Galloway Presbyterian Church

10/04/2026

the vineyard is bigger than us (Isaiah 5:1-7; Psalm 80:7-15; Philippians 4b-14; Matthew 21:33-46)

I always enjoy watching commercials on TV about traveling. They always seem to show clips of vineyards – people casually walking through sunlit vineyards, glasses of fine w**e in their hands, smiles on their faces. Rows of vines stretching toward the horizon. Branches seemingly reach out to touch another. Clusters of grapes slowly ripen; obviously roots buried deep.
Creating such a setting takes time. Someone planted the vineyard. Someone tends it, another prunes it. Others wait. And eventually, the fruit appears and at the right time, it is gathered.
This is the sort of vineyard Isaiah sings about this morning. God has done an incredible job. Found the right location. The soil has been prepared and only the choicest vines planter. A protective wall has been built, and a w**epress has been carved. Everything is ready, and so, like any grower, God waits.
But when the harvest comes – wild grapes, sour grapes, rotten grapes, a bumper crop of disappointment. This is not the fruit God had planted. And the prophet is clear on what went wrong. God expected justice to ripen, but blood was shed. God anticipated righteousness but hears cries.
Isn’t it interesting that when God looks for evidence of faith, credentials are not checked, baptismal certificates are not required, memorizing Bible verses doesn’t count, or even how often we go to church. No, God looks for fruit: justice, righteousness, mercy, compassion, love. Which might make World Communion Sunday just a tad uncomfortable. For here we are, joining others around the globe as we celebrate the unity of the church in a world which seems determined to keep falling apart.
We build walls, not around vineyards, but around nations, communities, churches, political affiliation, racial identity, theological beliefs, especially around our fears.
We draw lines, believing we are on the right side of them. We say, “here are my people.” And then point, “there are THOSE people.” We sort, label, accuse. We hunker down in places where everybody agrees with us. And then gather on a Sunday to sing, “We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord.” But do people really see this in us? Or are we only one until someone asks if they can join the group?
If we pay attention, it is clear Jesus is very familiar with Isaiah and his writings. Which may be why he tells us a vineyard story this morning. The landowner plants the vines, builds a fence, puts up a tower, installs a w**epress. And then, he turns over the operation to the tenants, trusting them with the vineyard.
When the harvest comes, the landowner sends servants to collect what is due to him. But the tenants seem to have confused the roles of being entrusted with something and owning it. They beat one of the servants, kill another, stone a third person. So, thinking that they will certainly listen to him, the owner sends his heir. But the tenants don’t. They think, if we get rid of him, we get the whole thing for ourselves.
And there it is. The classic temptation of our hearts – to take what God has entrusted to us into something we believe we own. Faith. Church. Tradition. Power. Truth. Even God – even God. We start out as trusted caretakers and convince ourselves we are the rightful owners. At first, it is ‘this belongs to God,’ but eventually it becomes ‘we own God.’ Now, we get to decide who is a true believer. Who can pass our righteous test. Who we should offer mercy. Who we open the gate to and let them pass the barrier. And the barriers get higher, and the vineyard grows smaller.
But World Communion Sunday challenges us: the vineyard is bigger than us. Church is bigger than us. Faith is not a private property. Christ belongs to all. God’s Table is big enough to sit everyone.
We don’t often see it in the news or on our devices, but there are believers who gather in the rubble caused by war. There are Christians gathering in refugee camps filled with those who have fled their homes. There are the faithful who know that hunger is not simply skipping a meal. People sit at God’s Table in countries where they are a minority.
Yes, some are worshipping in great cathedrals, while others meet in storefronts. There are those who pray in refugee camps and others who are in house churches. Some are out in nature praising God, while others sit in apartments. They sing hymns accompanied by organs, drums, praise bands or simply sit in silent sanctuaries. Many pray and talk and read Scripture in languages we do not understand.
Yet, in all those different places, people, experiences there is bread and there is the cup. There is Christ, there is God, and there is the Spirit. Whether oak or marble, scarred or brand new, there is the same table, the same grace. The same broken body which makes us whole, the same poured out grace which makes us one. And the same uncomfortable question which arises every year on this Sunday – if we are made one at this meal, why are we so convinced we need to divide ourselves everywhere else?
Perhaps Paul offers us a different approach. It is like Paul is interviewing with a pastoral search committee. He lays out all his credentials, and he has a lot of them. There is his heritage, his accomplishments, his religious resume. He knows what makes him different from any other person. And it is as if he looks at this big pile of documents, sweeps them off the table, and simply says, “I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”
Then he adds, “I press on.” Yes, he says, I look like I am at the head of the class, but in truth, friends, all I do is press on. Press on. He hasn’t arrived. He doesn’t have it all figured out. Paul, this apostle and theologian is still learning, still becoming, still struggling, still following, still open to change.
