Opening The Door To Mercy: A Homily for the Twelfth Sunday After Pentecost.

Preached at All Saints’ Anglican Church, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, on the Twelth Sunday after Pentecost, 16 August, 2026.

 

Readings for this Sunday:  Psalm 133, Genesis 45.1-15, Romans 11.1-2a,29-32, Matthew 15.21-28 

 And he kissed all his brothers and wept upon them, and after that his brothers talked with him. (Gen 45:15)

One of the must-see plays at Stratford this year is their production of Shakespeare’s Tempest.  It’s a gorgeous spectacle to watch, full of action, and the acting is top notch, but I had partly forgotten that the play is a deeply moving statement about the power of forgiveness.

Prospero was a nobleman who was cheated out of his birthright by his brother and his accomplices.  Along with his daughter he’s been stranded on an island for many years, but since he is also a powerful magician, he has waited for his revenge.  Now, thanks to his magic powers, he has all of his enemies together, under a spell and  at his mercy.   But, in the fifth act, Prospero’s servant Ariel says that she would feel mercy for these helpless enemies.

Prospero is moved by Ariel’s kind heart, and he says 

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling

Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
Yet with my nobler reason against my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance: (Tempest 5: 2040-2047)

 

While Shakespeare isn’t an overtly Christian writer, this scene, Prospero’s change of heart, made me wonder if he was thinking of today’s first reading from Genesis, and the mercy Joseph shows to his wicked brothers.

Last week the lectionary’s hopscotch tour of the Book of Genesis dipped into the story of Joseph, and today we find ourselves almost at the end of that long story.   Last Sunday we heard how Joseph’s brothers, jealous of their father’s love for Joseph, plotted first to kill him, then relented somewhat and sold him as a slave to foreigners.

We don’t hear the middle part of the story, but I’m sure you know your bible or your Andrew Lloyd Webber to fill in the details.  Thanks to his prophetic dreams, Joseph becomes the second most powerful person in Egypt.   His situation is very much like that of Prospero.   He has his enemies at his mercy.  When he announces to them that ““I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt”, it could have been a total Game of Thrones moment, with the brothers dragged off to suffer torture and death.   

Instead, Joseph weeps with profound emotion.  It’s a remarkable  and refreshingly human moment. There is an ancient, remote quality about Genesis, that can sometimes make us think that this isn’t a story about actual people.  Sometimes the early books of the bible feel like mythology or legend, but here as Joseph breaks down, sobbing so violently that people hear him in the next room, it feels as fresh and as real as yesterday’s novel.  

 

It feels so real because we don’t know exactly where these tears come from.  Is it sorrow for a lost childhood, stolen from him by his brothers?  Is it joy at the thought of being reunited with his family?  Is it some cathartic experience of relief that he is capable of forgiving his bewildered siblings, a deep spiritual relief that he isn’t captive to some need for revenge?  We can’t be sure exactly, but this vivid climax to what is sometimes called one of the bible’s great novellas makes us think about how complex, and necessary, forgiveness and reconciliation can be in our lives. 

 

In Shakespeare, Prospero’s decision to be merciful comes from his “reason”.  Joseph’s compassion is theological, it comes from his sense that God has been at work in his story.  Joseph says to the brothers “now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life” Gen 45.5).  It may not have been apparent to him when the brothers threw him into the pit, but Joseph firmly believes that God brought him to this place and this power, where, because of his dreams and the influence they gave him, he can save his family from starvation. 

 Unlike earlier episodes in the family history of Joseph’s ancestors, where God intervenes and speaks directly in the story, we don’t see God act first hand in the Jospeh story, but Josephs words to his brothers – “God sent me”, “God made me” – make it clear that these things have happened for a reason.   Thus, the story of Joseph and how he saves others from starvation is tied into the big story of Genesis, of God using Abraham and his descendants to be blessings to all peoples.  

 

Joseph is also a blessing to his family because he is able to forgive them, even if, as his sobs and tears suggest, forgiveness and reconciliation can be difficult and painful work.  The work of reconciliation is not easy.  Setting aside pain and injury is some of the hardest soul work we can imagine.  Several times this summer, as we’ve gone through Genesis, I’ve commented on how the story of Abraham’s family, with all its faults and intrigues and bad behaviors, is the human story, but Abraham’s family never breaks bad.   After all the tears and embracing, that lovely phrase at the end of today’s reading “after that his brothers talked with him” (45.15), shows that it is possible for ice-dams of guilt and hostility are broken, we can be restored to relationship with one another.  Joseph’s forgiveness makes our story possible, because the story, from Exodus to Israel, from the prophets to Jesus to the adoption of the gentiles in the body of Christ, is our story. 

