Category: Sermons

A Question from One Who Stands in the Wilderness

The time when Jesus and John the Baptist lived was not simply a time of confusion. It was a time when fear and
pressure had slowly built up over many years. People carried a deep hunger in their hearts, a longing that was
hard to put into words. Roman soldiers were stationed throughout the land, and heavy taxes burdened the people.
Those with little fell more quickly, and the distance between the rich and the poor grew wider. The Herodian rulers
kept their power only with Rome’s permission, and that power was fragile and often cruel. Even among religious
leaders, tension was high. Words of faith were spoken, but real life did not seem to change.
Yet it was in such a time that a quiet hope began to awaken. People asked, “When will the kingdom of God
come?” “Who will lift us up again?” These questions slowly grew in the hearts of the people. Waiting was not
impatience. It was a dream of a different kind of life. It was hope rising from the very bottom.
Then a voice was heard in the wilderness. It did not come from the center of the city. It did not come from the
beauty of the temple. It was the voice of John the Baptist.

The wilderness looks empty at first glance. In Scripture the wilderness is often the place where God’s way begins
again. Israel learned how to walk with God in the wilderness. When the things they relied on were taken away,
when they could do very little on their own, God formed a new relationship with them. The wilderness is the place
where human effort stops, and God’s work begins.
That John stood in the wilderness already speaks for itself. His place became his sermon. Even his silence
pointed the way, like a signpost. His very presence was a proclamation: “A new way begins here.” So people left
the comfort of the city and went out to the wilderness. Their steps carried a deep desire to change their lives. They
wanted to hear again a truth they had almost forgotten.

Jesus later asked the crowds about John: “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by
the wind? Someone dressed in soft robes?” (Matthew 11:7–8) In these questions, Jesus offers two images.
He begins with the image of a reed shaken by the wind. A reed bends easily. Its roots are shallow, and it has no
firm center. Jesus was not saying that John was weak or unstable. Rather, he was pointing to the attitude of many
leaders of that time—people who changed their words depending on power or public opinion. Some adjusted their
message to please those in authority. Others spoke differently depending on the crowds. Those who went out to
see John may have wondered if he was the same.
But John did not waver. He did not depend on power. He did not fear the uncertainty of his place. Even in prison,
his eyes were still turned toward the Messiah. When John sent his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the one who is
to come, or are we to wait for another?” (Matthew 11:3), this was not a question of doubt. It was a prayer, a desire
to remain faithful to the very end. John was not a reed shaken by the wind. He was a steady voice standing
upright in the wilderness.
Then Jesus offers another image: “Did you go out to see someone dressed in soft robes?” In that time, fine
clothing was not just fashion. It was a sign of privilege and security. Those who wore such clothes lived in safe
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places. They did not need to take risks. Outwardly, they might appear religious, but often they were far from the
heart of faith.
When religion becomes too comfortable, its words lose their power. They no longer awaken the soul. Jesus does
not say this to condemn. He says it to show why John was different. John did not choose comfort. He did not
speak in ways that benefited himself. His path was rough and lonely, but his direction was clear. That is why Jesus
speaks so highly of John.

We are not asked to imitate John’s life. Advent does not call us to live exactly as he did. Rather, through John’s
life, we are invited to look quietly at our own direction. Faith does not begin with dramatic decisions. It begins with
small, daily turning of the heart. Advent is not a season that tells us to do more. It is a season that asks us where
we are standing and what we are facing.
John’s life asks us gentle questions: What winds cause me to waver? Have comfort and familiarity slowly shifted
my direction? What path am I truly seeking? These are not questions meant to accuse us. They are guides that
help us begin walking toward the light again.

The Third Sunday of Advent is known as Gaudete Sunday. “Gaudete” means “Rejoice.” It invites us to pause
and breathe in the midst of waiting. But this joy is not loud or dramatic. It is the quiet joy that rises when we
glimpse a light still far away.
In our own lives, there are times when change does not come, and hope feels hard to hold. Yet sometimes, in that
very place, we suddenly realize that God has been quietly at work all along. That realization becomes the
beginning of joy. Isaiah spoke of a new road opening in the wilderness. Jesus showed that small signs of healing
can carry great hope. John waited for the Messiah even from prison. Though his movement was confined, his
heart remained open to God. Even in darkness, he did not lose his longing for the light.

Advent continues to ask us: “What first drew you to faith?” “Whom are you waiting for?” “How are you standing
before the path God is opening?” The light has not yet fully arrived. But the fact that we have begun to walk
toward it is already hope.
Faith does not need to be perfect. What John shows us is not perfect certainty, but a steady heart that keeps
facing one direction. That steady heart helps us recognize the Messiah and remain grounded even when life
shakes us.
What matters most in faith is not a grand decision, but the small direction we choose today. When the light seems
far away, taking one step toward it, that is where faith takes root. May we come to see that, in this season of
Advent, God is already quietly at work among us. And may that awareness grow into a gentle joy deep within our
hearts.
Amen.

The King Who Remembers Us to the Very End

Today is Christ the King Sunday, the final Sunday of the Church year. When this day passes, we enter
Advent and begin a new year in the life of the Church. Even in the calendar of the world, we stand near
the end of another year.
At this time of year, we naturally look back. We remember moments of joy, but we also carry memories
that still cause pain. Some things went well, just as we had hoped. But other concerns remained
unresolved, and some burdens stayed with us until the very end.
On this Sunday we are invited to remember what it means to confess Jesus Christ as our King, and to
ask ourselves: Whom did we follow throughout this past year? And whom will we follow as a new year
unfolds before us?
When we hear the word king, we usually think of power, dignity, and authority. But the Gospels show us
a very different kind of king. On the cross Jesus appears weak and powerless, surrounded by mockery
and insult.
Yet when we read today’s Scriptures carefully, we see that the kingship of Jesus is not simply a symbol
or a paradox. It is the fulfillment of the true king whom the Scriptures have long awaited. The problem is
not Jesus’ appearance on the cross, but the old images of kingship that we have carried in our minds.
In the time of Jeremiah, the leaders of the people failed to care for those who were weak. They were
shepherds who scattered the flock rather than protecting it. But God promised a new king—one who
would gather the lost, restore life, and lead the people with justice and compassion.
In Scripture, a king is indeed one who reigns, yet the heart of that reign is gathering the scattered and
restoring the wounded.
When we look at the crucifixion through this lens, we see more clearly who the promised king truly is.
On the cross Jesus suffers the most unjust violence and humiliation, yet he prays,
“Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34).
This prayer is not simply an expression of kindness. It is an action that reveals the justice of God. We
often think of justice as punishment, repayment, or getting what one deserves. But in the Bible, justice is
connected to restoring broken relationships, leaving open a path for someone to return, and making
room for a new beginning.
On the cross Jesus breaks the cycle of violence. He refuses to answer hatred with hatred. He opens a
way of forgiveness and begins a new order grounded in peace.
There is another scene. One of the criminals crucified beside Jesus turns to him in his final moment and
says,