What if that became our way? What if we believers stopped acting as if we have crossed the finish line, and simply told others, “yeah, we are just pressing on?” Dare we admit we might be wrong? Can we confess we need to learn more? What if we recognized our opinion might not match God’s truth, or we have confused our tradition for the gospel? What if we realize we’ve built a fence where God did not intend one, or we have been so busy protecting the vineyard that we forgot to bear fruit.
Could such humility change us? You see, there is a difference between defending what we believe and becoming what we believe. We talk about grace a lot; do we share it? We claim that forgiveness is key to our faith, but do we offer it? We believe everyone is created in God’s image, but do we live that out? We sing about peace, but what if peace requires a change in us? Loving our neighbor is one of our key commandments, but just who gets to define who our neighbor is? It’s easy if it is that person we have known for decades, isn’t it? But those who make us uncomfortable, who are different, who is on the other side of every argument?
Every time we gather around the Table of grace, it asks us, ‘who is your neighbor?’ Because we don’t gather alone. The whole church is with us. Those from places not found on any map. The victims of war, those who wander the streets, those who flee dangerous countries, those whose faith practice is different from ours. And then come the folks who just make us downright uncomfortable.
And that is the scandal of communion – we don’t get to choose the guest list. Christ has already sent out the invitations. God has prepared the gifts. The Spirit blesses everyone who comes. And everyone, my friends, everyone is welcome. Because the Table is not the pastor’s, it is not the church’s, it is God’s Table. And God’s guest list is always, always bigger than ours.
A reminder we need in our broken, hurting, grieving world. God’s vineyard is hurting. The psalmist knew this – ‘turn again, O God.” Look at us, Holy One, see us, restore us. This is a prayer we need.
The world doesn’t need more Christians, it needs more believers who live, look, speak, love like Jesus. Believers who can disagree without demonizing. Believers who can speak truth and not try to weaponize it. Believers who forgive, but do not pretend the hurt never took place. Believers who welcome the stranger without asking for their documentation first. Believers who know, because they know what it was once like to be on the outside, that the gospel was never intended to be a fence.
You see, the gospel is the doorway, and the Table is not a reward for those who have never made a mistake. It is nourishment for everyone who knows they are not perfect.
That is the meaning of Paul’s words – ‘I press on.’ He didn’t say, “I’ve made it.’ He didn’t say, ‘I don’t need to learn anymore.’ He didn’t say, ‘I have the gold medal.’ He said, ‘I need to keep learning, growing, going, living, and serving.’ For in such humility, there is great hope. Because pressing on, persisting, keeping our eyes on God means we are not finished. The church is not finished, and the world is certainly not finished. God is still out there working in the vineyard, tending, pruning, planting, and still calling us to bear fruit.
So, perhaps this begs the question God might be asking us – what are we growing? Fear or courage? Suspicion or distrust? Polarization or communion? Grudges or grace? Revenge or reconciliation? Fences or open doors? What sort of fruit does our vines produce?
Because one day, friends, our arguments will turn to ashes, our churchy identifications will crumble into dust, our political battles will baffle historians, and all those things which were so crucial will be mere footnotes of our lives.
But love? It will endure. Mercy will last. Justice will remain. The hungry will still be fed, the stranger welcomed to the family, the wounded will be cared for, and the enemy will be embraced as a neighbor.
So, let us come to the Table on this World Communion Sunday, not as people who have made it but as those who keep pressing on. Not as those who claim the truth, but people who are seeking Christ. Not as owners of the vineyard but as tenants entrusted with the holy.
Here, we will break the bread. Here, we will share the cup. And in another church, another type of loaf is used. In another country, the cup will be passed from one to another. In another language, familiar words will be spoken. Different traditions, cultures, music, practice, buildings – but still breaking the bread to make us whole, still drinking from the cup of grace, still made one in Christ.
And the miracle of this day is not that we agree on everything 100%, but that Christ meets us in our disagreements. Christ reaches across borders, languages, cultures, ancient fears, fresh wounds, all those fences and walls and barriers we build to make us one.
Christ calls to us, reminding us that ‘this is my body, not yours.’ This is my Table, not yours. These are my people, not your enemies.
And as Christ speaks, maybe the fences begin to come down. One board at a time, one brick at a time. One genuine apology, one small act of kindness. One door held open for a stranger, one grudge tossed in the trash. One forgiven enemy, one meal served to a hungry person. One hand reaches across the abyss of anger to clasp the hand of another reaching out as well. One by one by one, until the world begins to look more like the vineyard God imagined so long ago.
And the fruit – so ripe, so rich, so delicious. Justice for the forgotten. Righteousness for the searching. Mercy for the hurting. Peace for the warring. Compassion for the vulnerable. Hospitality for the lonely. Embraces for the grieving. Love for all, from all to all.
So come. Come to the Table. Your differences? Bring them with you. Your questions? Don’t forget them. Your wounds? Offer them for healing? Your unfinished faith? Feed it the bread of hope, let it drink from the cup of grace. The person you love more than life? Bring them, as well as the one who is such a challenge to love.
There is room for all. For the vineyard is God’s. The Table is Christ’s. And the Spirit offers grace to everyone.