I’ll finish by looking briefly at today’s gospel, because there’s a mercy moment and a teachable moment in there that saves Jesus from looking like a complete jerk.   Earlier, when he sent out his disciples, Jesus told them to “Go nowhere among the gentiles … go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel”(Mt 10:5-6).  And now a gentile woman is in his face, pleading for mercy because she has faith in Jesus’ power.   Calling her a dog is as cold and as rude as Jesus gets, and yet what happens when she insists on the same generosity that a dog under the table gets from its masters?  Does Jesus change his mind?  Is Jesus convinced to choose mercy?

There’s a lot of debate about this gospel reading, about whether Jesus, who is supposedly perfect and sinless, could at first be so rude and exclusive in his thinking, or whether Jesus needed to learn anything.  I would say that if Jesus was fully human, then his humanity included receptivity to new ideas, and the ability to change his mind and show mercy.   One could say that the turn to a wider mercy and grace in Matthew’s gospel begins here, when Jesus comes to see in this foreign woman as much faith and as much goodness as any Jew might possess.     If this is indeed a hinge moment in Matthew’s gospel, then the door to mercy is fully opened by Jesus’ last words at the end, telling his followers to “go and make disciples of all nations” (Mt 28.19).

It’s sometimes said that the gospels are about grace versus justice.   Justice, at it’s worst moments, can look a lot like revenge, “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”, or as Shakespeare’s Shylock demands, “a pound of flesh”.   Mercy and grace sacrifice their claims on revenge so that greater and better things might happen.   Joseph forgives his brothers, and Jesus opens a door for the Caananite woman, a door so big that all of us gentiles can go through and become God’s family. So my question for us is this:  if Prospero, Joseph, and even Jesus can choose mercy, then what can we do to show mercy to others?

Who's Got You? A Homily for the Eleventh Sunday After Pentecost

 His Strong Grip: A Homily for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Prince of Peace, Wasaga Beach, and Good Shepherd, Stayner, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, August 9, 2026.

Readings for the Eleventh Sunday After Pentecost (A) - Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28; Psalm 105:1-6, 16-22, 45c; Romans 10:5-15; Matthew 14:22-33 

 

 

But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” (Mt 14.27)

In the original (1978) Superman, there’s a scene where Lois Lane (played by Margot Kidder) is falling to her doom, when suddenly, Christopher Reeve’s Superman soars upwards and catches her.  “Don’t worry, Miss, I’ve got you.”

Lois Lane looks downwards.  “You’ve got me?”  she says incredulously.  “Who’s got you?”  Margot Kidder plays that line brilliantly, amazed that she is being saved, and even more amazed at the person saving her.

So who’s got us?  Who’s got you?  Jesus has us, he has us clasped firmly in his grip.   And, as Peter discovers in today’s gospel, there’s no need to ask Jesus who’s got him.   He’s Jesus, the son of God, and he’s there for us.  That’s the point behind today’s gospel reading.

So there’s no Superman in today’s gospel (we’ve got Jesus, we’re good), but you could still make a pretty good action movie about today’s gospel reading.   There’s the storm, which is huge and terrifying.   Our translation today says that the boat is “battered” by the waves but the Greek word used has more of the sense that the boat is “tormented”.  This is a demon of a storm.   It’s dark.  The wind is howling.  The disciples are exhausted, they’re far from land, and tthe fishermen among them, men who know the water, know that they’re in deep, deep trouble. 

So if a raging storm wasn’t enough for our action film, then there’s Jesus, walking across the water in the early morning, looking like a ghost.   There’s the incredulous reaction of the disciples, Peter’s decision to step out of the boat, not confidently but nervously, his first steps as the waves rage around him, the sudden expression of fear as he sinks, and the strong hand of the carpenter gripping his wrist, a classic movie “I’ve got you” scene that’s played out on countless cliff or building ledges.

Most of the sermons I’ve heard (and preached) on this story focus on Peter as the hero.  These sermons urge us to compare Peter’s faith, his doubts, and his fears, to our own faith, our own doubts and fears.   We’re reminded that we need to keep our eyes on Jesus and urged to have faith in him so that we don’t sink below the waves.  