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“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
(Luke 23:42)
Scripture does not tell us what his life had been like. But it is clear that people no longer saw any hope in
him, and he himself had very little reason left to hope.
Yet Jesus answers him,
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” (Luke 23:43)
This is more than a comforting promise to one dying man. It is the moment when the true king foretold
by Jeremiah is revealed on the cross. A man whom everyone had given up on—someone judged as
useless and beyond recovery—is held in the memory and mercy of Jesus until the very end.
The name that Jeremiah proclaimed,
“The Lord is our righteousness” (Jeremiah 23:6),
becomes a living reality in the words that come from the lips of Jesus as he hangs upon the cross.
The Letter to the Colossians describes Christ as “the image of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15). It
is in the place that looks weakest—the cross—that the peace of forgiveness and reconciliation begins to
shine.
Now we turn the question toward ourselves:
What does it mean for us to confess Jesus as our King?
It means learning to loosen our hold on the measures of strength that the world teaches us, and slowly
learning the measures of Jesus instead.
Throughout the year, many different “kings” may have taken root in our hearts: the desire to be
recognized, anxiety, and stubborn pride. There were moments when we neglected relationships, and
even the quiet voice of resignation that says, “It is too late now.” These, too, can become kings we follow
without realizing it.
The story of the criminal in Luke’s Gospel speaks directly to these places.
Even when there is nothing to boast about, even when nothing seems to have changed, Jesus still
says,
“You will be with me.”
Even if the past year holds more regret than accomplishment, God’s gaze upon us is different from the
gaze of the world.
The kingship of Jesus is not a rule that welcomes only the successful.
It is the reign of love that refuses to let go, even until the very end.
Standing before this King at the close of the Church year does not mean writing a list of failures or
offering a report of our shortcomings. It means laying down the burdens we have carried—our feelings of
inadequacy, our self-blame, the anger or hurt still in our hearts—and entrusting ourselves once again to
the One who restores our lives.

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And this does not require heroic decisions.
Often it begins with something very small—remembering someone in prayer, choosing tenderness over
irritation, allowing one moment to be more generous than expected.
Through such small graces, the life shaped by the King of the cross begins to grow.
As Advent begins, we enter again the season of waiting for the One who comes. A new year will open
before us, and none of us knows what it will bring. But one thing is certain: we already know who the
King of that year will be.
The One who gave himself for us on the cross.
The One who remembers the forgotten and the rejected.
The One who opens peace not through violence, but through forgiveness and reconciliation.
He is the King who walks with us into the year ahead.
Standing at the threshold of a new Church year, we may take up the simple prayer that rose from the
cross:
“Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Within this prayer is both the weight of the year that has passed and the hope of the year to come.
May the true King revealed on the cross hold our past with mercy, walk with us through the days ahead,
and help us welcome the new year with a quiet and steadfast heart under his gentle reign.
Amen.

Hope of New Creation Rising in the Midst of Collapse

Last week, we heard about the Sadducees. They enjoyed honor and power because they stayed close
to the authority of the Jerusalem temple. For them, faith lived inside a visible system. God, in their
minds, was the One who kept that system safe. Faith became the same as stability, and God became
the guardian of the world they had built.
But history shows us a painful truth. The temple that seemed so strong was destroyed. Not one stone
was left on another. The people who thought they trusted God were actually trusting stones and
institutions. Their faith was turned toward what they had made, not toward God.
When Jesus says, “Not one stone will be left upon another” (Luke 21:6), he is not only speaking of a
future disaster. He is breaking open the way people build their lives on things that cannot last.

We are not so different. We also lean on many things—our health, our reputation, our money, our
families, our social position. These feel like the foundation of our lives. But when these things shake or
fall apart, we feel as if our whole being is collapsing. It feels like the ground is opening under our feet.
Fear rises, and it seems that nothing is safe.
And yet, this moment can become the time when we meet God again. When we finally see that nothing
in this world is eternal or absolute, we stand at the true beginning of faith: humility. Collapse is not the
end; it is, in fact, the threshold of God’s new beginning.

One day, we will leave behind everything we trust and everything we hold. This is a truth we cannot
escape. But this does not mean we turn away from the world. We must work faithfully, build
relationships, and carry our responsibilities. We live in the world, but we do not give our whole hearts to
it. This is our Christian vocation.
When this balance is lost and we treat things of the world as ultimate, our lives soon feel empty and
unstable—like a house built on sand. Everything we have and everything we rely on is a gift from God.
So our true foundation is not the world itself, but the God who made the world and still holds it.
This God is not far away or abstract. God is present in the people we meet, in the breath of nature, and
in our daily work and relationships. All that God gives—people, life, time, work, creation—are holy gifts.
If we cling to them too tightly, or if we ignore them carelessly, the harmony God entrusted to us begins to
break. Faith means caring for all these relationships with integrity and balance. This is how we shape
God’s order in a broken world. This is the life of the kingdom of God already among us.

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Today’s Gospel also speaks of trials of faith. Jesus warns, “Many will come in my name… Do not go
after them” (Luke 21:8). This is not an order to calculate the end of the world. It is an invitation to stay
steady even in fear.
When the world seems to fall apart, true faith holds on to trust in God. Christians look at chaos and
quietly say, “This is not the end; this is the beginning of God’s new work.” Wars, disasters, injustice, and
confusion are not only destruction; they are also the labor pains moving us toward God’s new world.
As the prophet Isaiah says, “I am about to create new heavens and a new earth” (Isaiah 65:17). Even on
top of ruins, God begins new creation. Collapse is never the final word. It is God’s preparation for what is
new and holy.

Jesus also says, “This will give you an opportunity to testify” (Luke 21:13). Faith becomes clearer in
crisis than in peace. Faith is not a way to avoid suffering, but a way to witness to God inside suffering.
Even if people close to us fail us, Jesus gives this promise: “Not a hair of your head will perish” (Luke
21:18). God remembers us and holds us—even the smallest part of who we are.
“By your endurance you will gain your souls” (Luke 21:19). This does not mean we must force ourselves
to endure pain. It means placing deep trust in the new life that God gives. This life goes beyond simple
survival. It points toward the vision Isaiah saw—a world where tears are gone, where the wolf and lamb
eat together, and where all creation lives in peace.

