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Today's gospel lesson seems like Jesus's teaching on hospitality. But is it really about hospitality? We take for granted that hospitality is always a good thing. Yet the French philosopher Jacques Derrida claims that even hospitality carries an aspect of hostility. To welcome a total stranger comes with an expectation — that the stranger will accept and comply with the norms of the community offering the welcome. And so Derrida coins a term, "hostipitality," to capture the paradoxical nature of the host-guest relationship. Which leaves us with a question: if this passage really is about hospitality, how is Christian hospitality any different from hostipitality?
There's a movement across these three verses. It begins with Jesus identifying himself with the one who sent him, namely God: whoever accepts him accepts the one who sent him. There's an identity between the two. Then it moves to reward: whoever welcomes a prophet receives a prophet's reward, and whoever welcomes a righteous person receives a righteous person's reward. But the last turn is different in kind. The one who is welcomed is suddenly, radically expanded to "one of these little ones." And who are these little ones? Let's unpack these three turns. A prophet carries prestige; there's an authority to a prophet, so welcoming one has its obvious merit. What about the righteous person? They carry moral standing, and welcoming them means honoring a life we'd want to respect and follow. But then — what reward could possibly come from welcoming these little ones, who are Jesus's own disciples? They carry nothing. No title, no claim, no status that would make welcoming them seem worthwhile. The word "little" here isn't about age; it's about social insignificance and vulnerability. Picture the one you'd walk right past — the person wiping down the tables after coffee hour while the rest of us are still talking, the newcomer sitting alone in the back pew, the name you never quite learned because there was never any reason to learn it. Welcoming them earns you nothing. And that, Jesus says, is the very one for whom you cannot lose your reward — because that is where he is. And this welcoming of the little ones takes us all the way back to the very first saying: "Whoever welcomes you welcomes me." It begins with what it means to welcome Jesus. To welcome Jesus is to welcome what he holds most important in life. It's not just accepting his gospel with our heads, but embodying it, living it out. So then — what is the core message of his gospel?! You already know this; I've said it the past two Sundays. But I'll say it again, in case you missed them. It's that the kingdom of God is present, here, within our hearts, within everyone's hearts — and that there's an urgent need to repent, to change the way we see ourselves, others, and the world entirely. "Kingdom of God" is an ancient expression, and the heart of it is that word, kingdom — a reign, a rule. It names whatever actually governs us: the unspoken rules that shape and form us into who we are. So the real question is — what reigns in you? What rules your heart? Jesus is asking us to let God take that throne. So if we welcome Jesus, we welcome his message. We live it, believe it, practice it. We practice the presence of God in ourselves first. And then we welcome those who may not yet know that the presence of God is already within them — already there, before I say a single word about it. This presence strips away our fat, egoistic eyes. It opens up in us a sense of sonder. Sonder is another neologism, like hostipitality. It names that moment when… suddenly we notice that other people's lives are as vivid and as important as our own — that each of them is the main character of their own life, just as much as I am the main character of mine. But sonder is just a flash, a glimpse. The real discipline is what Iris Murdoch calls "unselfing."* To get there, we sit in quietude and present ourselves to the presence of God within. All the images we've been masking ourselves with, all the labels we've fabricated — they get stripped away. And here, I think, is the answer to the question we began with. Remember Derrida: even hospitality hides a hostility, because in the end the host says, my house, my rules — you are welcome, stranger, so long as you become like me. But that "my" depends on a self that owns the house. Unselfing dismantles exactly that self. When the ego that would set the terms is stripped away, there is no "mine" left to guard, no norm to impose as the price of welcome. We no longer receive the little one into our world on our conditions. We look at them through these unselfed eyes, and we see the presence of God already there — already there before we arrived to offer anything at all. And that is a hospitality with no hostility left in it, because there is no self left to be threatened. And the strange thing about this welcome is that it spreads. When you have been received like that — not for your title or your usefulness, but simply because God was already in you — you become room for the next person. The one wiping down the tables, welcomed that way, sets a place for someone else. The newcomer in the back pew, welcomed that way, turns and makes space for whoever comes in behind them. That is how the kingdom comes — not by conquest, not by my house and my rules, but as one emptied self becoming room for another, and another, until the table is full. *The link between sonder and unself is originally from Jonny Thomson's mini philosphy https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1305124261590514. Matthew 10 is, in many ways, a field guide to discipleship. Last Sunday, we reflected on the heart of the gospel—the good news Jesus proclaims: that the kingdom of God is not somewhere far away, but already present. And more than that—it is present within each one of us.
