s  a story that knows how hard life can be and yet continues to write a new chapter where healing and wholeness shines. It’s a story that does not let the Crosses we build be the only power in our world. And when we are worn down to the point where we no longer remember who we are, Jesus reminds us that – in baptism and through faith – we already belong to him. You truly are a beloved child of God even on those days when that’s really hard to believe. And you carry within you a new story about a Jesus who will carry you through. 

Amen.

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.