As we approach the end of the year, our days may feel repetitive or empty. Work repeats, relationships
feel familiar, and it becomes easy to miss the holiness inside them. But a person of faith finds meaning
even in repetition.
A believer gives thanks for small things, holds life gently, neither grasping too tightly nor letting things
slip away, and sees God’s breath in every relationship. When we live each day with such awareness,
ordinary time becomes holy time. Daily life becomes prayer; our relationships become a form of worship;
even small responsibilities become places of witness.

Collapse is not something to fear. It can be the beginning of God’s new creation. Even if the temple falls,
God is still alive. Even if everything we lean on shakes, God’s love does not shake.
Even now, God is quietly creating a new heaven and a new earth within our lives.
May our faith join this new creation with humility and patient trust.
And may God’s peace and the joy of new life gently rise again in our everyday lives. Amen.

The God of the Living

In the time of Jesus, Judaism was not a single uniform group but had several sects.
Among them, the Sadducees were the most powerful. They came from priestly families and controlled
the temple in Jerusalem — its sacrifices, offerings, taxes, and all economic activity connected with it.
For them, faith meant maintaining the existing order. Stability itself was holiness.
They did not believe in life after death, resurrection, final judgment, or angels.
Such ideas, they thought, could disturb the peace and threaten their power.
For the Sadducees, religion justified authority, and God was the guarantor of their system.
So they came to Jesus with a question meant not to learn but to mock:
“Teacher, if there is a resurrection, when seven brothers each married the same woman in
turn, whose wife will she be in the resurrection?” (Luke 20 : 33)
This was not a sincere question of faith but a way to ridicule the belief in resurrection.

Their question came from the law in Deuteronomy 25, known as the Levirate marriage.
It says, “When brothers reside together, and one of them dies and has no son, the wife of the deceased
shall not be married outside the family to a stranger; her husband’s brother shall go in to her.”
In ancient society, this law protected life.
When a man died without children, his name and property could disappear, and his widow could lose all
means of living.
The brother’s duty to marry the widow ensured that the family line continued, the property stayed within
the clan, and the woman’s life was protected.
Such customs were found not only in Israel but across many regions of the ancient Near East.
Yet the Sadducees ignored the life-giving purpose of that law.
They used the law not to preserve life but as a weapon for argument.

In Luke 20, resurrection means both the new order of life after death and the transforming power of God
that renews this world even now.

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Jesus showed that resurrection is not only a future promise but also a present transformation.
He said that those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage,
but those who are considered worthy of the resurrection “neither marry nor are given in marriage.
Indeed they cannot die anymore, because they are like angels and are children of God, being children
of the resurrection.”
The resurrection Jesus spoke of is not an abstract hope far away.
It is the power of God’s love that conquers death, despair, and separation in our daily lives.
Resurrection is not only something that “will happen someday.”
It is already active among us — in healing, in reconciliation, in every act of love that overcomes fear.
Those who live in the life of resurrection live differently from the world.
They choose sharing over possession, mercy over competition, peace over anxiety.
From this very moment, we begin to live as the people of resurrection.
This divine life that Jesus revealed stands in contrast to every system built on fear and control.
And history itself would soon prove that truth.

Earthly power and systems never last forever.
The Sadducees clung to the temple, to wealth, and to social privilege, but it did not endure.
About forty years after Jesus’ death, a Jewish revolt broke out against the Roman Empire.
In the year 70 CE, Rome destroyed the temple completely.
At that moment, the temple-based power of the Sadducees vanished from history.
The structure they tried so hard to preserve collapsed in an instant.
Wealth, fame, and authority that once seemed eternal all disappeared.
But the life of God continued beyond all that.
Everything living will one day fade, but the life that is in God never dies.
That is why we must live with humility before the fleeting things of this world
and hold on to the life that never changes — the life of God.

There will be a baptism during today’s 10 o’clock service.
This is not only a symbol but a visible sign of God’s living presence among us.

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Baptism is performed as water is poured three times on the head,
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
This water represents the touch of God who gives life.
Baptism proclaims the end of the old life and the beginning of the new.
It is more than the washing away of sin — it is a turning of one’s life toward God.

The baptism to be celebrated later today invites each of us to reflect:
“What kind of life am I living now?”
“Am I living the life of resurrection in my everyday world?”
We have already been baptized, yet we often forget what that means.
Baptism is not a single event in the past; it is a calling renewed each day.
Whenever we live in ways worthy of the new life God has given, we live our baptism again.
Faith in the resurrection is not only a promise for the future; it is the power that transforms our reality
now.
For our God “is not God of the dead, but of the living, for to him all of them are alive.” (Luke 20:38)
May we remember again the meaning of the life God has given us,
and, in the quiet moments of our daily journey, live out that divine life with gratitude, hope, and gentle
joy.
Amen.

A Prayer for Mercy, the Grace of Restoration
Joel 2:23–32; Psalm 65; 2 Timothy 4:6–8, 16–18; Luke 18:9–14

Today’s message asks two questions: What is true prayer, and what kind of heart does God receive?
And further, how does God’s restoring grace come into our lives when we pray?

In today’s Gospel, two men went up to the temple to pray, a Pharisee and a tax collector. They stood
in the same place, yet their hearts were completely different.
The Pharisee was a respected religious man. He kept the law strictly, fasted twice a week, and gave a
tenth of all his income. His discipline was sincere. But when he prayed, he said:
“God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax
collector.”
The problem was not his actions themselves but his heart behind them. He spoke words of gratitude,
yet deep down he was boasting about himself. His thanksgiving did not recognize grace—it was a
declaration of self-righteousness.
The tax collector, on the other hand, worked for the Roman Empire collecting taxes. Because he
served a foreign power and often dealt with Gentiles, people saw him as unclean. Tax collectors were
also known for corruption, since they could take more than required and keep the extra. For this
reason, he was despised as a betrayer of his people.
Standing far off in the temple, he could not even lift his eyes to heaven. He beat his chest and prayed:
“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
Beating one’s breast was a sign of deep sorrow and repentance. He did not hide his sin but stood
before God just as he was.
Jesus said, “I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt
themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Righteousness is not achieved by our merit. It is God’s gift to those who ask for mercy with a humble
heart. Humility is not simply lowering oneself, it is making room for God to enter.

Why was the tax collector declared righteous? Because God first shows grace to those who cannot
stand by their own strength, to those who seek Him even amid sin and brokenness. The tax collector
knew his place within that grace.
God always takes the first step. Through His mercy, He opens our closed hearts and leads us toward
restoration.

