11 Pentecost (Proper 14A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN 

1 Kings 19:9-18
Psalm 85:8-13
Romans 10:5-15
Matthew 14:22-33

When I was in my twenties, I worked as a Volunteer Firefighter and EMT for the Goose Creek Rural Volunteer Fire Department in Goose Creek, SC. One of the skills we had to master was climbing a tall extension ladder. Once we reached the height where we were supposed to work, we would secure ourselves, or lock in, by wrapping our non-dominant leg through a rung of the ladder. That way our hands were free to operate a hose, use extrication tools, or perform whatever task was needed.

I tell you this because it was one of the scariest things I have ever done. Even though I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie, I don’t like heights. I don’t like that feeling when your stomach suddenly rises into your throat. I don’t like the weakness that creeps into your legs or how your mind seems to freeze. Standing thirty or forty feet in the air on nothing but a ladder is not my idea of a good time. 

In fact, my fear nearly prevented me from qualifying. Then my captain said something that has stayed with me ever since. He said, “Just climb. Keep your eyes on the horizon or whatever is directly in front of you. But whatever you do, don’t look down. If you look down, you’ll freeze. And if you freeze, you won’t be able to do your job or help anybody.” I’ve thought about those words many times over the years. When I was reading today’s Gospel, it seemed to me that Peter was climbing his own type of ladder. Except his ladder is water.

We know the story pretty well. Jesus went away again to try to find some peace and quiet. The disciples get in a boat to go to the other side of the lake, but have spent the night fighting against the wind. Their small fishing boat is being battered by waves. They’re exhausted, they’re frightened, and they’re completely alone or at least they think they are.

Then, just before dawn, they see someone walking toward them on the water. Naturally, they think they are seeing things and assume it’s a ghost. They know the storm is real, the waves are real. Their fear is definitely real. If you’ve ever been caught in a small boat when the wind suddenly comes up, you know exactly what they’re experiencing. Then Jesus speaks those wonderful words, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

Peter, being Peter, doesn’t simply want reassurance. He wants to know for real that he’s not just seeing things. “Lord, if it is you,” he says, “command me to come to you on the water.” And Jesus simply says, “Come.” Jesus doesn’t offer a long explanation... No theological lecture... No detailed instructions... No training... No preconditions… Just one word, “Come.”

Peter steps out of the boat and, incredibly, begins walking across the water toward Jesus. For a few moments, Peter does what should be impossible. But then Matthew tells us something very important. “When Peter noticed the strong wind, he became frightened.”

He took his focus off of Jesus. He looked at the waves. He looked at the storm. He looked down. And that’s when Peter began to sink. Notice that the storm didn’t suddenly become stronger. The waves didn’t suddenly get higher. The circumstances hadn’t changed. What changed was Peter’s focus. Fear took over.

The funny thing is, Peter isn’t the first servant of God whose fear became greater than his faith. Elijah had been there long before him. Just before today’s Old Testament reading, Elijah stood on Mount Carmel and witnessed one of the greatest miracles in Scripture. 

Fire fell from heaven. God’s power was unmistakable. And yet one threat from Queen Jezebel sends Elijah running for his life. Because of his fear, Elijah hides in a cave, convinced that he is alone, thinking that he has failed, convinced that the future is over. Then God comes... not in the wind, not in the earthquake, not in the fire... but in the sound of sheer silence.

Why? Because sometimes what frightened people need most is not another display of God’s power. They need the quiet assurance of God’s presence. Isn’t that exactly what happens in today’s Gospel? The disciples don’t need Jesus to stop the storm first. They just need to know he is there. Before he calms anything, Jesus says, “Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.” The miracle begins, not when the wind stops, but when they recognize the One who is standing in the middle of it.

Elijah teaches us that God’s presence is often quieter than our fears. Peter teaches us that our fears become louder when we stop focusing on Christ. Both stories remind us that faith is not the absence of storms. Faith is focusing on the fact that God is already present in them. So, in effect, both of these readings are about focus… and keeping your attention on what’s most important. And, isn’t that true for us?

Y’all know that I ride a motorcycle. When riding a motorcycle, you’re taught to keep your head up and your head and eyes focused on what’s in front of you. It’s said if you look down, you go down… It’s the oddest thing, really… If you see a pothole or an obstacle in front of you and you stare at it, the bike will go in that direction, and you’ll end up driving right into the pothole. 