If we think that the purpose of this gospel story is that if Peter just had more faith, he would have been able to walk on water, well, that's just silly.  It's rather like saying, if only Lois Lane had been able to fly like Superman, she wouldn't be falling.  Sometimes I've heard the sermon preached to say just keep your eye on Jesus and you'll be fine, which is better, but it still takes a Superman to save Lois Lane, and it takes Jesus to save us.  So I would say that today's gospel is about Peter and the disciples so much as it’s about Jesus.  

So let’s think about the context of the story, about what Jesus has already done and what we should remember about him, even if the disciples forget.   Today’s story begins with Jesus sending the disciples on ahead in a fishing boat, sending away the crowds, and then going “up the mountain by himself to pray” (Mt 14.23).

Jesus often goes to lonely places to pray and to recharge through his connection with God his Father.   So why does Jesus need to recharge?  Because immediately before the walking on water story, Matthew has told us how Jesus attracted crowds, cured them, and then miraculously fed them because "he had compassion on them” (Mt 14.13-21).

So it seems odd that Peter sees Jesus “walking on the sea” and, with all these miracles fresh in his mind, says to Jesus “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water” (Mt 14.28).   Why the “if”?  Why the doubt?   Why would Jesus walking on the water be any more miraculous than Jesus healing and feeding people from food he has created on the spot?  It’s as if Peter hasn’t quite figured out who Jesus is.  He’s like Lois Lane, wondering who is this guy,  whose got him?

Perhaps the answer lies in the panic of the storm, the crashing waves threatening to swamp the boat.  It’s in such moments that our fears rise and our doubts make us want to put Jesus to the test:  “Lord, if you can get me out of trouble, then I will believe in you”.   

So why doesn’t Jesus just tell the storm to stop, as he’s done before (Mt 8.23-27)?  Why is he out in the storm in the first place, and why does he come walking across the waves, to be with the disciples?  Here it’s worth remembering that it’s in our worst moments that Jesus comes to us.   Our challenge in our own lives’ storms is to see and trust that Jesus is with us.

Also, the fact that Jesus chooses to walk on the water in the storm is another sign of who he is. Biblical scholar Nicholas Schaser notes that the Greek words used by Matthew (Jesus “went (elthen) to them, walking upon the sea (peripaton epi tes thālassa Mt 14.25)” are the same words that God uses when he asks Job “if he ever “went upon (elthes… epi) the springs of the sea (thalāsses) or walked (periepātesas) in the recesses of the deep” (Job 38:16 Septuagint).  

Likewise, when Jesus tells the frightened disciples,  “It is I; do not be afraid” (Mt 14.27), Schaser reminds us that these are the same words that “God says to Moses at the burning bush according to the Septuagint:  ‘I am’ (egō eimi)” (Exodus 3:14 Septuagint).   As Schaser notes, “If walking on water weren’t enough to reflect his divine status, Matthew’s Jesus repeats the very words of God”.

So Jesus in today’s gospel speaks the same words, with the same authority, as God his Father.    It is on of those moments where we see the full authority and power of Jesus, the same power by which God brought order out of the “darkness [that] covered the face of the deep” (Gen 1.1).

So while I’ve called attention to the divine power of Jesus, which I hope will comfort us in our moments of extreme anxiety and need, there’s also an aspect of vulnerability to Jesus in the larger context of Matthew 14.   Remember the crowds that were mentioned at the start of today’s story?  Their needs and wants distracted Jesus from his original intention of being alone in prayer because he had just learned that Herod had executed his cousin, John the Baptist (Mt 14.1-12).   

Jesus could have laid low at this point to avoid further attention from the authorities, but he is determined to heal and feed the crowds, and he is determined to go to Jerusalem, even if that means that he too will be killed.  Indeed, the last words of today’s gospel, “Truly you are the Son of God” (Mt 14.33), are essentially the words of the Roman soldier at the cross, “Truly this was the Son of God” (Mt 27:54).

So the larger message of this story is not just that Jesus is truly the Son of God with power over the waves and winds.   That is something that we, like Peter, should know and believe.   The good news in this story is that this all powerful Son of God is willing to die for us to save us out of his love and compassion for us.    Think of that strong carpenter’s hand reached out to clasp and save Peter from the waves, and imagine that same hand gripping your hand in your moments of need.  Jesus won’t let you sink.  “I’ve got you”, Jesus says to each of us.  There’s no need to ask Jesus who’s got him.  He is our saviour.  He is our God.   He is our superman.  