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The book of Joel reveals this divine promise. It was written in a time of longing for renewal after a
devastating locust plague. People faced famine and fear. Their grain and wine were gone, and even
worship had been interrupted.
But God says:“O children of Zion, be glad and rejoice in the Lord your God; for he has given the early
rain for your vindication, he has poured down for you abundant rain, the early and the later rain, as
before.”
In Palestine’s farming life, the early and later rains meant survival. The early rain made seeds sprout,
and the later rain brought the crops to fullness. Rain returning again meant that God’s covenant
faithfulness remained.
And God continues:“I will repay you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten, the hopper, the
destroyer, and the cutter, my great army, which I sent against you.”
It is a promise to restore even lost time. Then God speaks an even greater word of grace:
“Then afterward I will pour out my spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your
old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even on the male and female
slaves, in those days, I will pour out my spirit.”
God’s Spirit will fall upon everyone—beyond gender, class, and age. In a society divided by hierarchy,
this was revolutionary. The Holy Spirit is no longer for a few chosen people but a gift of life for all.
“Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”
To call upon God’s name is to turn one’s heart toward Him. Like the tax collector, acknowledging our
need and opening our hearts is the beginning of restoration. Salvation is not a reward for the perfect
but a grace experienced in the process of living, learning, and changing with God.

Psalm 65 praises this grace of restoration. It begins with forgiveness and ends with the renewal of
creation.
“To you that hear prayer shall all flesh come… Our sins are stronger than we are, but you will blot
them out.”
God hears our prayers and covers our sins. He is not far away but near—renewing our hearts.
Then the psalmist lifts his eyes from worship to the wider world of creation:
“You visit the earth and water it abundantly; you make it very plenteous; you drench the furrows and
smooth out the ridges; with heavy rain you soften the ground and bless its increase.”
God cares for the earth like a farmer tending his field. He softens the soil and blesses each sprout.
With that same tenderness, He tends our lives. As that rain softens the earth, our parched hearts are
renewed; and even within dried-up relationships, new shoots of life begin to appear.
If Joel speaks of the promise of restoration, Psalm 65 sings of its fruit—grain, wine, and oil. Both
declare that God renews the whole of life. Worship and creation are not separate: when God renews
our souls, His grace also renews nature and daily life. For God does not divide the spiritual from the
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ordinary.

In 2 Timothy, Paul looks back on his life as it nears its end. He has suffered much, yet he testifies to
God’s presence through it all. His letter does not explain why suffering happens; it declares that even
in suffering, God remains with us.
For Paul, faith was not about success or failure but about trusting God to the end. He offered his life
like a sacrifice, knowing all belonged to God. Suffering, for him, became a time when grace was
revealed.
He writes:“But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be
fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it.”
Paul’s confession meets the tax collector’s prayer: like him, Paul did not trust in his own righteousness
but entrusted himself wholly to God’s mercy.
This witness assures us that God never leaves us alone. True faith, like the prayer of the tax collector,
begins not with claiming our righteousness but by entrusting ourselves to God’s mercy. In that trust,
we find restoration even amid hardship.
God’s grace always comes first. His love crosses every boundary—restoring what was lost and
bringing new life to all creation. That grace renews not only the human heart but also the world around
us. Faith begins when we humbly respond to that grace.

Today we have seen how God’s mercy and restoring grace continue in our lives. God gives grace first;
we respond with humility; the Holy Spirit renews the community.
We have heard God’s promise to restore even lost years, felt His gentle hand that waters the furrows,
and learned of His presence that never leaves us even in suffering. We also saw why the tax collector
was made righteous—not by perfection, but by his humble heart before God.
Faith, in the end, is about how we stand before God. What matters is not what we have achieved, but
that we come before Him as we are, seeking mercy. And when we do, He restores us.
So this week, let us pray the tax collector’s prayer:
“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
When we wake in the morning, when we go to work, when conflict or pride rises within us, let us return
to this prayer. Upon it, God will soften our hearts again, send the rain of the Spirit, and bring forth new
life. May our lives and this whole community be renewed in that grace.
Amen.

The Covenant Written on Our Hearts
(Jeremiah 31:27–34 / Psalm 119:97–104 / 2 Timothy 3:14–4:5 / Luke 18:1–8)

The prophet Jeremiah’s voice rises from the dust of a fallen city. He lived through the last
days of the kingdom of Judah and saw Jerusalem destroyed before his eyes. The temple was
burned, the people were taken into exile, and the center of faith, Jerusalem, was reduced to
ashes. The people felt abandoned by God.
Their despair was not only political defeat but also a collapse of faith. The God who had once
protected them now seemed silent. Their prayers no longer reached heaven, and the
promises of God felt powerless before the ruins of reality. Yet in the middle of that despair,
Jeremiah delivers a surprising word of hope: “The days are surely coming, says the Lord,
when I will sow the house of Israel and the house of Judah with the seed of humans and the
seed of animals.” (Jeremiah 31:27) Judgment, then, was not the end. God would plant new
life where destruction had been. God’s judgment was not a final rejection, but a path toward
restoration—a way to begin again in relationship with God. Jeremiah saw beyond the broken
walls. He saw that God was still at work, turning despair into the ground of new life and
shaping a future filled with hope.
“Just as I have watched over them to pluck up and break down, to overthrow, destroy, and
bring evil, so I will watch over them to build and to plant, says the Lord.” (Jeremiah 31:28)
Even in the midst of destruction, God rebuilds what is broken and renews what seems lost.
God’s “watching” is not surveillance or control but a caring, life-giving attention. It is not
judgmental but nurturing. Sometimes what we call “God’s silence” feels like absence or loss,
but even then, God is planting unseen seeds. God’s work is often slow and delicate, and faith
is the courage to trust in that slowness. Each of us experiences our own kind of ruin—family
conflict, weariness of faith, social injustice, illness, or loss. Yet in all these, God comes as the
One who still builds and plants.
“In those days they shall no longer say: ‘The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the
children’s teeth are set on edge.’” (Jeremiah 31:29) This saying had expressed the belief that
children suffered for their parents’ sins. People excused their failures by blaming the past. But
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God calls them to a new understanding of responsibility: “But all shall die for their own sins;
the teeth of everyone who eats sour grapes shall be set on edge.” (Jeremiah 31:30) Each
person now stands in direct relationship with God—not through ancestors, tradition, or
inheritance. Salvation and judgment are no longer collective but personal. Every person is
invited to respond to God with their own heart. This is where the new covenant begins. God
moves us from collective fate to personal faith, from outward religion to inward relationship.
We, too, lose strength when we live inside the habit of blaming—“It’s someone’s fault.” But
God asks us a personal question: “What will you choose now?” When we answer that
question, the covenant within us awakens.
“The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house
of Israel and the house of Judah. … I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their
hearts.” (Jeremiah 31:31, 33) The old covenant was written on stone and received with fear.
But the new covenant is written on the heart. The Hebrew word for “law” is Torah, which
means not just rules but divine teaching and direction—a way of life given by God. The Torah
is God’s guidance for human flourishing. When God’s teaching is written on our hearts, our
very thoughts and conscience become the dwelling place of God. The law is no longer an
external demand but an inner light that leads us toward goodness. As the psalmist says: “Oh,
how I love your law! all the day long it is in my mind.” (Psalm 119:97) “Your word is a lamp to
my feet and a light to my path.” (Psalm 119:105) God’s word becomes the light that guides
our daily lives. Faith then is not blind obedience but joyful trust—finding joy in discipline, love
in obedience, and freedom in devotion.
Luke 18 opens with a parable about “the need to pray always and not to lose heart.” In a
certain city, there was a judge who neither feared God nor respected people. And in that
same city, there was a widow—a woman without power, wealth, or protection. Her only
strength was her faith in God’s justice. She came to the judge day after day, saying, “Grant
me justice against my opponent.” Though he ignored her, she did not give up. Finally, the
judge said, “Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow
keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually
coming.” (Luke 18:4–5) Through this story, Jesus reveals who God truly is. God is nothing like
the unjust judge. God is righteous and merciful. God never ignores the cries of those who call
day and night, and God will bring justice swiftly and rightly. (Luke 18:7–8)