That is the core of Jesus’ ministry: to help people recognize and trust the presence of God already dwelling in them. Jesus uses a curious image to describe this truth—two sparrows sold for a penny. I always hear a bit of humor in that. It’s almost like a “buy one, get one free” deal. You can’t have just one—you always get two. They come together. In the same way, you cannot have yourself apart from God’s presence. The two are inseparable. That is the deal. But once we begin to take that seriously—once we begin to attend to this inner presence of God—it changes everything. Especially our relationships. At first, it actually complicates things. When we try to become quiet, to turn inward and notice God’s presence, we don’t immediately experience peace. Instead, our minds fill up—random thoughts, lingering worries, old memories. It can feel less like peace and more like a battlefield. Not calm, but noise—like swords clashing in our own thoughts and emotions. Is that a bad sign? Not at all. It’s a necessary part of the process. It may even help explain why, in everyday life, we often feel distant from God, distant from peace. Even in a quiet place like Trinity, even here, we may still feel restless—because our minds are still holding onto what kept us up at night or woke us in the middle of the night. The presence of God is not something we simply receive as a finished peace placed into our hands. We do not work for it because we must earn it—but because our minds and hearts are so full, so cluttered. So we begin by finding that presence of God within—and from there, we slowly work our way back into our reality. That is the inner work of discipleship. And at times, it does feel like a battlefield. Now, what about our relationships? What happens when the presence of God becomes central—when it stands between us? Take any relationship. Let’s say, for example, G. and me. At one level, it’s just G. and me. But if we take seriously that each of us carries the presence of God within, then suddenly something changes. It is no longer just two people. It is two people standing in the presence of God. But before we arrive at that awareness, something else has to happen first. I have to learn to see G. through the presence of God. That means becoming aware of the lenses I bring—the assumptions, interpretations, and projections I place onto G. All of those need to be exposed in the presence of God. Because the truth is—we all do this. We project onto one another based on our past experiences, our expectations, our fears. It’s a human defense mechanism. And there is nothing inherently wrong with that. I know, for example, that some of you may see me through your own images of what a priest is or should be. But the problem begins when we confuse the projection with the person—when we box someone in and assume they are exactly what we have imagined. Because no one is identical to the image we have created of them. We see this clearly in families. A child struggles when they are expected to become the version their parents have imagined—the version shaped by someone else’s hopes or fears. And this is where Jesus’ words about division begin to make sense. The “division” he speaks of is not about creating conflict for its own sake. It is the necessary separation between a person and the projections placed upon them. It is the moment when a daughter resists being defined by her mother’s image of who she should be. In that sense, the mother, too, must be set free—from the version of the daughter she has created. Let her be who she is. And this is not simply a modern idea about self-expression. This is the gospel. To follow Jesus is to allow every person to be seen—not through our projections—but through the presence of God within them. To hold onto those projected images of others—and even of our own selves—is, in a way, a kind of death. And to have our eyes opened anew in the presence of God—that is what Paul calls “newness of life.” When we look at one another in this way, we are no longer projecting fixed images of who someone is supposed to be. Instead, we offer one another a long, loving look—a gaze that hopes, that trusts, that is eager to see the other flourish and live fully. We begin to become that presence for one another. Can Trinity Allendale be that place of God’s presence for each other? May it be so. Summary: Discipleship is learning to see—ourselves and others—not through our projections, but through the indwelling presence of God, and that re-seeing is what Jesus calls both division and new life. I worked on the Upper East Side for about fourteen years. Now, I’m on the Upper West Side—and it feels like a different world. Along Broadway, I find myself noticing more people in visible need.
