In today’s Gospel, Jesus asks his disciples a question that he really only asked once, but it has been asked of every generation for the last 2,000 years. "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" And then, more pointedly, "Who do you say that I am?"
Peter answers with some of the most profound words anyone in the Gospels speaks. "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God." And Jesus tells him that mere flesh and blood did not reveal this to him. It came from the Father. It came from somewhere deeper than reasoning, deeper than some intellectual understanding. It must have come from that quiet place within where God speaks, and if we are still enough, we can hear him. And Peter heard that still, small voice. And Isaiah gives us some insight into how God works that might be helpful to us. Shebna, the palace official, is stripped of his office and his royal clothes because he used his position to build himself up instead of serving the people entrusted to him. And God raises up Eliakim in his place, clothes him, and gives him the key of the House of David on his shoulder. Whatever he opens, no one can shut. Whatever he shuts, no one can open. That same language of “the key” returns in the Gospel when Jesus hands Peter the keys of the kingdom of heaven. The pattern is consistent from Isaiah to Matthew. Real authority is never about elevating yourself. It is about opening doors for people who have been locked out! And here is where I have to be honest with you, because I cannot preach on these readings and pretend I do not know what door locking looks like in our country right now. Families fleeing violence are being turned away at our border. Immigrants who have lived here for years, who have worked, paid taxes, and worshiped with us and raised their children among us, are being rounded up and deported without the mercy that the Gospel demands of us. And at the very same time, funding that keeps food on the tables of the poor and healthcare in reach of the sick is being cut, with out fanfare, in budget lines we are not supposed to read. The doors that should be open, for the stranger, for the hungry, for the sick are being shut. And I will not stand up here and pretend that does not grieve the heart of God.
So where is God in all of this. That is the honest question underneath headlines these months. And Saint Paul gives us an answer this morning that does not resolve the mystery, but does something better. It holds it. "Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God. How inscrutable are his judgments and how unsearchable his ways." Paul is not offering us a tidy explanation. He is telling us that God's ways run deeper than we can trace, deeper than any single news cycle, deeper than any single lifetime. The arc of God's justice does not bend on our timeline. It bends on his. And that is not an excuse for us to sit back. But rather, it is an invitation to trust that even now, even here, God's wisdom is at work guiding and guarding what belongs to him from the plunder of those who would take it for themselves.
But guiding and guarding through what? Through whom? Most often, through us. Through our voice raised for the voiceless. Through our hands that feed the hungry and welcome the stranger…at our food pantry, through Feast on the Streets meeting up with the unhoused and meeting their needs. God’s guiding and guarding through our feet that walk into rooms other people have decided to avoid or have decided should be locked. The still small voice that spoke to Elijah on the mountain is the same voice that spoke to Peter when he called Jesus the Christ. It is the voice that speaks to us, if we are quiet enough to hear it, telling us where the Kingdom needs our hands today.
And through it all, hear this promise, because it is the one thing I most want you to carry out of this church today: Jesus does not stand at a distance watching us struggle through the darkest valleys of our lives, or the darker chapters of our nation's story. He is with us. He promised that we would remain in him and he in us, and that promise does not depend on whether we feel his presence in a given moment. It does not depend on whether the headlines look hopeful this week. He is already there, in the valley, before we even know we need him, walking beside the immigrant family, standing beside the person deciding between groceries and medicine; present in every place where the doors have been shut, waiting for someone, with a key.
We may be those keys. Our hands, our voices, our willingness to see Christ in the stranger and to act.
So let us breathe deeply this morning, and rest for a moment in that Divine presence, dwelling within each and every single one of us.
The God who holds galaxies in balance holds you too. All things, he holds. All things, including you, including this weary, struggling world are held in his hands, and he has not let go. And, he never will let go. Amen.
Blessings,
Fr Tim
Peter answers with some of the most profound words anyone in the Gospels speaks. "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God." And Jesus tells him that mere flesh and blood did not reveal this to him. It came from the Father. It came from somewhere deeper than reasoning, deeper than some intellectual understanding. It must have come from that quiet place within where God speaks, and if we are still enough, we can hear him. And Peter heard that still, small voice. And Isaiah gives us some insight into how God works that might be helpful to us. Shebna, the palace official, is stripped of his office and his royal clothes because he used his position to build himself up instead of serving the people entrusted to him. And God raises up Eliakim in his place, clothes him, and gives him the key of the House of David on his shoulder. Whatever he opens, no one can shut. Whatever he shuts, no one can open. That same language of “the key” returns in the Gospel when Jesus hands Peter the keys of the kingdom of heaven. The pattern is consistent from Isaiah to Matthew. Real authority is never about elevating yourself. It is about opening doors for people who have been locked out! And here is where I have to be honest with you, because I cannot preach on these readings and pretend I do not know what door locking looks like in our country right now. Families fleeing violence are being turned away at our border. Immigrants who have lived here for years, who have worked, paid taxes, and worshiped with us and raised their children among us, are being rounded up and deported without the mercy that the Gospel demands of us. And at the very same time, funding that keeps food on the tables of the poor and healthcare in reach of the sick is being cut, with out fanfare, in budget lines we are not supposed to read. The doors that should be open, for the stranger, for the hungry, for the sick are being shut. And I will not stand up here and pretend that does not grieve the heart of God.
So where is God in all of this. That is the honest question underneath headlines these months. And Saint Paul gives us an answer this morning that does not resolve the mystery, but does something better. It holds it. "Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God. How inscrutable are his judgments and how unsearchable his ways." Paul is not offering us a tidy explanation. He is telling us that God's ways run deeper than we can trace, deeper than any single news cycle, deeper than any single lifetime. The arc of God's justice does not bend on our timeline. It bends on his. And that is not an excuse for us to sit back. But rather, it is an invitation to trust that even now, even here, God's wisdom is at work guiding and guarding what belongs to him from the plunder of those who would take it for themselves.
But guiding and guarding through what? Through whom? Most often, through us. Through our voice raised for the voiceless. Through our hands that feed the hungry and welcome the stranger…at our food pantry, through Feast on the Streets meeting up with the unhoused and meeting their needs. God’s guiding and guarding through our feet that walk into rooms other people have decided to avoid or have decided should be locked. The still small voice that spoke to Elijah on the mountain is the same voice that spoke to Peter when he called Jesus the Christ. It is the voice that speaks to us, if we are quiet enough to hear it, telling us where the Kingdom needs our hands today.
And through it all, hear this promise, because it is the one thing I most want you to carry out of this church today: Jesus does not stand at a distance watching us struggle through the darkest valleys of our lives, or the darker chapters of our nation's story. He is with us. He promised that we would remain in him and he in us, and that promise does not depend on whether we feel his presence in a given moment. It does not depend on whether the headlines look hopeful this week. He is already there, in the valley, before we even know we need him, walking beside the immigrant family, standing beside the person deciding between groceries and medicine; present in every place where the doors have been shut, waiting for someone, with a key.
We may be those keys. Our hands, our voices, our willingness to see Christ in the stranger and to act.
So let us breathe deeply this morning, and rest for a moment in that Divine presence, dwelling within each and every single one of us.
The God who holds galaxies in balance holds you too. All things, he holds. All things, including you, including this weary, struggling world are held in his hands, and he has not let go. And, he never will let go. Amen.
Blessings,
Fr Tim
RSS Feed