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This parable is not only about praying hard; it is about holding on to faith with endurance. The
widow’s persistence was not stubbornness but trust in God’s justice. Her repeated plea was
an act of faith in the promise of God—a faith that refuses to forget or let go of hope. Her
perseverance did not come from her own strength. It came from the living presence of God
working in her heart. At the end, Jesus asks, “And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he
find faith on earth?” This is not despair but invitation—a question for the disciples and for us:
Can you keep faith even when God’s justice seems delayed?
The “law written on the heart” that Jeremiah spoke of is fulfilled in the persistence of prayer.
Prayer is not only asking for what we want; it is awakening the divine law already written
within us. Through prayer, that law breathes again and becomes life. That inner law is
steadfast love, trust in justice, and patience rooted in mercy. Prayer keeps that law alive in us
like the breath of life itself. This is why Jesus said, “Pray always and do not lose heart.”
Paul says to Timothy, “Proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or
unfavorable.” (2 Timothy 4:2) The Word and prayer belong together. Prayer writes the Word
on our hearts; the Word turns prayer into action. God’s Word builds and restores us. When it
takes root in our hearts, we become not only listeners but witnesses.
The church today faces struggles much like those in Jeremiah’s time. The words of faith
remain, but their meaning can fade. God’s justice often feels delayed, and our prayers seem
unanswered. Yet the Church exists because there are still people who trust the slow work of
God—who pray, who endure, and who believe that divine justice will prevail. A praying church
is a living church. Prayer is its heartbeat—the quiet strength that sustains faith and keeps
justice alive in the world. What we need now is persistent prayer and a faith that lifts one
another up. So today we pray: “O God, may the law you have written on our hearts become a
flame that never goes out, even in the coldness of the world. Give us faith that does not give
up, even when the answer seems slow, and make our prayers seeds of your kingdom.” Amen.

Remembering and Giving Thanks

Today’s readings teach us to live faithfully even in unfamiliar and difficult places.
The prophet Jeremiah does not tell the exiles in Babylon to simply wait until they can return home.
Instead, God calls them to settle down—to build, plant, raise families, and pray for the city’s peace.
As the Lord says, “In its welfare you will find your welfare.” (Jeremiah 29:7)
This passage shows us the true direction of faith. Faith is not about longing for a glorious past or
sighing over what has been lost. God tells us to live here and now, to build, to plant, to nurture, and to
continue life even in exile. We often treat the present as temporary, thinking, “When things get better,
I’ll start living.” But that wastes the life God already gives us.
To live faithfully does not simply mean to work hard. It means to accept the present moment as the
place where God is with us and to seek God’s will within it. God calls us to focus on today. Holiness
does not happen only in temples. It grows even in strange, uncomfortable places—where our hearts
feel weak and uncertain. There, God is still with us, nurturing our faith.
So we do not avoid reality. We look at our neighbors and pray for the peace of the place where we
live. “For in its welfare you will find your welfare.” Faith is not private peace alone, it is seeking the
good of the whole community. God sends us into the world to pray and work for the well-being of all.

Psalm 66 gives us a song for those who walk through hardship: “Be joyful in God, all you lands; sing
the glory of his Name; sing the glory of his praise” (Psalm 66:1). The psalm invites us: “Come now and
see the works of God, how wonderful he is in his doing toward all people” (v.4). What are we to see?
“He turned the sea into dry land, so that they went through the water on foot; and there we rejoiced in
him” (v.5). They remember how God led them through the Red Sea, and that memory helps them face
today’s suffering.
The psalm does not hide pain: “You brought us into the snare; you laid heavy burdens upon our
backs. You let enemies ride over our heads; we went through fire and water; but you brought us out
into a place of refreshment” (vv.10–11). They confess their trials honestly, yet also God’s deliverance.
“You brought us out into a place of refreshment.”
This becomes our own confession too. We too have walked through fear and loss, yet God has
brought us to a place where we can breathe again. The Holy Eucharist is the place where we
remember that saving grace. At this table, we recall God’s mercy and turn our sighs into thanksgiving.

In the Second Letter to Timothy, Paul reminds us to hold on to the heart of our faith: “Remember
Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, a descendant of David, that is my gospel” (2 Timothy 2:8). Here
lies the core of the gospel, the incarnate and risen Lord. This memory grounds our identity and our
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calling.
This call to remember Christ is also at the heart of baptism, which reminds us what it means to live as
those reborn in him. Baptism means dying to the old self and rising to new life in Christ. Yet we often
forget this new identity. Each baptized person is called to remember this grace every day and to live
again as a child of God. That is what Paul means when he says, “Remember Jesus Christ.”
Paul writes from prison: “I suffer hardship, even to the point of being chained like a criminal. But the
word of God is not chained” (v.9). We may be bound by circumstances, but God’s word is never
chained. Social barriers, emotional walls, and the limits of our reality cannot confine the gospel. The
word of God finds a way through every wall.
Paul continues: “I endure everything for the sake of the elect, so that they may also obtain the
salvation that is in Christ Jesus” (v.10). Then he quotes an early Christian hymn, a confession of faith
that was already known in the church: “If we have died with him, we will also live with him; if we
endure, we will also reign with him; if we deny him, he will also deny us; if we are faithless, he remains
faithful, for he cannot deny himself” (vv.11–13).
Here we find comfort. Even when our faith is weak, Christ remains faithful. So we return to what truly
matters, not arguments or prideful words, but the living word that brings life. The Anglican tradition
values balance and discernment, seeking to understand Scripture rightly and to live in ways that build
others up.