I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to look down. We all know what it is like. We look at the medical diagnosis, we look at our bank accounts, and we look at our broken relationships. We look at all the challenges before us and the uncertainty of our future. We look at the divisions in our communities and our nation. We look at wars, disasters, violence, and suffering. And it’s not long before the fears begin to overwhelm us, and, like Peter, we begin to sink.

The interesting thing is that Peter’s greatest obstacle wasn’t the storm and it wasn’t even the water. It was actually the boat. The boat feels safe. It’s familiar. It’s what is comfortable. Yet, the boat is still being tossed about by the storm.

How often do we build boats of our own? How often do we place our trust in our possessions, our careers, our savings... our accomplishments and our reputations? Sometimes we even trust the certainty that we know what’s right; we think we know all the answers and have everything figured out. These become our boats... these become our places of false security that promise safety but can’t save us.

Jesus doesn’t call Peter to stay comfortable; he calls him to trust. In our lessons, I think that’s where Christ is inviting us today. What boat are we afraid to leave? What fears keep us from responding to God’s call? What has us fixated and frozen, looking down, instead of looking toward Christ? The good news is that Peter’s story doesn’t end with him sinking and drowning.

The moment Peter realizes he can’t save himself, he cries out, “Lord, save me!” It’s not a polished prayer or a carefully crafted speech. It’s just a simple prayer of three desperate words, “Lord, save me!” And immediately, Matthew says, Jesus reaches out his hand. That’s divine favor, that’s grace, that’s love. Before Peter can climb back into the boat, before he can explain himself, Jesus reaches out. That’s what Jesus always does.

And that’s where Paul’s words in Romans become a powerful complement to the Gospel lesson. “The word is near you,” Paul says, “on your lips and in your heart.” Reminding us that salvation isn’t something we earn by being fearless. It’s something we receive by trusting the One who reaches out for us. Paul says that if we confess with our lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in our hearts that God raised him from the dead, we will be saved. Faith doesn’t pretend that the storm doesn’t exist. Faith is trusting that Christ is present in the middle of it.

My fire captain taught me that if I kept looking down, I’d freeze. But Jesus teaches us something even deeper. If we keep looking only at the storm of our lives, our fears will overwhelm us. But if we keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, we discover that he has been holding us all along. 

Every one of us is facing some kind of storm. Every one of us has a boat we would rather stay in. And every one of us will have moments when fear gets the better of us. The invitation today is not to become fearless. The invitation is to become faithful... To step out... To trust.

Elijah hears the quiet voice. Peter reaches for the outstretched hand. Paul tells us that “the word is near you, on your lips and in your heart.” The message is the same in every reading... God is nearer than we imagine.

We tend to look for God in dramatic displays of power in earthquakes, in miracles, in the wind and waves. But more often, we discover God in a whispered promise, “Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.” And when our fears finally overwhelm us, we pray the simplest, most humble prayer that we know. “Lord, save me.” And immediately… immediately... Christ reaches out his hand.

10 Pentecost (Proper 13A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The 10th Sunday after Pentecost
August 2, 2026

Isaiah 55:1-5
Psalm 145: 8-9, 15-22
Romans 9:1-5
Matthew 14:13-21

In the lessons we read during worship throughout the month of July, Jesus taught us about the Kingdom of God. Week after week we have heard parables… Parables about sowers and seeds, and wheat and weeds… If we hadn’t gone on the St. James detour last week to celebrate our patronal feast, we would have heard parables about hidden treasure, pearls of great value, and fishing nets. More parables about the Kingdom of God.

Again and again Jesus tells us through the scriptures, "The kingdom of God is like..." or "The Kingdom of Heaven is like..." When Jesus speaks of the Kingdom, he is inviting us to imagine something greater… greater than we have ever known. I like to think of the Kingdom of God as the very best thing I could ever possibly imagine, and then to remind myself that God's Kingdom is even better than that. This morning, however, something changes. Jesus stops talking about what the Kingdom is like. Instead, he shows us.

