This is the point in time that I think we are all just fed up with politicians and elections. It can’t be over soon enough! But it did get me wondering about the gospel reading* prescribed for this first Sunday in November, celebrated as “All Saints Day.” Jesus gave a powerful sermon we often refer to as “The Sermon on the Mount.” How might his teachings shape the way we think about the issues facing us today? *The Revised Common Lectionary gospel reading for this Sunday is Matthew 5:1-12
A cure for the worries of the day (and there seem to be plenty of things for us to worry about these days.) Visit a zoo… see it through the eyes of a child.
25 [Jesus said] “Therefore, I say to you, don’t worry about your life, what you’ll eat or what you’ll drink, or about your body, what you’ll wear. Isn’t life more than food and the body more than clothes?
26 Look at the birds in the sky. They don’t sow seed or harvest grain or gather crops into barns. Yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Aren’t you worth much more than they are?
27 Who among you by worrying can add a single moment to your life?
28 And why do you worry about clothes? Notice how the lilies in the field grow. They don’t wear themselves out with work, and they don’t spin cloth.
29 But I say to you that even Solomon in all of his splendor wasn’t dressed like one of these.
30 If God dresses grass in the field so beautifully, even though it’s alive today and tomorrow it’s thrown into the furnace, won’t God do much more for you, you people of weak faith?
31 Therefore, don’t worry and say, ‘What are we going to eat?’ or ‘What are we going to drink?’ or ‘What are we going to wear?’
32 Gentiles long for all these things. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them.
33 Instead, desire first and foremost God’s kingdom and God’s righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.
34 Therefore, stop worrying about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
Matthew 6:25-34 (CEB)
“Well, then,” [Jesus] said, “give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give to God what belongs to God.” His reply amazed them, and they went away. (Matthew 22:21-22)
I once visited an older couple and asked them what they thought was the secret to their happy, long marriage. The husband didn’t hesitate. “I learned early on to end every conversation with “Yes, dear.“
His wife immediately disagreed and proceeded to explain why that wasn’t really the secret at all. When she finished, her husband smiled and said, “Yes, dear.”
The last word.
I think many of us can relate to the desire to have the final say. We see it in everyday conversations, family disagreements, and especially on social media, where people can go back and forth endlessly, each determined to prove a point. Sometimes winning the argument seems more important than understanding one another.
As it turns out, the desire to get the last word isn’t anything new. Jesus encountered it, too.
The religious leaders wanted to trap Jesus with a question about taxes. Should God’s people pay taxes to Caesar, the Roman emperor? It was a clever trap. If Jesus said yes, he risked angering people who resented Roman occupation and the heavy taxes imposed on them. If he said no, he could be accused of challenging Roman authority.
They thought they had him!
But Jesus saw through their plan. He asked them to show him a coin and identify whose image was stamped on it. When they answered, “The emperor’s,” Jesus replied, “Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”
With that, he turned their question into something much bigger.
The coin bore the emperor’s image, but what bears the image of God? According to the creation story in Genesis, we do. Every human being is created in the image of God. Our lives are gifts from the One who created us.
So, what does it mean to give to God what belongs to God?
Well, it means that our ultimate allegiance belongs to God.
And if we call ourselves Christian, it means following the ways of Jesus.
This matters, especially in a time when political disagreements can feel so personal and divisive. It’s easy to become so invested in a political party, a particular leader, or the need to prove ourselves right that we completely lose sight of what matters most.
We want the last word.
We want to win.
We want others to see things our way.
But what if our faith calls us to something different?
Just a few verses later in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus identifies the greatest commandment:
Love God with all your heart, soul, and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.
Maybe rather than getting the last word, we ask ourselves, “Am I loving God and my neighbor in the way I respond?”
That doesn’t mean agreeing with everyone or remaining silent in the face of injustice. Love sometimes requires speaking up, challenging harmful ideas, and standing alongside those who are being hurt.
But we can do those things without surrendering our compassion or forgetting that every person bears God’s image.
Our hope for a better world is not found in political parties or our own desire to be right, but in the God who calls us to lives of faithfulness and love – Love for all.
Amen?
“Yes, dear!”
Be still in the presence of the Lord,
and wait patiently for him to act.
Don’t worry about evil people who prosper
or fret about their wicked schemes. Psalm 37:7 (NLT)
The following comes from a blog post I read today entitled “Finding Peace When Everything Feels Out of Control” by author Gretchen Rodriguez.
It not only speaks to me personally in this new chapter of my life, but also to the sense of helplessness many of us may be feeling amid all that is happening in the world.