09/30/2026

09/27/2026

The life which says Yes (Ezekiel 18:1–4, 25–32; Psalm 25:1–9; Matthew 21:23–32, Philippians 2:1–13) September 27, 2026

There are some basic questions at the heart of our faith. Do we believe in God? Do we believe in Jesus? Do we believe in the Spirit? Do we want to follow Jesus, so we become more loving, compassionate, forgiving, generous? And most of us, to most of these questions can probably say
Yes. But what do we do when Jesus comes along today, and seems less interested in our words, than in the lives which follow our Yes.
There are two kids. Father says to the first one, “Go work in the vineyard today.” And the kid, probably a teenager by his response, says, “No.” Short. Curt. No explanation, or excuse, or even some sort of religious language. Just – No.
So, Dad goes to the second son and tells him the same thing. This time there’s another short, immediate response. “Yes, sir.” Absolutely. I’m on my way. You can count on me. But then, he ended up staying at home, doing nothing.
But at some point, later in the day, something happens. Maybe he thought about his father’s request, maybe he was bored, maybe he remembered seeing the work needing to be done in the vineyard. Or perhaps something in his attitude changed. But the first kid gets up and goes. One son said no, but later went, living out yes. The other said yes, but no was his way of life.
And there we find ourselves, Jesus leaving us with an uncomfortable question – which of these two kids are we? He’s not asking us what would you say, but what would you do. He’s not asking, what do you believe, but where are your feet taking you. He’s not asking us what does your faith cheat sheet say, but what does your life say. Because Scripture tells us that God is doggedly intrigued in the direction of our hearts.
Ezekiel reminds folks of an old proverb: “The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge.” Or in phrases we might use – that’s the way the ball bounces. That’s the hand we’ve been dealt. That’s how other folks have handled it. And there is some truth to saying we keep repeating the same mistakes time and again.
After all, we do inherit things – wounds, prejudices, grudges, worries, fears. We learn from parents and grandparents ways of treating people, who is in and who is out, assumptions about God or ourselves, outdated reasons why some succeed and others fail. Sometimes, it seems we baptize these things passed on to us. Remember the six most dangerous words spoken in every organization, including the church? “We’ve always done it this way.”
But God says, No. Stop right there. That’s not the end of the conversation. “Turn, then, and live.”
Turn. There’s that word again. Very popular in some churches when it is translated as ‘repent,’ but it simply means turn around. Go in another direction. Come home. Make a new heart. Receive a new spirit. Live. You see, God is not standing at the finish line with a clipboard, checking off those reasons we should have what we’ve inherited. God is stepping into the middle of traffic, pointing us in another direction – “Turn, then, and live.”
The writer of our psalm this morning offers us a prayer by someone who realizes that such turning is not something we can do on our own. “Make me to you your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths.
Teach. Me. Perhaps one of the simplest, and most important, prayers we can offer. You see, the problem may not be that we don’t know enough about God, but that we are dead certain we don’t need to learn anything else.
We know what God wants. We know who God loves. We know who deserves forgiveness. We know who should be welcomed. We know who is respectable. We know who isn't. We know which people are “our kind of people.” We know what we've always believed. We know what we've always done. But then Psalm 25 whispers: “Teach me.”
Teach me your ways, O God. Not my ways, or our ways, but your ways. Teach us to see with different eyes. Teach us to listen in a different way. Teach us to walk differently. Teach us, especially, to recognize you in those places we are convinced you would never be found.
Because that was what Jesus did. He had this uncomfortable habit of finding God in unexpected places, in completely unexpected people. At this point in the gospel, the end is approaching, and so the religious leaders are ramping up their questions to Jesus. Where do you get this authority? Show us your credentials, your transcript. What proof can you offer to justify what you do, what you say? Like many of us, they would like everything decent and in order, to tick off the boxes of their check list.
But Jesus, being Jesus, responds with another story. One about two sons. And then he adds the zinger. Oh, by the way, those tax collectors and prostitutes you despise so much? They will be at the front of the line when the doors to the Beloved Community. Think about that statement. Folks who have spent their who life trying to be religious are told that doesn’t matter. You can imagine how offended those folks must have been.
Now, let’s be clear. Jesus isn’t giving free passes for bad behavior. He’s talking about something more outrageous. God’s Beloved Community is not some pay back for having the right reputation. We don’t inherit through our ancestry. Acing the written test is no shoe in. And belonging to the right denomination is no ironclad guarantee, for anybody, even preachers!