The Gospel of Luke teaches us the meaning of thanksgiving. “On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was
going through the region between Samaria and Galilee” (Luke 17:11). This region was a
borderland—both geographical and social. Samaritans and Jews were enemies. The border between
them represented division and exclusion.
Ten lepers stood there, keeping their distance. In that time, lepers were considered unclean and were
driven out of their communities. Yet they cried out: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” (v.13). Their cry
was more than a plea for help; it was a cry of faith that crossed the boundaries between people.
Jesus said, “Go and show yourselves to the priests” (v.14). And as they went, they were made clean.
Healing happened. But the story’s heart lies beyond healing. “Then one of them, when he saw that he
was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and
thanked him. And he was a Samaritan” (vv.15–16).
Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them
found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” (vv.17–18). Then he said, “Get up and
go on your way; your faith has made you well” (v.19).
The Greek word translated here as “made you well” means both “to heal” and “to save.” All ten were
healed, but only one was saved. Jesus sent them to the priests so they could receive the confirmation
required by the Law and begin the journey back to their communities. The nine were healed on their
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way, but only one turned back—to find not just healing, but salvation.
The nine received what they asked for: their bodies were healed and the way was opened for them to
rejoin society. But the Samaritan received something far greater. By turning back to Jesus in
thanksgiving, he discovered not only physical healing but a living relationship with God.
The nine went back to their old lives; the one entered new life. Healing restored their bodies; salvation
restored their souls and opened them to God’s kingdom. Thanksgiving is not mere politeness; it is a
way of recognizing grace and returning to its source. Gratitude leads us back to Jesus’ feet, where
healing becomes salvation.
The nine received permission to return to society, but the Samaritan discovered a new home at Jesus’
feet. The nine had their problem solved; the one had his life transformed. They were healed of leprosy,
but he was saved from a life that saw God only as a solution provider.
Thanksgiving was the turning point, the moment when cure became calling, when relief became
relationship, when healing became salvation. Today we too must ask: Where are we walking? Are we
only running toward our busy routines, or are we turning back to give thanks to the One who gives us
life? When we pause and return to Jesus, even for a moment, our hearts are renewed.

All today’s readings remind us of one truth — to remember God’s grace, to live faithfully where we are,
and to give thanks in all things.
Just as he once walked through the region between Samaria and Galilee, he now enters the
borderlands of our own lives—our strange and uncertain places—and says, “Get up and go on your
way; your faith has made you well” (Luke 17:19).
Holding on to that voice, we return to our daily lives. Even in our own Babylon, we build, care, and
pray for peace. Even when we pass through fire and water, God will bring us “into a place of
refreshment” (Psalm 66:11). Even when our faith wavers, “he remains faithful, for he cannot deny
himself” (2 Timothy 2:13).
So, open your eyes in remembrance. Build your house in faithfulness. Return to the Lord in
thanksgiving. And like the Samaritan who fell at Jesus’ feet, may we move from healing to salvation,
from suffering to praise, from strangeness to peace. Amen.

The Spirituality of Contentment and Sharing 

The story of Jeremiah begins in a time of siege and fear. Jerusalem was surrounded by the Babylonian army, and the people could not see a future. In that desperate moment, Jeremiah said the Babylonian invasion was God’s judgment and that surrender was the only way to survive. Because of this message, he was put in prison. 

Yet in that prison, Jeremiah heard an amazing word from God: “Buy the field at Anathoth.” (Jeremiah 32:6–7) To buy land during a war sounded foolish. The field at Anathoth looked worthless at that time. But God was showing that this land would one day be a sign of hope and restoration. 

Jeremiah obeyed this strange command. He bought the field, weighed out the silver, signed the deed, sealed it, set up witnesses, and entrusted the deed to his faithful companion Baruch, who placed it in a jar to be kept safe. The jar symbolized that hope must be preserved for the future. 

The church’s liturgy works in the same way. At the Lord’s Table we keep God’s promise in our hands, in our mouths, and in our memory. Like Jeremiah’s jar, the church is a community that keeps hope alive through remembrance. We too are called to write “documents of hope.” Jeremiah’s deed pointed to restoration; our documents of hope are our faithful actions that witness to God’s promises in daily life. 

The mission of the church is not only the rebuilding of buildings but also the healing of relationships, standing with the weak, and giving steady care and education. These things are the documents of hope in our time. Just as Jeremiah showed faith in the future through his bold act, we too can show God’s promise through our choices today. 

Psalm 91 is a hymn of trust that calls God a refuge and a stronghold. The psalmist says, “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High, abides under the shadow of the Almighty. He shall say to the Lord, ‘You are my refuge and my stronghold, my God in whom I put my trust.’” (Psalm 91:1–2) 

The psalm does not hide the dangers of life. It names them: “the terror by night,” “the arrow that flies by day,” “the plague that stalks in the darkness,” “the sickness that lays waste at mid-day.” (Psalm 91:5–6) These are the fears we may meet at any time. 

The promise is not that all suffering will disappear, but that we are never left alone in it. Even when the night feels long and heavy, we may discover signs that God is quietly present, sharing our pain and giving us strength. The hope of salvation is not only that God is with us, but also that God can open a way toward peace and new life even in the hardest moments. 

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Later in the psalm, God speaks directly: “Because he is bound to me in love, therefore will I deliver him; I will protect him, because he knows my Name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him; I am with him in trouble; I will rescue him and bring him to honor.” (Psalm 91:14–15) 

The promise rests on relationship. In evening prayer, this psalm is often read so that fearful nights may be turned into nights of trust. Prayer does not change the world as we wish, but it changes our hearts, giving us peace as we rely on God’s presence. 

The apostle Paul writes, “We brought nothing into the world, so that we can take nothing out of it; but if we have food and clothing, we will be content with these.” (1 Timothy 6:7–8) He also warns, “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.” (v. 10) 

The Bible does not call wealth itself a sin. But it asks us where we place our hope. He also warns the rich not to be proud or to trust in uncertain riches, but to place their hope in God who provides richly for all. They should do good, be rich in good works, be generous, and be ready to share. 

Contentment here does not mean giving up or denying life. Unlike the wisdom of the world that relies on human strength, true contentment comes from peace and freedom in relationship with God. A person who learns sufficiency in God is not bound by how much they have, but finds joy in sharing. True contentment is not for oneself alone; it carries responsibility for others. If my neighbor’s needs are met, even if I have less, that is justice and life together. 