Just this past Friday morning, I saw a woman standing near one of those LinkNYC kiosks—the on-street stations that offer free Wi-Fi, phone calls, device charging, and access to city services. She was crying out, shouting through tears, “No one in this city is helping me. I need help!” I didn’t know what kind of help she needed. But her cry—that sense of helplessness—stayed with me. It lingered in my heart as I prayed with today’s gospel. And I found myself wondering: Even if she received what she needed in that moment—money, for example—would it truly help in the long term? Or would the same helplessness return again? So the question deepened: What does she really need—not just in the moment, but at the level of her life? And more broadly, what can any of us truly offer in the face of such need? As I held that question, I began to see the gospel differently. I could begin to imagine the depth of Jesus’ compassion. We are told that when Jesus sees the crowds, he has compassion for them, because they are “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” But this does not simply mean they lack a leader. We know that having a guide, even a wise one, is not always enough. We can be given the best counsel and still remain unchanged—if something deeper within us is not reached. So perhaps their condition is not, at its core, the absence of a shepherd. Because the “shepherd” is not only a person to lead or guide. It can also be whatever we rely on to give us security—what we trust to hold our lives together. It can be money. It can be stability. It can be systems, structures, even our own sense of control. We look to these things to orient us, to ground us, to tell us that we are safe. And yet, even when we have them—or receive them in a moment—they often cannot hold us for long. So perhaps their condition is not simply that they lack direction or provision. It is something deeper still: they are lost. They are not rooted anywhere. Nothing truly grounds them. No political authority can secure them. No system can make them whole—financially, physically, mentally, or spiritually. They are harassed by the instability of their own thoughts, their emotions, and the conditions around them. And they are helpless because they do not know where, or how, to find their way out. Jesus sees this clearly. And he also seems to know his own limits. He cannot reach everyone by himself. So he gathers others. He calls a community to share in his work. He summons his disciples and gives them authority. This is not yet about institutional structure or apostolic succession, though we later name it that way in the Creed. Here, it is more immediate: he entrusts his work to ordinary people. And who are they? Among them is Matthew—the tax collector from the previous chapter. That label stays with him. Perhaps he would not have liked it. But it no longer defines his becoming. And yet, how much could he have changed? His call happens in the same chapter. We cannot imagine a complete inner transformation in such a short span. He is still, in many ways, who he was. Which tells us something essential: God does not call the already-formed. God calls, and then forms. Jesus sends them out not because they are ready, but because they are willing. They will learn in the going. They will be shaped in the work itself. They are, in a sense, building the plane while flying it. And they are sent to “the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” This is not a dismissal of others, but a diagnosis. The problem is not “out there.” The lost are those who assume they are found. Renewal begins within. Before turning outward, we must attend to what is disordered in us. So there are two movements here: First, Jesus sends the unprepared into the field. Second, he directs them inward—toward their own house, their own condition. We are not called because we are better. We are called because we are also in need of healing. And what is the purpose of this sending? Not conversion as recruitment. Not expansion as a strategy. It is proclamation: “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” That is the gospel. Not a distant heaven. Not a future promise alone. But a reality that is already here—within and among us. The kingdom of God is not elsewhere. It is a presence to be recognized, received, and cultivated. When that presence becomes real to us, it grounds us. It becomes our refuge. Then we are no longer harassed by what arises—from the past we regret or the future we fear. No longer helpless, because we know where we stand. Right here. In the presence of God. In the body. In the breath. The breath itself becomes prayer—the life of the Spirit within us. And from that center, we go out and live. Jesus later says, “Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” Wisdom and innocence require discernment. And discernment requires presence. So we return again to the same place: Right here, right now, In the presence of God. No one likes change. Well, then you're not supposed to like me — because I'm the change here at Trinity! In this morning's gospel, Jesus has his hands full. Three people, three needs — and a crowd pressing in around each one.