In our second lesson, we heard Paul say that the role of the church is to proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ (Rom 10:12-15).  Our message is simple and it is powerful.   Jesus, this strong and compassionate Jesus, died to save us, and will save us.   He’s got us.

Gut Feelings: A Homily For The Tenth Sunday After Pentecost

 

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, 2 August, 2026, the Tenth Sunday After Pentecost (Proper 18A).  Readings for this Sunday:  Genesis 32:22-31; Psalm 17:1-7, 16; Romans 9:1-5; Matthew 14:13-21

When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. (Mt 14.14)

If you remember television commercials of a certain era, and I say the phrase “only in Canada, eh?”, how would you respond?  “Pity”, said in an exaggerated English accent, was the response.  For decades, that was the catchphrase of Red Rose Tea, the idea being that this brand was so good, and so Canadian, that the English would drink it if they could.  Today Red Rose is just another brand (in our house we drink Yorkshire Tea now), but its use of the word “pity” is what interests me.

“Pity” can be said with the same inflection as “that’s a shame” or “too bad”, so an emotion that is not very overwhelming and doesn’t really mean any commitment.  However, to “have pity” for someone is more intense, it’s more akin to words like sympathy or compassion, the emotion that Jesus feels for the crowds in today’s gospel.

Compassion is a strong word, it’s originally from two Latin words that means “to suffer with”.  Ideally it’s not just feeling the pain of another, but it’s also about being moved to do something to aid or comfort that person, which, really, is what Jesus is all about here.  He wanted to be by himself after receiving some bad news, and yet all these people have followed him into the wilderness, not because they want to hear a sermon, but because they’re sick and all they desperately want Jesus to heal them.   So Matthew tells us that Jesus “had compassion for them and cured their sick”.

Compassion is a strong word, but in Matthew’s Greek, Jesus’ reaction is even stronger, and leads to a more effective response than shared suffering.  Matthew uses tthe word splagchnizomai, which literally means “to feel in the guts”. The ancient world believed that our strongest emotions come from deep inside, from out very guts.   Sometimes we talk about having a visceral reaction, from the Latin word “viscera” or internal organs, which has the same meaning, and it’s a meaning that we still use sometimes today.

Have you ever felt something so strongly that you would say you felt it in your guts?  Perhaps it was a sense that something was wrong, some instinct that told you that you had to act in some way.  The psychologist Jonathan Haidt has written that most of our moral decisions operate on the level of instinct.  Haidt says that we tend to favour one of two gut-based moral responses, either a disgust response, because we sense that something is offensive, like say burning a flag, or a fairness response, because we sense that something is unjust, like, say, oligarchy.   In Jesus’ case, his gut response of compassion is, I think, based on a sense of fairness.

What do I mean by fairness?  When his disciples ask Jesus to send away the crowds, so they can buy food in the nearby villages, he says no, you give them something to eat.   Why do you think he does that?  I think Jesus wants to show the crowds the fairness, or if you will, the justice and the goodness, of the kingdom of heaven.   

Does everyone in the crowd have money to buy food?   Is there enough food in the nearby villages to feed so many people, even if they have money?  What about the sick people who can’t go?  And what about the money that the disciples want the people to spend?  Whose head is on those coins?   Do you remember when Jesus was tested about obedience and he said “give to  Caesar what is his and give to God what belongs to God” (Mt 22:21).    

I think Jesus is saying to the disciples, I’m not going to feed these people according to the way of empire, where some can eat more than others, and where there is no justice.   If you remember at the start of our gospel today, Jesus has just heard some news, the news that his cousin John the Baptist has been killed by Herod.   Maybe Jesus had heard the story of how John had been killed and his head brought to Herod at his birthday feast, where he was seated with his rich and powerful friends.

Herod’s birthday banquet was a dinner governed by the unjust and cruel laws of empire.   Jesus says to his disciples, no, we’re not going to feed these people accordng to the way of empire.   Instead, let’s feed these people according to the way of the kingdom of heaven.  Let’s feed them all, men, women, and children, the healthy and the sick, and let’s feed them for free, as much as they want, with tons left over.   And so Jesus takes what little they have, five loaves and two fish, and what happens next unfolds according to the rules of the kingdom of heaven (remember the parable of the yeast from last Sunday's gospel?).