Our Gospel lesson from Matthew begins in a moment of grief. Jesus has just learned of the death of John the Baptist. Seeking some quiet time to process what has happened, he gets into a boat and withdraws to a deserted place. He is exhausted. He is mourning. Like any of us, he longs for a quiet place to pray, to grieve, and just to rest. But instead, the crowds find him.

By now his reputation has spread throughout the countryside. People have heard about this great teacher who heals the sick, restores the broken, and proclaims good news to the poor. Thousands follow him on foot until they reach that lonely place. Matthew tells us there were five thousand men, besides women and children. 

This is not simply a large gathering. This is an enormous multitude. And when Jesus sees them, he does not turn them away because he is tired... Matthew tells us that "he had compassion for them." Compassion is one of the defining characteristics of God's Kingdom. Even in his own grief, Jesus sees the suffering of the crowd before his own. He heals the sick. He welcomes all those whom the world often overlooks.

As evening approaches, the disciples begin thinking practically. "This is a deserted place," they say. "The hour is late. Send the crowds away so they can buy food." Honestly, I have a little sympathy for the disciples here. If you've ever planned a church dinner, you know exactly what they're thinking. 

They're mentally counting casseroles, wondering whether someone remembered the potato salad, and quietly praying that Mrs. Smith brought her famous banana pudding again. Feeding even a dozen people can be stressful. Feeding more than five thousand? That's enough to make even the most experienced fellowship committee chair break into a cold sweat.

We can relate, because this is the kind of solution most of us would suggest. But Jesus answers with words that must have stunned them. "They need not go away. You give them something to eat." Can you imagine the disciples looking at one another? "Us?" – Find something for all these people to eat? They gather everything they can find. They come up with five loaves and two fish.

Then the disciples begin doing what church leaders have done for two thousand years. They form a committee. They assess the resources. They identify the problem. And then they conclude that there just isn't enough money in the budget. 

If we're honest, most vestries, and probably most clergy, would have reached exactly the same conclusion... Five loaves and two fish simply don't make a balanced budget for feeding five thousand people. But Jesus has never been particularly constrained by our spreadsheets.

5 loaves and 2 fish. That’s hardly enough for the twelve of them, much less thousands of hungry people. And yet those meager gifts are placed into the hands of Jesus. He takes them. He looks toward heaven and blesses them. He breaks them, and He gives them away. There are no fireworks. No dramatic displays of divine power. No thunderclap from heaven. Just a simple act of thanksgiving, generosity, and trust.

This week, during our clergy Bible study, we asked each other a simple question: Where is the miracle? There are several schools of thought on this… Was the miracle that Jesus multiplied the bread and fish? Did new food somehow appear? Or was Jesus' willingness to give away everything he had so contagious that everyone else opened their own baskets and began sharing with one another?

Faithful Christians have answered that question in different ways throughout the centuries. But perhaps the greater miracle is this: Somehow, in God's hands, scarcity became abundance. That's how the Kingdom of God works... That’s the economy of the Kingdom of God… That somehow, Jesus sees that there is enough when the disciples didn’t…

What was seen as not enough became more than enough. And everyone ate... Everyone was satisfied. And twelve baskets were gathered afterward. Not because people had earned it. Not because they had paid for it. Not because they deserved it. Simply because the Kingdom of God had broken into the world.

That is exactly what Isaiah had promised centuries earlier. "Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters. And you that have no money, come, buy and eat. Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price." Isaiah imagines a day when God's economy of abundance replaces the world's economy of scarcity. Isaiah looks forward to a day when no one is excluded because they cannot afford the invitation. A day when God's grace cannot be bought because it is already being freely given.

The feeding of the five thousand is Isaiah's prophecy made visible to us. The hungry are fed. The forgotten are welcomed. The weary find rest. The poor receive abundance. No one is sent away empty.

For the past several weeks, Jesus has been telling us what the Kingdom is like. Today, he lets us see it. The Kingdom of God is not merely a future destination waiting for us after we die. It is God's life breaking forth into this world whenever compassion triumphs over indifference, generosity over fear, and abundance over scarcity.

The Kingdom begins to appear whenever we stop asking, "Is there enough?" and begin asking, "How can what I have become a blessing for someone else?" In that deserted place, thousands of ordinary people found themselves sitting at the feet of the Creator of the universe. He made no grand announcement of his authority. He claimed no earthly throne. 