“In God’s Kingdom, wisdom is sitting at his feet and waiting for his instructions when you’d rather run and make something happen. So, if you’ve been pressuring yourself to figure things out more than you’ve been waiting on and trusting in God, do yourself a favor and stop. You don’t need a backup plan. Jesus is the Good Shepherd who will lead you once you stop trying to lead yourself. You are not irresponsible just because you aren’t scrambling to figure everything out!
As our relationship with him deepens, our lives transform. Continually encountering God sets us free. This is the power of God’s love.”
So the servants went out into the streets and gathered all the people they could find, the bad as well as the good, and the wedding hall was filled with guests. (Matthew 22:10)
Weddings are delightful celebrations, but preparing for one can sometimes be a challenge. There are invitations to send, decisions about who to invite, RSVPs to track, venues to decide on, and, of course, the ever-important question: What am I going to wear?
A few years ago, I attended a wedding at a lovely event center in the middle of Iowa farmland. The setting was beautiful, with an outdoor area beside a pond and tall stalks of corn stretching into the distance. It was a perfect place for the celebration.
As I watched the wedding party gather, I found myself thinking about how much bridesmaids’ dresses have improved over the years. I also thought about the bridesmaids who stood beside me at my own wedding (and I owe them an apology for what I had asked them to wear!)
Weddings may have changed over the years, but the desire to celebrate love, gather our favorite people, and share a joyful occasion remains much the same.
Jesus tells a story in the gospel of Matthew about a king who prepares a wedding banquet for his son. When the invited guests refuse to come, the king sends his servants out again. Eventually, the invitation extends to everyone they can find, both good and bad, until the wedding hall is full.
It sounds like a wonderful celebration! But then the story takes a disturbing turn. One guest, who isn’t wearing the proper wedding garment, is thrown out into the darkness. The ending is unsettling, especially when we remember that this guest was asked to come from the streets without much warning at all.
What are we supposed to make of this story?
The stories in which Jesus talks about the kingdom of heaven aren’t always easy to understand. Sometimes they comfort us; sometimes they challenge us. And sometimes, as in this story, they leave us with more questions than answers.
Why does Jesus compare this wedding banquet to the kingdom of heaven? (In researching this, I discovered there are more “scholarly” explanations about this parable than there are ugly bridesmaid dresses…)
Who does the king represent? What are we to make of the guest who is cast out? Is this a story about judgment, about our response to God’s invitation, or about something else entirely?
Maybe the best place to begin is with the invitation itself.
The king’s servants go out into the streets and gather everyone they can find. The invitation isn’t limited to the people we expect: the people who have the “right” connections, or those most loyal to the king.
God’s invitation reaches beyond the boundaries we so often create:
Between insiders and outsiders,
the worthy and the unworthy,
the people who belong and those who are made to feel they don’t.
We humans are pretty good at deciding who belongs. We make judgments based on appearance, background, beliefs, past mistakes, and all sorts of other things.
Sometimes we even convince ourselves that we need to get our own lives in order before we can approach God.
But I think the heart of this message is not that we make ourselves worthy of God’s love.
It’s that God’s love comes to us first.
Martin Luther described this relationship as a wonderful, happy exchange. Through Christ, we receive the gifts of God’s grace, mercy, and righteousness, while Christ takes upon himself our sin, shame, and brokenness.
We don’t earn our place in God’s family – we simply belong.
We don’t have to pretend to be someone we’re not.
We don’t have to hide our doubts, disguise our struggles, or wait until we’ve become better versions of ourselves before we come to God.
We are invited as we are.
And if God’s invitation is wider than our own, how might that change the way we welcome others?
And if we truly believe that God’s love is for everyone, what might it look like to make room at our own tables for people who have been left out?
Here’s the good news I keep returning to: We are not loved by God because we are beautiful, worthy, or perfect.
We are beautiful because we are loved by God.
The invitation is already extended.
There is room at the table. For you. For them. For everyone.
[Jesus said,] “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33 NIV)
Flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror can trigger panic in me.
Immediately, my mind goes to: What did I do wrong?
Even when I discover that the police officer is simply reminding me that it’s getting dark and I need to turn on my headlights, I’ve already braced myself for bad news—a speeding ticket, a fine, a hit on my driving record.
Sometimes life feels a little like those flashing lights.
We look at the world and see so much that is difficult: division, violence, war, hunger, homelessness, economic uncertainty, people struggling with loneliness or simply trying to make it through another day. And then there are our own personal struggles, the things we worry about, the losses we carry, the relationships that are complicated, and the questions we don’t have answers for.