I’ve heard it said that this story is really the first eucharist in the gospels and there are many elements of this story that reminds us of what happens every time we gather around God’s table.  Jesus prays, he blesses, he breaks the bread, and gives it to all who want it.   OK, there’s no wine, but the Jesus’ motives here and at the last supper semm similar.  Jesus does all these things because of his gut-level compassion for the crowds, and in the same way, at the Last Supper, John tells us that he loved the disciples “to the end” (Jn 13.1).  So what is said at the Last Supper, “this is my body”, is implied in this story, for the bread Jesus gives out comes from a love and concern that he feels in his very core, his very guts if you will.

As we prepare to go to the table and share in the eucharist, I encourage you to think about why Jesus asked that we do this.  It is a memorial, “do this in memory of me”, for sure, but think also about that core, gut-level compassion that Jesus feels for us.  Think about his love for you as the bread is put in your hands and as you touch the chalice.    We are loved.  We are fed.  And, in being fed, we are also being challenged.

Jesus says to his disciples, you feed them.  At the end of Matthew’s gospel, Jesus called on his disciples to remember his teaching and to do what he taught them (Mt 28.20).   That same obedience is asked of us, for we too are his disciples. Jesus challenges us:  will you see what needs to be done, but only feel a faint pity, or will you feel compassion deep in your guts, so that you act.  

And how should we act?   Well, feeding people is always a good start.  Pople Francis once said, “You pray for the hungry. Then you feed them. This is how prayer works.”  The kingdom of heaven is the compassion of Jesus that is put into action by his followers.  There's a simple way to understand why All Saints feeds people.  We feed people because we are fed by Jesus at his table, so we share our tables with others.   My prayer for us is thus that we are people who feel the call of the kingdom of heaven in our guts, and show it in our actions.

Divine Decryption: A Homily for the Ninth Sunday After Pentecost (A)

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, 26 July, 2026, the Ninth Sunday After Pentecost (A).  Readings for this Sunday:  Genesis 29:15-28; Psalm 105:1-11, 45C; Romans 8:26-39; Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52.

"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” (Mt 13.33).

Often after the Eucharist, our choir sings a piece that begins “Seek ye first the kingdom of God” which uses Jesus’ words from the Sermon on the Mount.   Today I want to talk about how, in our gospel reading, the Kingdom of Heaven, or the things of God if you will, seem hidden but are revealed in surprising ways to ordinary people.

First, let’s talk about things that are hidden.  How many of you, I wonder, do shop online?  Do you trust making purchases over the internet?  I shop online a fair bit, and while I am sometimes nervous about hackers and data leaks, I trust (or maybe just hope) that my credit card information is protected.   Big online business platforms - credit cards, PayPal, and such - use a process called encryption to protect us by hiding our personal and financial information from unpleasant and dishonest people.  Encryption just happens to be from the Greek word kruptos, meaning concealed or hidden.  And, wouldn’t you know it, in the original Greek of Matthew’s gospel, when the woman in the parable puts the yeast in the flour, the word used is egkryptō, which can mixed but also has the sense that she hides the yeast in the flour.

Why is this worth mentioning?  There’s a difference between the two words that shapes our expectations of what comes next.  If you’re following a recipe that says to mix so much yeast into so much flour, that seems normal.  However, if you’re told to hide so much yeast in so much flour, isn’t that a strange way to phrase the recipe?

In today’s series of short and pithy parables, Jesus is using unusual language and surprising outcomes to say something about how the kingdom of heaven seems to be concealed until it is discovered in surprising and bountiful ways.   Jesus tells his disciples that the parables are keys to understanding “the secrets of the kingdom of heaven” (Mt 14.10), and in today’s short parables secret, hidden things are revealed, or decrypted, if you will, to those willing to seek them.

Thus in today’s parade of parables, a tiny seed becomes a mighty habitat for birds, a little yeast makes many loaves, a treasure is hidden in a field, a pearl is priceless only to the one who knows its true value, and an abundance of fish are found by those who know how to catch them and who know what to look for.  Taken together, these little gems of stories tell us that God is present and at work in ways that bless and enrich us, but to share in those blessings and to share them with others, we need to seek God out and cooperate with God in God’s work.