In teaching us about James last week, Bishop Brian told us that people with power and authority truly exercise it by giving it away… Jesus revealed his divine power and authority by giving everything he had away. That is the kind of leader Jesus is. He’s a leader who feeds his people before feeding himself. He heals before seeking his own comfort. He gives his own life so that others may live.

The feeding of the multitude points beyond itself to another meal. On the night before he died, Jesus would once again take bread. He would bless it. Break it... And give it to his disciples. And every time we gather around this altar, we are invited into that same miracle. We come carrying our own five loaves and two fish... our limited strength, our imperfect faith, our broken hearts, our ordinary lives. They never seem like enough. But in the hands of Christ, they become more than enough. They become an abundance... He takes us. He blesses us. He breaks us open in love. And he gives us to the world.

Today we leave behind the parables about the Kingdom because, for a brief and beautiful moment, we are allowed to see the Kingdom itself. And once we have seen it, once we have tasted its generosity and abundance, once we have encountered the living Christ in our lives, we cannot remain the same.

May we become people who trust God's abundance more than our fears. May we become people who feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, and offer what little we have into Christ's hands. Because whenever we do, the Kingdom of God breaks forth into the world.

Feast of St. James 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN 37745

The Feast of St. James the Apostle & Martyr
July 26, 2026

• Jeremiah 45:1-5
• Acts 11:27-12:3
• Matthew 20:20-28
• Psalm 7:1-10

Today we celebrate St. James, Apostle and Martyr… our patronal feast. Every parish has a story, and ours just happens to bear the name of St. James. Long before any of us arrived here in Greeneville, generations of faithful Christians gathered on this little piece of Church Street to worship God… to baptize their children, to celebrate marriages, to mourn their dead, and be nourished at this altar under the patronage of St. James.

Today we give thanks not only for the apostle whose name we bear, but for all those who have carried his witness in this place. A patronal feast is more than remembering a saint. It asks a deeper question… It asks us, what does it mean to be St. James Church? What kind of people are we called to be if we bear the name of this apostle?

James, the son of Zebedee, was among the first disciples Jesus called. He stood with his brother John and Peter at the raising of Jairus’ daughter, the Transfiguration of Jesus, and in the garden at Gethsemane. He witnessed some of the most extraordinary moments of Jesus’ ministry. Yet the Church remembers James not because he occupied a place of honor, but because he remained faithful, even unto death.

There is something deeply human in today’s Gospel… James and his brother John, through their mother, ask Jesus for the seats of honor in his kingdom. While we may smile at their boldness, if we’re honest, we totally get it. We all want our lives to matter. We all hope our sacrifices will be recognized. We all long for significance and security.

The disciples imagined God’s kingdom as another earthly kingdom, where closeness to Jesus meant influence, power, and prestige. And like he does with many things we think we understand… Jesus turns that understanding upside down. “You do not know what you are asking,” he says. Then comes the real question: “Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink?”

The cup Jesus offers is not one of privilege but one of sacrifice. It is the cup of crucifixion and death. And James answers confidently, “We are able.” I seriously doubt that James understood what Jesus was saying. Few of us do when we first decide to follow Christ. We often imagine discipleship will somehow make life easier. Instead, we discover that following Jesus means learning patience when prayers seem unanswered, practicing forgiveness when resentment feels justified, giving generously when resources feel scarce, and offering hope when the future seems uncertain.

Discipleship is less about climbing higher than it is about learning to kneel lower. “Whoever wishes to be great among you [Jesus says] must be your servant.” Not because service is another strategy for success, but because service reveals the heart and nature of God. The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve and to give his life for others. That is what greatness looks like in the Kingdom of God.

Our reading from Acts shows us what that meant for James. Luke tells us this story from the Acts of the Apostles with remarkable simplicity: “King Herod... had James, the brother of John, killed with the sword.” One sentence. No farewell speech. No dramatic miracle. No escape plan.

James becomes the first of the Twelve to die as a martyr. Peter will be rescued from prison. Paul will travel across the Roman Empire. And John will live into a ripe old age. James simply dies. It almost seems unfair. Yet Luke’s uncharacteristic lack of detail teaches us something profound.