All those folks everyone has written off, all those whose past lives surely disqualify them without any question – them, those folks, they heard John’s invitation to turn. They listened, they acted, they said YES with their feet. And perhaps that is the question Jesus puts before us today. What do our lives say? Because how we live out our faith always, always says something.
We say, “Everyone is welcome,” and our lives can say, “Except you.” We say, “We believe in forgiveness,” and our lives can say, “Not for what you did to me.” We sing about grace, and then make people earn their way into our good graces. We talk about compassion and then cross the street when someone's pain becomes inconvenient. We pray for peace and nourish our little resentments. We say we love our neighbors, if our neighbors don't ask too much of us.
Words matter. Of course they do. But Jesus reminds us that words are seeds. They are supposed to become something. A “yes” to God is supposed to grow legs. A prayer is supposed to grow hands.
A hymn is supposed to grow feet. A sermon is supposed to become a life. Otherwise, we have simply become very religious hearers of ourselves.
Perhaps that is why Philippians gives us the most beautiful picture of what a life that says yes actually looks like. Paul says: “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.” Notice he doesn't give us a list of rules. He gives us Jesus.
Jesus, who emptied himself. Jesus, who took the form of a servant. Jesus, who did not cling to privilege, but let it go. Jesus, who did not spend his life asking, “What do I get out of all this?” but “What can I give?” That is the mind of Christ.
And maybe that is where these four readings come together. Ezekiel says: Turn. Psalm 25 says:
Learn. Matthew says: Act. Philippians says: Serve. Turn. Learn. Act. Serve. Or simply, a changed heart produces a changed life. And for many of us, that might just be the good news we need to hear on this day.
Because too many of us believe we are trapped. Trapped by our past or by something someone did to us. Trapped by what we did or because of who our family was. Trapped in those mistakes we made or by the labels teachers, bosses, whoever put on us. Trapped by the names we have called others and trapped in that’s the way life is. So, we need to listen to Ezekiel again, who says, turn. God is not done with you yet.
Sometimes we think other people are trapped, too. We look at them and say, “That is just who they are.” “They'll never change.” “They have always been like that.” “People like that don't belong here.” But Jesus tells us to be careful. Because the ones we have always written off may be already inside the gates while we are arguing about who gets to enter. The son who rudely said no was not finished; neither was the son who said yes. There was still time for both to become a different person, just as there is for us. That may be one of the most hopeful things in all of Scripture:
God does not define us only by what we have been. God calls us toward what we might become.
“Turn, then, and live.” Not—Turn, then, and prove yourself. Not—Turn, then, make yourself perfect.
Not—Turn, then, earn your place. Simply—Turn. And live. And every morning, God places it before us, for the invitation is never withdrawn.
Every encounter, the invitation is there. In every difficult person, the invitation is there. In very new person we meet, the invitation is there. In every wounded friend, every person we try to avoid, every person whose story gives us the wi***es - the invitation is there. Will we turn? Will we learn? Will we act? Will we serve? And, friends, the answer does not need to be spoken aloud. It is shown by what we do when we leave this place. Because every prayer has to take feet. Every belief has to be practiced. Every song has to be shared by how we love. Every time we meet God here has to become an encounter with every neighbor, every stranger. Every ‘yes’ has to become how we live.
So, as almost every week, when we leave here today, we may still have questions. We may be filled with doubts. We might be weighed down by grudges. We may still carry our past with us. The journey may still stretch before us.
But - we can turn. We can learn. We can act. We can serve. We can become those people we have been saying we are with our lips every week. And maybe that is what Paul meant by urging us to have the mind of Christ. Not all the answers. Not winning every argument. Not looking more pious than anyone else. But people who are just a little less concerned about us, and paying more attention to those around us.
To loosen our grip on our certainty. To make room for change. To listen more closely. To forgive more generously. To welcome more openly. To care more often. To serve every chance we are given. To love simply because we have been loved. Because Jesus’ question is not, ‘will you say yes?’ He wants to know, ‘will you live your yes?’
And somewhere, friends, somewhere between the turning and the learning, the saying and the living, the believing and the becoming, we discover God’s grace. That grace which says – you are not your past. You are not your worst choice. You are not that person others say you are. You are not stuck in the rut of what has always been.
There is another way, another road. There is another morning, there is always an invitation. So, turn around. Learn the way. Put feet to your faith and follow Jesus into where God calls us to serve. Because the world has had more than enough of Yes people.
The world is desperate for those who know how to live out the Yes to God.