Another thing worth noting is that the scenes and the people in the parables are generally ordinary - a flock of birds chattering in bushes, a woman baker at work, a merchant, a fisherman.   These are ordinary treasures for ordinary people - we are a long way removed from the exotic quests of Indiana Jones territory.  So I think we can say that in telling these little stories about ordinary people discovering largely ordinary things, Jesus is talking to us and to people like us.

And really, what could be more ordinary than the daily labour of baking bread?  It’s often said that Jesus knew his audience and spoke to them directly.   I like to think that Jesus included this parable for the women he saw in the crowd, just as could speak to farmers and fishermen.   Yeast, or leaven, was common in the ancient world.  It was used to raise the heavy, round barley loaves that were a staple most days, except for Passover, when Jews ate unleavened or flat bread to recall the flight from Egypt. Since there was no refrigeration or preservatives, a common house would bake a few loaves as a daily chore.  So, a woman baking a few loaves of bread, what could be more familiar to Jesus’ audience?

Except that this woman is not just baking for a single household.   The parable states that she “hid” the yeast in three measures of flour.  How much flour would that have been?  According to some authorities, a measure of flour in the ancient world was between 40-60 pounds.   So the woman is baking for a crowd, enough bread to feed a hundred or more people!   And that idea of abundance fits the logic of these parables, that the things of kingdom of heaven may seem ordinary but, when revealed, are rich and abundant and of benefit to many.  

I am sure that Matthew wanted us to connect the yeast parable with a miracle that he describes in the next chapter, the feeding of the multitide, which we will hear as next Sunday’s gospel (Mt 14:31-21).  In that story, Jesus is speaking to a large crowd and everyone is hungry.  All he has are five barley loaves and a few fish.  He looks at the five thousand hungry folks, looks at the food, prays a prayer which is probably “Father, you got this”, and there’s more than enough food for all.   This miracle is what the parable of the yeast points to.  This miracle is the kingdom of heaven in action.

This is how the kingdom of heaven works, and it’s not just Jesus who makes it happen.  Any ordinary group of ordinary folks who go into a church kitchen and cook for strangers is the yeast at work.    Anyone who offers rest and shelter for the tired, the weary, and the stranger is a sheltering mustard tree.   Anyone who chooses to follow Jesus in a violent and vengeful world has found the treasure in the field, has bought the priceless pearl.   Anytime we are open to God’s power working in us, we are opening ourselves to the transformative power of the kingdom of heaven.

Here’s a final thought.   If these parables tell us that the kingdom of heaven ais about us discovering the truly valuable things in life, then we can take comfort in knowing that God knows our true value and that God values us far more than we can imagine.  In our second lesson, we heard Paul say that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ.   Each of us is a treasure found and claimed by Jesus, and each of us, in the secrecy of our own private, humble lives, can be a gift that can shows the kingdom of heaven and the love of God to those around us. 

Wheat Or Weeds? A Homily for the Eighth Sunday After Pentecost

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, and St Luke's, Creemore, on Sunday, 19 July, 2026, the Eighth Sunday After Pentecost.  Texts for this day:  Genesis 28:10-19A; Psalm 139:1-11, 22-23; Romans 8:12-25; Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. (Mt 13.26).

 

Do you talk to your plants?  What do you say to them?

I talk a bit to my plants because I feel affection for them.   I feel proud of the sunflowers that I started from seeds, and which are now as tall as I am, and I say “way to go!”.   I feel distressed when I see some wilted because I’ve neglected to water them and I say things like “have a drink, guys, you’ll feel better.  Sorry I forgot you”.  I see the black eyed susans about to open and I say “that’s it, almost time to shine”.

Maybe if I had planted a whole field, like the man in the parable from today’s gospel, I wouldn’t have time for such sentiment.    I’ve known farmers who were hard-eyed business people, just as capable of reading a spreadsheet as they could read the weather.    I’m just a guy with a little garden,  and I grow plants not because I want to make money from a harvest, but simply because I love them.   And really, the parable isn’t about plants, it’s about us, and how the good and bad seed grows in all of us.  Because in the parable, the owner of the field represents God, and the plants represent us, who are loved by God the gardener, and the hope of the gospel is in what God will do about the gardens of our own souls.

“The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field”.  Whenever we hear Jesus talking about “the kingdom of heaven”, we know that he is trying to say something about how his father’s will and desire for us work.  Jesus tells his disciples that the parables are keys to understanding “the secrets of the kingdom of heaven” (Mt 14.10), but the parables aren’t that hard to understand. 