The importance of a disciple is never measured by fame, influence, or longevity. It’s measured by faithfulness. Some of the holiest acts of discipleship happen quietly. A caregiver tending a spouse. Parents raising children in faith. Someone visiting the lonely. Someone praying every day for a hurting world. Someone forgiving and healing wounds no one else ever sees. The Kingdom of God is built as much through hidden acts of love as through public acts of leadership.

When I think about our St. James, our patron, I cannot help but think about this parish and its people. The history of St. James Greeneville has not been written primarily by bishops or rectors. It has been written by generations of faithful people whose names may never appear in a history book. The folks who taught Sunday School. The ones who sang in the choir. Those who prepared meals for the hungry. 

They maintained this beautiful place, packed lunches for our neighbors in need, and visited the sick. They prayed faithfully, week after week, trusting that God was at work even when no one else noticed. They discovered what James eventually learned: greatness in God’s kingdom is found in faithful service. That truth is especially important in today’s world. Because our culture constantly measures worth by visibility… followers, influence, platforms, likes, success. Even churches can be tempted to measure themselves by attendance, budgets, or even online engagement. 

Those things may matter, but Jesus asks different questions. Not, “How many people noticed you?” But, “Whom did you love?” Not, “How much influence did you gain?” But, “Whom did you serve?” Not, “Were you admired?” But, “Were you faithful?”

Those are liberating questions, because faithfulness is available to every Christian. It belongs to the volunteer serving a meal, the healthcare worker offering compassion, the teacher treating every child with dignity, and the parishioner who quietly prepares this altar before anyone else arrives. These are Kingdom people. Their names may never appear in history books, but they are known to God.

Acts also reminds us that the Church has never lived without hardship. James is executed. Peter is imprisoned. The Church is always under pressure. Yet the Gospel advances anyway. Our own age knows this anxiety. Wars that seem endless, continuing political divisions, economic uncertainty, loneliness, and questions about the future of the Church. It can all feel overwhelming.

But Christ’s Church has NEVER depended upon favorable circumstances. It has always depended upon faithful disciples. James couldn’t control Herod. He couldn’t shape public opinion. James could only remain faithful to the One who first called him beside the Sea of Galilee. And that was enough.

Perhaps that is Christ’s invitation to us today. Not to seek places of honor. Not to worry endlessly about outcomes we cannot control. But to remain faithful right where God has placed us. To pray. To worship. To forgive. To serve. To love. To proclaim Christ by the way we live.

As we celebrate our patronal feast today, may we remember that bearing the name “St. James” is both a gift and a calling. Every act of compassion, every child nurtured in faith, every hungry person fed, every stranger welcomed, every prayer offered in this place becomes another chapter in the witness of St. James here in Greeneville.

The same Lord who called James still calls us not to live lives measured by worldly success, but lives shaped by humble service, steadfast love, and faithful witness. May future generations remember us, not because we were successful by the world’s standards, but because we were faithful to Christ.

It is said that when headed toward the Kingdom of God, the road to glory always passes through service, and the path to life always passes through the cross. And the One who calls us to follow him is the One who has already gone before us into resurrection.

8 Pentecost (Proper 11A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The 8th Sunday after Pentecost
July 19, 2026

Isaiah 44:6-8
Psalm 86:11-17
Romans 8:12-25
Matthew 13:24-30,36-43

Just a few seconds ago, we heard the story of Jesus putting yet another parable before the gathering crowds. The parable is commonly known to us as the parable of the weeds and the wheat. But there is something about this parable that rubs us the wrong way.

If we are honest with ourselves, I think most of us would sympathize with the farmhands. They see the weeds growing up among the wheat and immediately ask, “Do you want us to go pull them up?” It seems like the obvious solution. Get rid of the problem... Clean up the field... Protect the crop. Oh, if life were only that simple.

The truth is, we often wish God would work that way. We look at the headlines and wonder why evil seems to flourish. We see war continuing across the globe, political divisions causing violence, and families beginning to fracture. Violence, sexism, and racial bigotry seem to be becoming commonplace.

So much so that one of our local murals, painted by students in honor of the remarkable women who helped shape Greene County, was defaced with sexist and racial hate speech. What was meant to be a celebration of these remarkable women has now been marked by hate and ugliness. As a people, we need to do better. As a community, we need to do better.

