14/02/2026
“From the Outside In”
Todays readins continue on the side of the mountain.
Jesus has already told us who is blessed:
the poor in spirit,
the merciful,
the pure in heart,
the peacemakers.
Before he says anything searching, he announces blessing. Before he names what must change, he tells us we are seen.
And then he continues:
“Unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.”
That must have sounded astonishing.
The scribes and Pharisees were serious about God. Careful. Devout. Disciplined. If anyone knew how to keep the law, it was them.
So what could possibly “surpass” that?
Jesus does not say, “Add more rules.”
He does not say, “Try harder.”
Instead, he goes deeper.
“You have heard it said, ‘You shall not murder.’ But I say to you, whoever is angry…”
“You have heard it said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you, whoever looks with lust…”
“You have heard it said, ‘Do not swear falsely.’ But I say to you, let your yes be yes…”
He moves from behaviour to the heart.
And if we listen carefully, this is not something new. In Deuteronomy, Moses asks the great question: “What does the Lord require of you?”
Not perfection.
Not display.
But to fear the Lord your God, to walk in his ways, to love him, and to serve him with all your heart and with all your soul.
With all your heart.
The law was never meant to stop at outward compliance. It was always aimed at the centre of the person — at the soil of the heart where love either grows straight or becomes twisted.
Because sin does not begin with the visible act. It begins underground.
Long before anything breaks the surface, something unseen is taking root.
Anger rarely begins with violence. It begins like a root threading quietly through the earth — drawing nourishment from an old wound, a memory replayed, a pride that refuses to soften.
Adultery does not begin in a moment. It begins in the slow habit of looking at another person as something to grasp rather than someone to revere.
Falsehood does not begin in a courtroom. It begins in the small adjustments of speech — the careful omissions, the subtle embellishments — that protect our image.
And like any root system left unattended, these things grow in the dark.
Jesus goes beneath the surface because he loves us too much to leave the roots untouched.
And this can feel uncomfortable. Especially for those of us who have tried to live faithfully for many years. Many of us have kept the commandments in their outward sense. We have worshipped. We have prayed. We have served.
But Jesus is not content with well-managed behaviour. He wants freedom.
Augustine once wrote, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” He understood that the trouble is not merely what we do; it is where our love is planted. When love curls inward — protecting pride, nursing resentment, grasping at possession — the heart becomes restless soil.
But when the heart rests in God, love begins to straighten. The roots find better ground.
That is what Jesus means by a righteousness that surpasses the Pharisees. Not a more impressive religious performance. But a heart slowly set right.
“Let your yes be yes.”
Imagine the peace of that.
Speech without calculation.
Promises without exaggeration.
Relationships without quiet scorekeeping.
It is the simplicity of someone whose inner life is becoming whole.
And perhaps this is where the gospel meets us very gently this week.
Not in grand resolutions. Not in dramatic spiritual overhauls.
But in the small moments when we notice something stirring beneath the surface.
When irritation flickers — before it hardens.
When the temptation arises to adjust a sentence slightly in our favour.
When the old grievance starts to replay itself once more.
In that moment, simply pause.
Breathe.
And pray, quietly, “Lord, tend this root.”
Nothing heroic. Nothing dramatic. Just honesty before God.
If the heart is soil, then it needs tending.
And we know something about that here.
Our parish garden does not flourish by accident. It is cared for. Weeds are noticed early. The soil is turned. Things are pruned back, not to punish the plant, but to let it grow more freely. Season after season, someone returns with patient hands.
Growth takes time. So does healing.
And this is why we come to the altar.
We do not come because our anger is conquered.
We do not come because our hearts are perfectly pure.
We come because Christ is still at work in us.
The Eucharist is not a prize for the finished. It is food for those who are growing.
At this table, Christ gives himself not to the morally flawless, but to those who hunger and thirst for righteousness — to those who know that something in them still needs softening, straightening, healing.
After all the years of faith — after all the prayers, all the seasons, all the communions — what does the Lord require of us?
To love him.
And to allow that love to reach beneath the visible life and tend the hidden places.
So that anger loosens its grip.
So that desire becomes reverent.
So that our speech becomes simple and true.
So that our yes can be yes.
And slowly, patiently, under the care of a patient gardener — who never abandons his field — our restless hearts begin to rest in him.
Sermon by Fr Chris Keast
on the 6th Sunday After Epiphany
15 February 2026
Deuteronomy 10.12-22 • 1 Corinthians 3.1-9 • Matthew 5.20–37