 Last Sunday we heard a parable where Jesus talked about a man scattering seed lavishly and he said that the seed was “the word of the kingdom”.   The parable points to the generosity of God.  The seed is distributed far and wide, in the same way that Jesus here speaks to such “great crowds” that he has to use a boat as a pulpit.  So the message wants to be broadcast as widely as the sower spreads the seeds.

If the seed is “the word of the kingdom”, then the plant that grows from the seed would seem to represent the values of the kingdom of God: God’s love, God’s justice, and mercy, put into action by those who love God, like those in the Beatitudes who “hunger and thirst for righteousness” (Mt 5.6) and those who “strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness” (Mt 6.33).y to 

In last week’s gospel, the parable of the sower and the seed, the emphasis seemed to be on the quality of the soil.   Those who were indifferent to the kindgom of God, or who had short term enthusiasm, were rocky and poor soil, but those who truly hear and understand are good soil.   That explanation might make some of us feel pretty smug.   After all, we’re here in church, we give via PAR, we try to be good people, so we must be pretty good soil.   But .. if that’s so, where did the weeds come from?

“[W]hile everbody was alseep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away” (Mt 13.25).  So these weeds aren’t dandelions or all the other unwelcome plants that stubbornly return to our gardens year after year.   This weeds are sabotage.  They are hostile to the plants and they are hostile to the values of the kingdom of heaven.    In other words, we are back to Paul’s discussion of the pervasiveness of sin that we’ve been hearing recently in our second readings from Romans.

When I preached on Romans recently, I said that Paul’s description of sin is like a garden that becomes infested with weeds.   Some say weeds are just plants that are in the wrong place, but weeds can also infest and starve those plants that we’ve nurtured, watered, and talked to.  I once saw an experienced gardener almost reduced to tears when she realized that her newly designed beds were being choked with bindweed, a particularly aggressive weed.   

It’s hard to pull up bindweed without damaging the plants we want to keep.  In today’s parable, some commentators identify the weeds as darnell, sometimes called false weed”.   The farmer in the parable knows that the weeds can’t be removed without damaging the wheat.  He is patient.  There will be a time, he says, when the wheat can be safely gathered and the weeds can then be burned.  But now isn’t the time.  For the time being, wheat and weed must remain intermixed until God’s good time, even though the instinct of the servants is to go out and pull up the weeds, thus wrecking the crop.

I said earlier that in this parable, we are the plants, but which plants are we?   Are we wheat?  Are we weeds?  Or are we both?  This week I read a lovely meditaton on this gospel reading by the Rev. Ben Dehart, and I’ll quote a bit of it.

The field is the world, Jesus says. All of it. But the world is not only out there. It runs through the church. The pew. Down the middle of you. The line between the wheat and the weed is not the line between you and everyone else. You have found the weed in yourself before. The thing you have prayed over and pulled at, and it comes up green again every spring. Start pulling and you take up half of yourself with it.

The temptation to go pull weeds anyway is very strong.  We live in a hyper-polarized age where our politics and our discourse seems to be about labeling the other party as evil and refusing to see our own flaws.   As Jesus said, take the plank from your own eye before you go after the speck in someone else’s eye.

To return to the imagery of our parable can’t weed ourselves if we are part wheat and part weed.   As Paul says in Romans, if we know what we should and shouldn’t do, and repeatedly do the opposite, then we are enslaved to sin and the only one who can rescue us is Jesus (Rom 7:15-21).

In today’s lesson from Romans, Paul writes that the world itself, all of creation, is suffering and longing for it’s renewal:  “creation itself will be set free” (Rom 8:18-23).   One of the disciplines and virtues of the Christian faith is patience, to know the difference between what we can change and what God, in God’s good time will transform into something better.    A planet burning and overheated groans for its rescue.  The hungey, homless, and ignored groan for a greedy society to truly see them.   And we, in our own confused, hurting, and secret lives, long to be healed and restored. We do what we can do in our time, but we wait for God to ultimately restore creation.

We are wheat, and we are weeds.  And we are loved by our creator and gardener, loved far more than we can possibly love the plants in our own care.    That mighty and loving gardener will not give up on us and he will give us the time and the grace to grow into the likeness of Christ. to transform from weed into golden wheat.   And so, as Ben Dehart writes beautifully, God the gardener will let the wheat and the weed in us grow, “Not because he can’t tell them apart [but] because he will not give up on the weed”.