Our neighbors are increasingly becoming suspicious of one another. We watch people exploit the vulnerable, spread lies, and seek power at the expense of others. That is where we find ourselves asking the same question the servants asked, “Lord, shouldn’t we do something?” Or perhaps more honestly, “Lord, why don’t YOU do something?”

Jesus tells this parable because I think he knows that question lives deep within every human heart. At first glance, the landowner’s response sounds irresponsible. “No,” he says. “Let them both grow together until the harvest.” Now, to me, that sounds like terrible farming advice. Those of you who garden know better than that. Weeds steal water. They rob nutrients. They choke out healthy plants. If you ignore them long enough, they will take over everything. But Jesus is not giving a lesson in agriculture here.

The weed Jesus describes in the parable is what we know as darnel. It looks almost identical to wheat in its early stages. You really cannot tell one from the other until they begin to mature. Even more, their roots become intertwined. So pulling one out too early risks tearing up the wheat along with it.

The servants think they know which plants belong and which do not. But the landowner knows better. That should make us stop for a minute and think. Because again, if we are honest with ourselves, we think we have become confident in identifying the weeds.

We know who the weeds are... It’s all of “those people.” The people who think differently than us, the people who vote differently, the people who have hurt us, the people who have disappointed us. It’s “those people” whose sins are easier to recognize than our own. We are usually pretty certain about who belongs in the field and who does not.

So Jesus cautions us against that kind of certainty. Not because evil isn’t real. Because it is. The parable never pretends otherwise. The landowner does not deny that an enemy (the evil one) has been at work. And he does not suggest that the weeds are actually wheat if we just look at them differently. Evil exists. Sin wounds us. Injustice destroys lives. The Holy Scriptures never ask us to ignore that reality. The question is not whether evil exists. The question is, how do we, as disciples of Jesus, respond to it?

When Paul writes to the Romans, he does not pretend that the world is fine. In fact, he says that “the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now.” That is a powerful image. We know what that groaning sounds like. It’s the groan of parents worrying about their children, the groan of communities recovering from floods and storms, the groan of nations weary of war. It’s the groan of those living with illness, grief, loneliness, or uncertainty. Paul doesn’t deny any of it.

But notice what kind of groaning it is. It is not the groaning of death and destruction. It is the groaning of childbirth. Creation is not simply falling apart. God is bringing forth something new. Our first instinct is almost always elimination. To make it go away… To take it out, cut it out, and get rid of it. But God’s first instinct is redemption. And that difference changes everything.

One of the early church fathers, St. Augustine, pointed out that real wheat never becomes weeds, and weeds never become real wheat. But people are different. This is why God is patient. God sees not only who we are. But God sees, by grace, who we may become. 

Paul reminds us that we have not received a spirit of slavery leading us back into fear. We have received the Spirit of adoption. And reminds us that we are children of God. We need to remember that children are still growing. They are not finished. And neither are we.

That same Spirit that cries, “Abba, Father,” within us is still shaping us into the likeness of Christ. Someone who appears to be wheat today may choose another path tomorrow. Someone who seems hopelessly lost today may become a righteous saint tomorrow. 

Think about the people Jesus gathered around himself... a tax collector, a political zealot, fishermen with hot heads and quick tempers, a man who would not believe anything until he had his own assurance, and a man who denied him three times. If we had been choosing the disciples for Jesus, we might have pulled up half the field before Pentecost ever arrived.

God saw something we could not. That is why judgment belongs to God and God alone, and not to us. Because only God sees the whole story. Only God knows what divine grace may accomplish.

That does not mean justice doesn’t matter. Sometimes folks hear this parable and think Jesus is saying evil does not matter, or that Christians should simply tolerate abuse and injustice. That is not what he is saying. Notice in the parable that the weeds are eventually separated. Justice comes. God doesn’t ignore evil. God simply refuses to let vengeance become our focus and our purpose. That distinction matters.

There is another little detail hidden in this parable that deepens its meaning… at least it did for me… The Greek word, ἀφίημι (aphiēmi), is translated in this parable as “let” meaning “let it be” when the landowner says… “let both of them grow together.” But this word ἀφίημι also carries the sense of “forgive” or “remit.” It is the same word we hear in the Lord’s Prayer when we say “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

Perhaps Jesus is inviting us to hear these words differently. “Forgive them both until the harvest.” Not excuse... Not approve... Not pretend evil is not evil... But refuse to let hatred have the final word. That, of course, is exactly what Jesus does.