09/26/2026

Sermon snippet for September 27th:
"But Jesus, being Jesus, responds with another story. One about two sons. And then he adds the zinger. Oh, by the way, those tax collectors and prostitutes you despise so much? They will be at the front of the line when the doors to the Beloved Community. Think about that statement. Folks who have spent their who life trying to be religious are told that doesn’t matter. You can imagine how offended those folks must have been.
Now, let’s be clear. Jesus isn’t giving free passes for bad behavior. He’s talking about something more outrageous. God’s Beloved Community is not some pay back for having the right reputation. We don’t inherit through our ancestry. Acing the written test is no shoe in. And belonging to the right denomination is no ironclad guarantee, for anybody, even preachers!"

09/21/2026

Galloway Presbyterian Church has a clavinova (digital) piano for sale $200. As well, we have an electric organ for $ 75 OBO. Purchasers will need to move the pieces. They can be seen at our Yard Sale, Saturday, September 26th, 8:00 am - 2:00 p.m. or call 614-878-5015

09/13/2026

‘living in the mercy’ (Genesis 50:15-21; Psalm 103:1-13; Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35)

We talk about it, we preach about it, we sing about it. We put it in our worship material and our newsletters. We even have plaques and wall hangings which remind us of it, forgive as you are forgiven.’ When it comes to forgiveness, we Christians are rock stars.
Until somebody parks in our space. Until someone decides to rearrange the furniture. Until someone wonders if we should change the worship time. Or even worse – someone sits in our spot in church. That’s when we discover that forgiveness is easy to talk about, but harder to live. That’s when we realize forgiveness is more than a sentiment stitched onto a pillow.
Because Jesus, being Jesus, seems not to be thinking about parking spaces, or the color of the carpet, or who picks these strange hymns when he talks about loving our neighbors. Or perhaps he was. Perhaps that is why he talks about it.
Because it is one thing to say we love everyone. Everyone is just wonderful, everyone never bothers us, everyone are not a problem. But our neighbor? That is a whole different can of worms. Because when neighbors have opinions, even about the church. Especially when our neighbor’s opinion is wrong. And we know it is wrong, because we know we have the right opinion.
Unfortunately, the readings we have heard today may come from four different directions, but they seem to be conspiring to make us squirm in our seat. Joseph. Psalm 103. Paul. Jesus. For all four appear to be saying the same thing – ‘you have been given mercy. Now go, act like you have.’
Joseph has a problem. Well, in truth, there are a lot of problems. Especially with his siblings.
You remember the story. Joseph was a bit of a burr in the saddle of his brothers, always bragging, strutting around in that technicolor coat. So, his brothers trick him. Some want to kill him, but they end up selling him. Then they go home and lie about it. It’s as if they went into the picture gallery on the computer, and permanently deleted all pictures of Joseph, as if he had never been born.
Yet, he survives. More than that, he ends up with unparalleled power. Eventually, like in any good story, his brothers, those siblings who could not stand even the sight of him, stand before him. And Joseph is faced with power over what happens next.
You can probably imagine the possibilities. Had he been rehearsing such a scene in his mind over the years? Had he memorized a speech, imagined the shocked look on their faces? Had he contemplated offering devastating judgment and then walking away while the soundtrack swells in the background?
No. Joseph says one of the most unexpected, and important sentences in Scripture: "Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good." He could have said, “it’s okay.” He might have said, “don’t worry about it, it’s all behind us.” He doesn’t say, “what happens in Dothan, stays in Dothan.” Note that he does not pretend that the hurt did not hurt. He refuses to let the choices of others write the ending of his story. And that is the difference.
You see, we often think forgiveness means saying that what someone did to us doesn’t really matter. But it does. Which is why the Bible says forgiveness is not amnesia. It is not pretending nothing happened. It doesn’t say evil is good. We aren’t expected to wipe the slate clean because someone else has become trustworthy. Sometimes, Scripture says, forgiveness means that I will not allow what you did to shape who I become.
