Sermons

Who Do We Welcome?

Jesus said, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward, and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple– truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.” Matthew 10:40-42

In our lives, and especially as a church, we often spend a lot of time thinking about where we’ve been and where we’re headed. We look to the past to learn and to the future to plan. Strategic planning usually means looking back or ahead. But there’s something sacred about noticing where we are right now. As I look at this community today, I really like where we are.

I’m not saying this because everything is perfect. It’s not. We face challenges and tough choices ahead. Our country often feels worn out by division and constant uncertainty. Each day brings news that makes us question our ability to be kind, honest, or even just see each other as people. The recent news about the Temporary Workers program and the struggles of our Haitian and Syrian siblings is especially heartbreaking. It reminds us how fragile safety can be and how hard some hearts have become.

It would be easy to let that heartbreak shape who we are. It would be easy to feel anxious or even become cynical. Faith communities can fall into that trap too; we might just want to wait for things to get better. But when I look around St. Mark’s, I see something different. Instead of staying stuck in anger or grief, we choose, and will keep choosing, to support our siblings, help change how people are seen, and protect them as best we can.

I see our community growing. It’s not just about numbers, though that’s true too. We’re also becoming more confident in who we are. More children are running through these halls than we’ve seen in years. Every month, Caitlin and I meet new people who say they’ve been looking for a church that feels honest, hopeful, and welcoming. Some haven’t been to church in decades. Some have never really felt like they belonged anywhere. Some carry deep wounds from other faith communities. Others just say, “I walked in, and something felt different.”

I don’t think they’re looking for perfection. I know they want to belong. They want a place where they can be themselves. A place where questions are welcome, grief isn’t hidden, joy is shared, and children are celebrated, not just tolerated. In a culture that often rewards outrage and isolation, building this kind of community is a quiet but powerful act of resistance.

This leads me to the strategic vision our vestry is working on. We’ve never thought our sense of the divine spark should stay inside these walls. We come together to pray, sing, and receive communion so we remember who we are, and then we go back out into the world. The Eucharist isn’t a way to escape the world; it gives us strength to live in it.

I love this vision because it reminds us that loving our neighbor isn’t just another thing to add to our schedule. It’s how we live out the Gospel. It means keeping our eyes open to see where and how we can welcome the next person. In today’s reading from Matthew, Jesus says: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me… and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones… will not lose their reward.”

Jesus doesn’t say we need wealth, power, or influence to change the world. Instead, he says the kingdom comes near through welcome, kindness, and simple acts of generosity. Opening a door. Welcoming a stranger. Offering a cup of cold water. Every real act of welcome is a place where we meet Christ.

I saw this for myself in 2004. I had been a transitional deacon for just two weeks. I was in St. Louis for a friend’s first Mass and stopped by a coffee shop called Mocha Beans. I forgot I was wearing my clergy collar. I was just waiting for a church to open, enjoying a blueberry muffin.

Suddenly, a young woman marched over to my table, slammed both hands down, and demanded, “Why are you trying to oppress me?”

My first thought wasn’t very pastoral. Then I realized she wasn’t really talking to me as Michele; she was talking to the collar. I asked if I could buy her a cup of coffee and explain why I was there. She sat down, and I asked her one question: “Who hurt you?”

Her story came pouring out. When she was a little girl, a priest told her parents that she and her best friend shouldn’t play together because they had an “unnatural affection.” They were separated because the Church couldn’t imagine that love could just be love.

I didn’t argue or try to explain theology. I just listened. When she finished, I said, “He had no right to hurt you like that. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry the Church did that.” Then this fierce, angry woman started to cry like a little kid.

Sometimes welcoming Jesus isn’t about inviting someone into a building. It’s about receiving the pain they carry because of the church. Sometimes the cup of cold water we offer isn’t water at all. Sometimes it’s listening. Sometimes it’s an apology. Sometimes it’s making space for someone’s story so they can believe God might still have room for them.

The writer Joan Chittister says we must “green the inch before us so that the Garden of Eden will flourish.” So, what is our next inch?

Scripture starts in a garden and ends in a city where the tree of life grows to heal the nations. Between those gardens, every generation is asked to care for their small part of creation. We may not be able to heal the whole world today, but we can care for the inch in front of us.

We can welcome the stranger.

We can feed our neighbors.

We can accompany someone through grief.

We can stand beside those whose dignity is threatened.

Over time, those inches connect. That’s how gardens grow. That’s how the Kin-dom of God often comes—not all at once, but quietly and faithfully, one act of love at a time.

As we think about our future together, my hope isn’t just that St. Mark’s gets bigger, though I do pray for that. My hope is that we grow deeper. That we become more generous, more courageous, and more joyful. May we be more rooted in the divine spark and more willing to care for the inch before us, trusting that God is already bringing life where we sometimes see only emptiness.

I believe that’s how the Garden of Eden grows again: through ordinary people who keep choosing love, again and again. Looking around this room, I think we’re already moving in that direction.

Amen