He does not simply tell parables about forgiveness. He lives them. When he is betrayed, he forgives. When he is mocked, he forgives. When nails are driven through his hands and feet, he prays, “Father, forgive them.” And after the resurrection, he doesn’t seek revenge against the disciples who abandoned him. He restores them. Peter, who denied him three times, is not cast aside. He is entrusted with the keys of the kingdom and told by Christ to feed his sheep. That is how God works. Patiently... persistently, and always seeking redemption before judgment. 

Perhaps the hardest part of this parable for us is realizing that the field is not just “the world out there.” It is also us. Paul says we wait for “the redemption of our bodies.” Even after baptism, even after receiving the Holy Spirit, we are still becoming the people who God created us to be.

That means discipleship is not about proving we are already wheat. It is about allowing the Holy Spirit to keep cultivating our lives. Every act of forgiveness... Every act of mercy... Every act of generosity... Every time we choose love instead of fear. The Holy Spirit continues producing the fruit of God’s kingdom within us.

If we are being truly honest with ourselves, we know both wheat and weeds often grow together within our own hearts. Love and resentment... Faith and fear... Generosity and selfishness... Hope and despair. But every day we are becoming something. Every day, the grace of God is at work, patiently cultivating what is good while calling us away from that which would destroy us. 

Thank God that God is more patient with us than we are with one another. And that patience is not weakness. It is mercy and grace. It is the mercy that allows each of us time to repent, to grow, to become more than we once were, to become better.

The good news of this parable is not simply that the weeds will one day be removed. The good news is that the harvest will be abundant. Despite everything the enemy has sown... Despite every act of violence... Despite every broken relationship... Despite every disappointment... God’s harvest will not fail. The kingdom of God will prevail. The last word does not belong to the evil one. The last word belongs to grace. The last word belongs to God.

Perhaps that is why Jesus ends the parable with the harvest instead of the weeds. Evil is real. Suffering is real. The groaning of creation is real. But none of those things gets the final word. Paul says, “In hope we were saved.” Christian hope is not wishful thinking. It is confidence that God is still at work, even when we cannot see the finished harvest.

We do not hope for what is already in front of us. We hope for what God has promised. That means we can live differently. It means we can forgive when the world demands revenge. We can sow mercy when others sow division. And we can choose reconciliation over resentment. We can resist the temptation to decide who belongs to God and who doesn’t.

Why? Because we know that the field belongs to God. The harvest belongs to God. And so does the future. One day, Paul says, creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay. One day, every tear will be wiped away. One day, the groaning will give way to singing. And on that day, Jesus says, “The righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father.”

Until then, we keep trusting. We keep loving... We keep forgiving... We keep planting seeds of the kingdom. And we keep hoping — for God, who has begun this good work, to bring it to its promised completion.

7 Pentecost (Proper 10A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The 7th Sunday after Pentecost
July 12, 2026

Isaiah 55:10-13 Psalm 65: (1-8), 9-14 Romans 8:1-11 Matthew 13:1-9,18-23

Here we are, in the middle of another summer in Greeneville. This time of year, I enjoy driving around and seeing how green everything is… Especially since we are having those mid-afternoon pop-up thunderstorms. The crops look pretty good… Since I’ve been here in Greeneville, I’ve learned that people who live in Greeneville know how to grow things.

Almost everyone has a garden. Some have a few tomato plants in raised beds. Some grow enough vegetables to keep the freezer full all winter. Others tend to fields and farms that have been in the family for generations. There is something hopeful about putting a seed into the ground. You prepare the soil... You water... You wait... You trust that something you cannot see is happening beneath the surface.

Perhaps we need that reminder this year. Because, if we’re honest, it hasn’t been an easy season for us. Every day seems to bring about another headline that makes us wonder what tomorrow will hold. We continue to hear of devastating floods that have swept away communities, families struggling under the rising cost of living, wars that continue to claim innocent lives, and political divisions that only seem to get deeper.

There is an endless stream of voices competing for our attention. Even when we step away from the television and put down our phones, many of us carry with us a quiet anxiety about the future. In our world, which often feels unsettled, we hear Jesus tell us a story about a farmer sowing seed.