This responsibility does not end with people around us. Just as true contentment seeks the good of our neighbor, it also extends to the world we share. In today’s world, this spirit of contentment means not only caring for one another, but also caring for creation and the life God has entrusted to us. 

Paul also says, “Fight the good fight of the faith.” (v. 12) This fight is not about defeating others. It is the quiet struggle to overcome greed, fear, and envy. It is the effort to choose honesty and truth in a culture ruled by materialism. In a world where advertising and media stir up endless wants, faith calls us to moderation, to look after one another, and to choose generosity. 

Faith is not only spoken in church. It shows in our daily choices. To turn our hearts back to God is the fight of faith, and its fruit is peace and generosity. 

Jesus’ parable leads us to the gate of a house. A rich man lived in luxury every day. At his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, full of sores, longing for scraps from the table. But the 

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rich man did not see him. After death, their places were reversed. Lazarus was with Abraham, and the rich man was in torment. 

The rich man’s fault was not an act of great evil, but his indifference to the suffering person right at his door. The chasm between them after death was not new; it had already been made by the rich man’s lack of care during his life. 

In his torment the rich man begged Abraham to send Lazarus to warn his brothers, so they would not end up in the same place. But Abraham said, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.” (v. 29) The problem was not the absence of a sign, but a heart unwilling to listen to the word already given. 

This parable is not only about personal charity. It also questions the habits and systems that keep neighbors outside the gate. Luke’s Gospel again and again shows God’s care for the poor and the weak. God remembers not the nameless rich man, but Lazarus, whose name means “God helps.” 

The message to us is clear. God’s kingdom is not only inside the church. It is also at our gates, in the poor, the sick, and the lonely around us. Faith is shown not only in words and worship but also in how we see and treat these neighbors. When we open our doors in welcome, we show the kingdom of God. When our tables are shared with others, the kingdom begins. 

Jeremiah wrote a deed of hope. The psalmist sang of trust. First Timothy taught us contentment and sharing. Jesus’ parable testified to God’s justice at the gate. All four readings remind us that the choices we make today shape the life of tomorrow. 

The blessing of animals today is not only about our affection for pets. It is also our confession of gratitude and responsibility for all creation. Every creature we care for is made precious by God’s hand. To respect and love them is to live out hope, trust, contentment, and sharing. 

The bread and wine of the Eucharist are signs of life’s promise. God’s promise is not only a record from the past but a living reality in our lives today. The world may not change instantly when we leave this place, but our vision and choices can change. And small changes shape the future. 

May today’s Word take root deeply in us. May we become a church that shows hope, learns trust, shares freely, and widens the table of welcome. May this worship and blessing be one step toward a world where people, animals, and all creation live together in peace. Amen. 

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The Path of Tears and Faith 

Today’s readings are more than lessons. They are an invitation. They show us God’s deep love and call us to live freely and faithfully in that love. This is a time to recognize God’s sovereignty and mercy, and to seek a way of walking together beyond the powers and divisions of this world. 

Our first reading speaks about Jeremiah. He was a prophet who carried God’s word. People often called him “the weeping prophet.” He cried because he saw his people’s sin and pain. Jeremiah says, “My joy is gone, grief is upon me, my heart is sick” (8:18). He heard the cry of the people across the land, “Is the Lord not in Zion? Is her King not in her?” (8:19). He also speaks the Lord’s question, “Why have they provoked me to anger with their images, with their foreign idols?” (8:19). Jeremiah asks, “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has the health of my poor people not been restored?” (8:22). And he ends with a cry of pure lament, “O that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain of tears, so that I might weep day and night for the slain of my poor people!” (9:1). Jeremiah did not weep only from his own heart, he shared God’s heart. God does not pass by the wounds of the people. We also have times of sorrow, when we are sick, lonely, or troubled. In those moments we can speak honestly to God, “Lord, this is too hard for me. Please help me.” Our tears are not hidden from God, and they are not wasted. 

Psalm 79 is not a lone voice, it is the prayer of a people. They face ruins and shame. They ask, “How long will you be angry, O Lord?” (79:5). This is not complaint without faith, it is trust speaking honestly. The psalm ends with a clear petition, “Help us, O God our Savior, for the glory of your Name; deliver us and forgive us our sins, for your Name’s sake” (79:9). This is true prayer, seeking not only our good, but God’s glory. We also pray together as a church. Personal prayer matters, yet shared prayer gives strength. We carry one another’s pain and ask God’s help with one voice. 

In the epistle, Paul urges Timothy, “First of all, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for everyone, for kings and all who are in high positions” (2:1–2). This includes family and friends, but not only them. It also includes people different from us, even those we find hard to love, because “God our Savior… desires everyone to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (2:3–4). There is “one God” 1

and “one mediator between God and humankind, Christ Jesus” (2:5). His love has no border, so our prayer must not be fenced in. When we pray for all people, our vision grows wider and our hearts grow deeper. Praying for those unlike us makes us a little more like God in love. 

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells the story of a manager (16:1–13). He was about to lose his job. He was not strong enough to dig, and he was ashamed to beg. So he acted quickly and reduced the debts of those who owed his master. The master praised him, not for being honest, but for being wise about the future. Jesus is not telling us to copy corruption. He is showing that even a dishonest person can act with courage when the future is at risk. If “the children of this age” are so clever for their own gain, how much more should “the children of light” live wisely for the kingdom of God? Jesus told this story not to teach tricks, but to show how we treat wealth. In Jewish society, the law forbade open interest on loans. But in daily practice, debts of grain or oil were sometimes recorded with added amounts, which functioned like hidden interest or fees. Some scholars think the manager reduced these extra charges, which were really his own profit. If so, he did not steal from his master. Instead, he gave up his own share to gain goodwill and restore trust. His motives were not pure, but the act shows that money can be turned from abuse into a tool for healing relationships. Jesus says, “Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes” (16:9). In other words, wealth will not last. Wealth is not a master. It is only a tool. What we have shows greater value not when it remains in private possession, but when it is used for healing, blessing, and building a world we share together. When we share with generosity, even something imperfect can serve God’s good purposes. Jesus also says, “Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much” (16:10). Faithfulness is not about waiting for dramatic moments. It reveals itself through daily choices and simple acts of integrity. Finally, Jesus makes it clear: “No slave can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and wealth” (16:13). 