We meet two kinds of people. One group wants their lives to change. The other doesn't just refuse it — they resist it, with judgment and mockery. Jesus isn't simply standing between the two groups. He himself is the change that both are reacting to. From the very beginning of his ministry to his death on the cross, he was resisted. Doubted. Looked down on. Ignored. Rejected. Forsaken. But for those who welcome the change he embodies, he is living water to drink. The one they follow. The pattern for their lives. Let's look at the three people in the story. Matthew is a tax collector. A traitor. He sits at his booth taking money from his own people and handing it to Rome, growing fat on their losses. A parasite. No one sat at his table by choice. The woman has been bleeding for twelve years. Twelve years unclean under the law — which means twelve years untouchable. No one could embrace her. Anything she touched became unclean too. Imagine twelve years without a hand on your shoulder. The girl is dead. Not sick, not sleeping — a corpse on a bed. And under the law, a corpse is the most unclean thing there is. To touch her was to be defiled. Three people. A traitor, an untouchable, and a corpse. Everything Jesus's own culture called unclean. None of them is anywhere near the sacred. No change seems possible. A dead end — at least in the eyes of those who take the law, the systems, the culture for granted, never asking why or how they do what they do. And Jesus brings life to these unclean, written-off people. He calls Matthew to follow him. He lets the bleeding woman touch him. He takes the dead girl by the hand and raises her. The change Jesus brings to each of them is salvation. Freedom from everything called dead, unclean, dirty, useless, hopeless. So when we come to church, what do we want? What do we long for? Don't we all want to change, even a little? To be a better version of ourselves than we were yesterday? Now, when I talk about change, I'm not saying we're so morally rotten that we need to fix this and that. No. The gospel is not a moral lesson. That's the real dead end. When Jesus talks about change, he means maturity. A whole person — deep in wisdom, love, and patience. Hoping the best for others. Giving the benefit of the doubt. Never taking anyone or anything for granted. Gratitude. Compassion. Grace. And still realistic, genuine, sincere — and funny! That's the change. The growth of the whole human being. But this change doesn't happen on your own. Look again at the three of them. Matthew didn't reform himself at his booth. He got up and walked away from it — into a new table, surrounded by new people. The woman didn't heal alone in a corner. She had to push through a crowd, reach out, and be seen. The dead girl couldn't raise herself. She was kept among the living by a father who refused to give up on her, who went and found Jesus and brought him home. None of them changed in isolation. Every one of them was lifted out of one place and set down in another. The environment matters. Where we are, and who we are with, shapes what we become. Sit at the tax booth long enough and you become the tax booth. Surround yourself with mockers and you learn to mock. But put yourself near grace, near people who hope the best for you, and slowly you start to grow. For each of those three, Jesus was that environment — the place where change became possible. And it's bigger than the people next to us. It's the whole system we're part of. Think about it. You're not the same person in every room. One way at work, another way at home, another way with old friends. Same heart, same name — but each system pulls something different out of you. One makes you guarded. Another makes you generous. Another makes you small. So willpower isn't enough. You can grit your teeth and swear you'll be better, but if you walk right back into a system that rewards the worst in you, the system wins. It almost always wins. No amount of personal effort can outlast the system it lives in. The real question isn't only, "How do I change?" It's, "What system am I in? And can we build a better one?" That's what a church is for. Not a building. A system. Trinity Allendale — we are meant to be a system that changes people. A place that draws out the best in whoever walks through the door, and the best in each other when we're together. Can we build that? A system that brings out the best in ourselves and in one another? Isn't that exactly what the body of Christ is? Yes. That's what we gather here to be — the body of Christ. We become that system, that environment, just as Christ became it for Matthew, for the woman, for the girl. Whoever walks through these doors, we want them to change. We want to change. To mature. To become people full of wisdom and compassion. Graceful. And to me, right now, in this place, gathered as the body of Christ — you all look holy. Well — has anyone ever told you that you only act different in church? That you put on a holy face and pretend? Oh, tell me about it. I hear it from my own family every time they see me up here! Are we being hypocrites? Maybe. But is that so bad? I don't think so. Even if we only pretend to be holy here, it counts. Fake it till you make it. It doesn't matter how you actually feel when you act holy. What matters is that you're practicing it. Don't stop pretending until you become the real thing — until you don't even know you're pretending anymore. Until you embody it. We practice holiness here. "Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me." Remember: we eat the body to become the body. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
August 2026
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