It can be overwhelming.
And it can test our faith.
And it can cause us to panic.
One thing I’ve learned in studying the teachings of Jesus is that Jesus doesn’t pretend suffering isn’t real. Jesus himself tells his disciples, “In this world you will have trouble.” He doesn’t offer them a promise that everything will be easy.
But also – he doesn’t stop there.
“Take heart! I have overcome the world.”
Yes, there is trouble.
And also yes, there is hope.
I don’t think that means just putting on a happy face or convincing ourselves that everything will work out exactly the way we want.
Hope can look directly at suffering and still believe that suffering isn’t the whole story.
Hope is the darkness of the cross – with the light of the resurrection.
The cross is real. The suffering is real. The grief is real. But the cross isn’t the end of the story.
Resurrection is.
That doesn’t make the difficult things disappear. If only!
But it does change the way we look at them.
It reminds us that death doesn’t get the final word, that brokenness doesn’t have to be permanent, and that, even in the darkest places, God’s love is still present.
“I look up to the hills, but where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121)
Sometimes “looking up” can sound like we’re being told to ignore what’s happening around us. I don’t think that’s what faith asks of us.
Looking up doesn’t mean looking away.
Maybe it simply means lifting our eyes long enough to remember that the crisis immediately in front of us isn’t the whole horizon.
And often, hope comes in very simple, ordinary ways.
A neighbor checking on someone who lives alone.
A smile or a kind word when it would be just as easy to ignore or even criticize that person.
A phone call to a friend – just to say hi.
Patience offered – when acting out of frustration would be easier.
A meal shared.
A listening ear.
We aren’t asked to fix everything.
But we can bring hope.
There are plenty of flashing lights in the world right now. Some of them deserve our attention.
Some of them may even be warning us that something needs to change.
Or that change is coming.
But maybe we don’t have to live in a constant state of panic.
We can look up.
We can remember that the story isn’t over.
Fear doesn’t win. Love does.
That’s God’s promise – and it’s for you.
And then we can look around again—with a little more hope, a little more courage, and perhaps a little more willingness to be a small light for someone else along the way.
Let your light shine.
“Now take your pay and go home. I want to give this man who was hired last as much as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do as I wish with my own money? Or are you jealous because I am generous?’” And Jesus concluded, “So those who are last will be first, and those who are first will be last.” (Matthew 20:14-16)
There are some things in life that make us want to stand up and say, “But that’s not fair!”
Even in the teachings of Jesus – the parable of the workers in the vineyard is one of them. Some workers labor all day long. Others arrive at the very end of the day, working only an hour. Yet when it is time to be paid, everyone receives the same amount.
We all learn the “rules of employment” with our first job. More hours of work should mean more pay. Eight hours of work deserves eight hours of pay; one hour deserves one hour. It’s only fair.
But Jesus turns our sense of fairness completely upside down.
In fact, the landowner deliberately pays the workers who arrived last first—making sure those who worked all day can see what is happening. And when they complain, the landowner asks, “Are you jealous because I am generous?”
It’s right there that I find myself thinking, yes, as a matter of fact, I am – it’s just not fair!
How often do we carry that same sense of “That’s not fair!” into our relationships? Someone has disappointed us and we find ourselves unable to let go of the resentment. Somewhere inside, we may think, If I have to suffer because of what they did, they ought to suffer, too.
But the words of Jesus ask something different of us.
Forgive.
That doesn’t mean we excuse harmful actions or ignore injustice.
But it does remind us to leave room for grace.
We are all recipients of grace we did not earn and forgiveness we did not deserve.
One of the reasons forgiveness is so difficult is that we rarely know the whole story. We see what someone has done. We experience how their actions have affected us. But we don’t necessarily see the wounds, circumstances, fears, or experiences that shaped them.
I learned something about this when I was about sixteen or seventeen years old.
My older brother helped coach a softball team, and I occasionally played with them. There was one player on the team who really rubbed me the wrong way. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but I thought she was bossy and negative. And one evening I told my brother exactly what I thought. I even suggested that perhaps he shouldn’t let her play.
Instead of agreeing with me, my brother became quiet. He knew some of her story — things I knew nothing about. Then he said something that has stayed with me for decades: “Before you go judging anyone, learn a little about them. She’s had a lot of pain in her life that you’ve never experienced. Give her a break.” Ouch.
I didn’t know the whole story.
The kingdom of God is not about keeping score. It is about grace.
We rarely know the pain that another person carries—
the wounds beneath their words,
the disappointments behind their choices,
or the quiet prayers they have whispered in the dark.