These four voices do not tell four separate stories, they form one path for us now. First, honesty before God. Jeremiah shows that we can come to God without masks. We sing in joy when we are glad. We bring our tears and sighs when we are broken. God receives honest hearts. Second, a shared faith. The psalm shows that faith is not a solitary road. The church carries burdens together and shares joy together. In the prayer and solidarity of the community, we receive strength. Third, a love that includes all. Paul calls us to pray across every boundary, near and far, similar and different, even hard-to-love. This widens our sight and shapes us into Christ’s likeness. Fourth, Jesus asks us how we handle what we are given 

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and how we make choices in small things. Our resources are meant to serve others and to build trust. Daily faithfulness is a gift we offer to God. These four steps belong together. Honesty becomes shared prayer, shared prayer grows into wider love, wider love takes shape as faithful, concrete living. In this way, God’s word changes us within and sends us out to live it in the world. 

In the Holy Eucharist, we meet Jesus. Week by week, God meets us at this table. Like the “balm in Gilead,” the sacrament brings healing and new strength. Jesus knows our wounds and sorrows. He forgives our sins and gives us grace to continue. When we share one bread and one cup, we become one family. We are different people, but we are one in Christ. The grace of this meal is the same for all. What we have or do not have does not matter here. We are all God’s children, equally loved by Jesus. 

After Communion, we return to our homes and our work. What do we carry with us? We carry Jeremiah’s compassion, to feel with those who suffer. We carry the psalm’s shared prayer, not living only for ourselves, but trusting God together. We carry Paul’s wide love, to hold the whole world in prayer. We carry Jesus’ teaching, to let God be our true Master, and to walk faithfully in the small things. 

These are not grand acts. But if we live with this heart, our ordinary days become holy. Our homes become a dwelling for God’s presence. Our neighborhood becomes a small sign of God’s kingdom. In this way, our daily lives become signs of God’s kingdom. Amen. 

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The Lost Sheep, the Found Sinner 

O God, because without you we are not able to please you, mercifully grant that your Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. 

The Collect for today expresses the heart of the gospel reading: God is the Good Shepherd who seeks the lost, who leads us with love and patience, who forgives us and brings us to the feast of joy. All of us know the experience of losing and finding something precious. A child feels relief when a lost toy is found. Families rejoice when they meet a loved one after many years. Even finding a misplaced item can bring freedom and peace. These moments are not only about the object itself, but about the restoration of relationship, the return of stability, the confirmation that what was lost still matters. 

Today’s gospel reveals this truth in our relationship with God. The difference is this: we are not the ones searching. God is the one who seeks. And what is lost is not an object, but our very lives. 

Luke 15 shows that Jesus’ actions shocked his society. Tax collectors and sinners gathered to hear him, but the Pharisees and scribes complained: 

“This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” (Luke 15:2) 

In the world of Jesus, a shared meal was not just food. It showed who belonged and who did not. To sit at table with sinners was to cross social and religious boundaries. Jesus was not only being kind; he was announcing a new order of God’s kingdom. He showed that God does not divide people into pure and impure, but welcomes all. To explain this, Jesus told the parables of the lost sheep and the lost coin. 

In the first parable, the shepherd leaves ninety-nine sheep in the wilderness to look for the one that is lost. From a human perspective, this seems foolish. Yet in this action, we see God’s love. In Scripture, God is often pictured as a shepherd. Psalm 23 begins, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” In Ezekiel 34, God promises, “I myself will search for my sheep… I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak.” 

When the shepherd finds the lost sheep, he lifts it with joy and carries it home. This shows what true community is. No one is left behind. When even one is missing, the whole body suffers. But when the 

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one is found, the whole community is strengthened. The ninety-nine also learn that they will never be abandoned. This trust builds unity and hope. To seek even one lost life is not a small gesture; it is the way a community is kept alive. 

The second parable shows the same truth in a different picture. A woman loses one silver coin out of ten. For her, this is not just money but security for her household. Losing one coin threatened her stability. So she lights a lamp and sweeps the house carefully until she finds it. 

This persistence reveals God’s unfailing love. Even if we wander far, God does not give up. God searches every corner until we are restored. And when the coin is found, the woman calls her friends and neighbors to rejoice with her. What was at risk was not only her possession, but her peace and stability. Its recovery restored her sense of security, and her joy could not be contained. 

So too, when God restores one lost life, the whole community rejoices, because everyone is bound together. Psalm 139 gives voice to this truth: 

“If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.” (Psalm 139:9–10) 

No matter where we go, God’s hand is already holding us. 

Our world today often feels broken. Violence and hatred still tear communities apart. Just last week, many were shaken by the news of a young political leader who was shot and killed at a university in Utah. Regardless of political stance, we grieve the way fear, suspicion, and hostility can erupt into deadly violence. Such tragedies expose the deep divisions and wounds of our time. The prophet Jeremiah once cried out: 

“My people are foolish, they do not know me; they are stupid children, they have no understanding. They are skilled in doing evil, but do not know how to do good.” (Jeremiah 4:22) Jeremiah’s harsh words came from deep sorrow over the blindness of his people. Yet he also saw that even in destruction, God’s steps were still approaching—not to destroy, but to call his people back. Just as parents discipline a child out of love, so God’s judgment is not only punishment but also an invitation to return. Even when the world seems to collapse, God does not abandon us. God comes as the shepherd searching for the lost, as the woman determined to find what is precious. 

At the heart of both parables is repentance and joy. When the shepherd finds his sheep or the woman her coin, they invite neighbors to celebrate. Jesus says: 

“There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous 2

persons who need no repentance.” (Luke 15:7) 

God’s joy is not in the ruin of sinners but in their return. The world celebrates success and achievement, but God rejoices in restored life and renewed relationship. Every time we celebrate the Eucharist, we share in this heavenly joy. The table of the Lord is not for the perfect, but for all who turn back in faith. 

The apostle Paul is a clear witness to this grace. Once a persecutor and violent man, he became a servant of the gospel. He called himself “the foremost” of sinners, yet he received mercy so that Christ’s patience could be shown through him (1 Timothy 1:15–16). 

These parables are not only stories from long ago; they are God’s invitation to us today. They call us to restoration. When the lost return, their place in the community is renewed, and the whole body is made complete again. 

They also call the church to go beyond safe walls. The mission of the church is not only to care for those inside, but to seek those left out: the forgotten, the voiceless, the powerless. To embrace them is not optional; it is what makes the church truly the church. 

Finally, these parables invite us to share God’s joy. God rejoices when even one life is restored. When the church welcomes back the lost, it becomes a sign of that joy for the world. 

God’s heart is always turned toward the one who is lost. This persistent love gives life to the whole community. The ninety-nine also gain hope because they know they will never be abandoned. Even when the world seems to fall apart, God still seeks us. When the church becomes a community that searches for the lost and refuses to give up on one another, then it becomes a witness of God’s joy. And in that joy, the world may glimpse the very heart of God. 

Amen. 

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