At first glance, it seems almost too simple. But perhaps simple is exactly what we need. Most of us aren’t farmers in the ancient sense. We know enough about gardens to understand that healthy plants don’t just happen. The soil matters... The weather matters... The roots matter. But very few of us know what it means to depend entirely on the harvest for our survival, as Jesus’ first listeners did. 

If their crops failed, there was no grocery store waiting down the road. Still, we understand enough to hear what Jesus is saying when he says, “A sower went out to sow.”

As you know, I like to engage Scripture by imagining ourselves inside the story. So first, I would like us to imagine ourselves as the sower. As Christians, that is exactly who we are. Every day we scatter seeds of God’s Kingdom... Sometimes with our words... Sometimes with our actions. Sometimes simply by choosing kindness when everyone else seems angry. Sometimes by refusing to join the outrage that dominates our social media feeds. Sometimes, by listening before speaking. Sometimes by forgiving instead of keeping score.

In every act of mercy, in every word of hope... and in every moment of compassion are the seeds of God’s Kingdom. And notice something remarkable. The sower doesn’t ration the seed. He doesn’t inspect the ground first. He doesn’t decide who deserves it. He simply sows generously.

That is God’s way. God’s grace is never offered only to the people who have earned it. It is scattered abundantly. That means our calling is not to decide who is worthy of hearing the Gospel or receiving our love… Our calling is to simply keep sowing... To keep telling the story... To keep loving... To keep serving. To keep trusting that God can bring about life where we cannot.

But then Jesus invites us to look at the story from another angle. This time, we are not the sower. We are the soil. And that may be more difficult for us to envision. What kind of soil are we becoming? Have our hearts become like the path? Packed down by disappointment... Hardened by grief... Closed by fear... Have we heard so many arguments, accusations, and angry voices that we no longer hear God’s gentle invitation? 

Or perhaps we are the rocky soil. We receive God’s Word with joy on Sunday… But by Tuesday, the worries of work, family, finances, and the relentless pace of life have crowded it out before it can take root.

Or maybe we recognize the thorns... The distractions. Not necessarily bad things. Just too many things. The endless doom scrolling. The constant notifications. The pressure to produce more, earn more, and accomplish more. The temptation to believe that our value comes from our success rather than from God’s love. The desire to win every argument rather than seek understanding. These things slowly wrap themselves around our lives until they choke the life that Christ desires to grow within us.

And then there is the good soil. We need to understand that good soil isn’t necessarily “perfect soil.” It is prepared soil. It is soil that has been broken open... Cultivated... Watered... and patiently tended. Perhaps this is why some of the deepest faith we ever encounter comes from people who have been broken… people who have suffered. Not because suffering is good. But because hardship often breaks open our hearts in ways comfort never could. God has a way of bringing life from places we thought were beyond hope. 

Unlike many of Jesus’ parables, he actually takes time to explain this one. Yet knowing the explanation doesn’t make it any less challenging. Because this parable of the sower asks us to examine both our mission and our hearts. The seed and the soil...

We are the sowers. As we scatter God’s love freely. Not only toward people who think like us, or vote like us, or agree with us. But toward everyone, because every person bears the image of God. But we are also the soil. Every day, we are deciding whether our hearts will become more open or more closed. More generous or more fearful. More trusting or more cynical.

The remarkable thing is that God never stops sowing. Even when the ground is hard. Even when there are rocks. Even when weeds have begun to grow. God continues to scatter grace with carefree and abundant generosity. That means there is always hope.

The soil can be cultivated. The rocks can be removed. The weeds can be pulled. The heart can be transformed. Perhaps that is the very invitation that Jesus is offering us today. In a world filled with fear, we are to become good soil. In a culture that rewards outrage, to sow peace. In a time when people are quick to condemn, to sow mercy. In a season when many wonder whether hope still exists, to sow hope.

Because the Kingdom of God has always grown this way. One seed at a time, one life at a time, one act of grace at a time. So may God cultivate our hearts to receive the abundance of the word deeply. May Christ remove the weeds, rocks, and thorns… whatever keeps us from growing. And may the Holy Spirit send us into the world as generous sowers of God’s love, trusting that even the smallest seed scattered can bear a harvest beyond anything we could ever imagine.