There is that person who hurt us. But we don’t need to hurt others because of that. Another took something from us – hope, trust, love – but we don’t need to let them take the rest of who we are. Someone betrays us, but that doesn’t give us a reason to seek revenge.
Joseph chooses to put down the weapon of revenge.
Like those grudges we carry, perhaps he discovered that when he put down that weapon, he had been carrying for far too long.
Then Peter comes along. Peter, who apparently had no filter, always asks what the rest of the guys were to polite to say out loud. "Lord, if somebody sins against me, how many times do I have to forgive them?" Then, he tries to answer the question for Jesus. “Seven times?”
Peter probably thought it was the perfect solution. After all, seven is one of the great Biblical numbers. It reminds us of holiness, completion, creation, perfection. It’s the logical expiration date for forgiveness. “Fool me seven times, okay. But number eight – we’re going to have a meeting.”
But Jesus isn’t into any sort of numbers game. Because if we start counting forgiveness, we have misunderstood grace. And so Jesus, being Jesus, tells a story.
It’s about a servant who is up to his eyeballs in debt. He knows he can never pay it off. But his master – surprisingly, shockingly – wipes the debt off the books. All of it . . . gone . . . finished . . . forgotten . . . forgiven.
The man walks away with the boulder off his back and thanksgiving in his hands.
Until . . . he runs into his friend who owes him a few bucks. And suddenly, grace becomes expensive. The one who just had a weight lifted off his life, pressed down hard on the one with a few pebbles in his pocket. The fellow who had been flooded with forgiveness now wants to offer mercy with a teaspoon. And Jesus stands there, hoping we can see how ridiculous that fellow looks.
Because, friends, this is our story. We come to God, asking for forgiveness. Which God does. And then we turn around and say, ‘hey, buddy, I haven’t forgotten what you did.’ We are given so much mercy God has to offer it with both hands. But we ration it out to others. We plead extenuating circumstances to God, and throw the book at others. Jesus says, remember the mercy you received. Let it become the mercy you give. And why in the world should we do that, Jesus?
Well, the psalmist gives us the reason. Not because we need to try harder, but because of God’s example:
"The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love." Can you imagine that? God . . . is . . . slow . . . to . . . anger.
Not us. We yell at the computer for taking so long to restart. We simmer because the person ahead of us at checkout doesn’t know how to tap their credit card. We do a slow burn when that text message isn’t returned immediately. We don’t even have to finish an email to know we will be ripped.
But God? Slower than molasses when it comes to anger. Does cartwheels with steadfast love. Doesn’t give us what we deserve. Thanks be to God. Because if God kept score the way we do, we wouldn’t make it to mid-week.
The psalmist reminds us that God’s mercy is like that of a parent toward a child. Looking beyond the mess in our lives, all our mistakes, the words who should not have said, those things we would like to undo, that email which should not have been sent, that decision not thought through.
God sees us. And yet, loves us. Which tells us something about God. Mercy is not something God chooses to do. Mercy is who God is. And if we are to claim we belong to this God, sooner or later, that characteristic of God should start showing up in us.
And so, we come to Paul, because Paul knows better than many that forgiveness is but the first step. Anyone can say, “I forgive you.” But who can say, “I can’t figure out who you are, but I will make room for you.”
You see that is what Paul is talking about today. Believers disagreeing. Whether it has to do with food, or which days are holy, or what spiritual practices are best, people in Rome can’t come to a consensus. Which means they are the church, simply because they are human. And it has always been this way.
Change the year. Change the place. Change the technology. Instead of only the priest reading the Bible, everyone has one. Instead of that new-fangled instrument the organ, offer praise bands. Replace scrolls with smartphones. Just give people a room, a committee, and a discussion about what church means, and people will remain consistent in their inconsistency.
And the advice Paul offered 2000 years ago holds true today. Stop judging. Stop despising the other person. Stop turning disagreements into battles. Why? Because God has welcomed them. That’s the whole point of this passage. We want to put up signs saying, ‘there’s no room at the inn,’ but Paul reminds us that just as God welcomes us, God welcomes those other folks. Just as God gives us mercy, we are to give that same mercy to others.