But God knows.
The grace that unsettles us may be the very mercy holding someone else together.
Amen?
Then Peter came to him and asked, “Lord, how often should I forgive someone who sins against me? Seven times?” “No, not seven times,” Jesus replied, “but seventy times seven! (Matthew 18:21-22 NLT)
“How many times should I forgive?”
That question is front and center in the Lectionary readings this week.
Peter, one of Jesus’ disciples, poses that very question. He seems to think he is being remarkably generous when he suggests seven times. And seven does sound like a lot. Surely there has to be a limit somewhere. If someone hurts me, I forgive them. If they hurt me again, I forgive them again. But eventually, enough is enough. Right?
Jesus’ answer is startling: not seven times, seventy times seven.
Wait – now I need a calculator to figure out how many times I should forgive someone?
The point, of course, isn’t that Jesus wants us keeping a forgiveness tally.
Forgiveness isn’t really about counting.
It is about how we live.
In Genesis, Joseph’s brothers are terrified that Joseph will finally take revenge for what they did to him years earlier. They had sold their own brother into slavery. Now, with their father dead, they fear that Joseph will retaliate.
Instead, Joseph tells them, in essence: You intended to harm me, but God has brought something good out of it.
I love that response.
But notice what Joseph is—and isn’t—saying.
He isn’t saying that what his brothers did was okay. (It wasn’t – it was heartless and cruel!) He isn’t pretending that the past didn’t happen. And he certainly can’t change what happened.
What he can do is refuse to let what did happen determine the rest of his life.
And perhaps that is one of the most important things about forgiveness.
C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Everyone says forgiveness is a lovely idea, until there is something to forgive.”
How true.
It is easy to talk about forgiveness in the abstract. I can admire Joseph’s generosity towards his brothers.
Until I’m the one who has been hurt.
Some things are easier than others to forgive. Someone says something thoughtless. Someone acts in a way that is a bit disappointing. Someone makes a mistake, but then genuinely tries to make things right.
But then, there are those things that we just can’t let go of!
The betrayal.
The rejection.
The cruelty.
The relationship that ended badly.
The words that cannot be taken back.
The person who never apologized.
Or – the thing we did to someone else that we really wish we could undo.
(Sometimes the person we most need to forgive is ourselves.)
So, what does Jesus mean when he tells us to forgive?
I don’t think he is telling us to forget.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending something didn’t happen. It doesn’t mean excusing cruelty, overlooking injustice, or putting ourselves back into a harmful situation. It doesn’t require reconciliation when reconciliation isn’t safe or possible.
Forgiveness is not saying, “What happened to me didn’t matter.”
Maybe it’s saying, “What happened to me will not have the final word.”
Anne Lamott puts it beautifully: “Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.”
We cannot go back and rewrite the story.
We can only decide what we will carry forward from it.
And this is where forgiveness becomes less a single decision and more a way of living. Sometimes we forgive in an instant. But I think, more often, it takes time.
We let go of the anger—and then discover some anger still remains.
We think we have forgiven—and then something reminds us of the hurt.
We pray for the grace to release it—and then we have to pray that same prayer again tomorrow.
That might be the reason for the strange number that Jesus gives Peter.
Because forgiveness isn’t a transaction. It’s a practice.
A way of loosening our grip on the past.
A way of refusing to spend the rest of our lives rehearsing old injuries, imagining revenge, or wishing we could have a different history.
And perhaps this is why forgiveness is so closely connected to freedom.
When we hold tightly to resentment, the person who hurt us can continue to occupy an enormous amount of space in our lives. They may be long gone, but the wound keeps taking up room.
Forgiveness doesn’t change what they did.
It changes what we do with what they did.
The same is true when we need to forgive ourselves.
Sometimes we hold ourselves hostage to an old version of who we were. We keep returning to the mistake, the failure, the words we wish we hadn’t spoken, the choice we wish we could undo.
But grace asks us to imagine something different.
What if we don’t have to keep paying for the same mistake forever?
What if God’s forgiveness means that we are allowed to become someone new?
Jesus taught us to pray this: Forgive us, as we forgive others.
And forgiven people are invited—not forced, not shamed, not rushed—to become people who are increasingly able to let go.
Sometimes forgiveness happens because we finally decide to put down something we’ve been carrying for far too long.
Sometimes it happens because we realize that holding onto it is costing us more than we ever imagined.
And sometimes – forgiveness is simply a prayer:
God, I am not ready to let this go. But I am willing to become willing.
And just maybe – that prayer is enough for today.
Amen.
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