And honestly, that may be one of the hardest things Christians have had to learn in every generation. Because we also believe church is supposed to be where there is always 100% agreement. Everyone always must be completely on board with every belief, every decision, every hymn.
But the interesting thing is the New Testament spends a lot of time teach us how we are to love one another – when it is clear we do not. And there’s the rub, as well as the miracle. Being church is not about agreement but community. It is not about sameness but love. Not about everyone thinking alike but learning from one another. Being church is recognizing there is room at the table for everyone.
We are here, now, in this place, together – not because we have finally gotten our act together but because we have been welcomed by grace.
It doesn’t matter where we came from, who our families were, what our politics might be. It is not that we are filled with certainty. And is not because we have avoided every foolish thing we’ve said or done. No. We all got here the same way – because God made room for us. We are all guests at the same table. Which should make us just a bit nervous when we think we should choose the menu, who gets to sit where, or who gets turned away.
What might our faith communities look like if we took this seriously? A place where forgiveness is not just preached but practiced. A community where someone can admit, ‘I was wrong’ and know that no one would hold it against them. A place where folks can disagree without becoming enemies. A place where unity matters more than uniformity. A place where it is more important to wonder how we love one another rather than how to get everyone to agree.
That is what grace can do for us, in us, with us. It never seeks to erase our differences, but to teach us how to live with those differences. And if that community called church can learn to do live this way, think of how it might matter far beyond church walls.
Look around. You know as well as I do, we all keep that list. The list of who is ruining the country. Who is ruining the church. The list of those destroying college sports, the list of those waiting to take Christ out of Christmas. My list of who is ruining things for everyone who is trying to keep lists.
We open our devices, and salivate as we search for that person, the reel, that post, that person who will ruin our day. And the strange thing is we don’t even have to know the person, meet the person, talk to the person. We KNOW them by what they post, or by what someone claims they posted, or what another person tells us they really meant by what they posted. And we can spend the rest of the day being upset by people we never meet.
And in such a time, such an opportunity for outrage and umbrage, Psalm 103 whispers, "The LORD is merciful and gracious." Paul reminds us, “do not judge.” Jesus looks us in the eye ad says, “Forgive.” And Joseph circles around to remind us that we do not have to become what hurts us.
Maybe we have been asking the wrong question all our lives. It is an important one, yes- whom do I need to forgive? But perhaps the more crucial question is “where did I forget that I have been forgiven?” You see, it isn’t that we have forgotten that other person’s sin. We have forgotten how much we need grace. We seem to forget that we are not on the outside that circle of mercy. We are standing right in the middle of the circle. Every single one of us.
Those who irritate us, those of us too stubborn for our own good. People who cannot keep quiet at meetings, and people who never dare voice an opinion. Those who loudly sing off key and those who keep a stopwatch during the sermon. People who hope the church will change, and those who are ready to keep it from going down that road. There we are – you, me, them, us, all of us. Standing in that ever-expanding circle of mercy. Simply held by God. And there’s the good news, friends.
Not that we have become merciful, but that our God is. Not that we know how to forgive, but that God has already forgiven us. Not that we need to learn how to make room, but that God made room for us even before we ever thought we should ask. In that place called mercy. Where we breathe the air of grace until it is the foundation of how we speak. How we disagree. How we forgive. How we look at another person. Until when somebody asks us why we are different, we don’t have to come up with a clever, logical answer. We can simply, and honestly say,
“it is because we are living in the mercy which has been given to us. And we are making room for others who need it as much as we did.”
9-13-2026