All Saints' Day A (2026)

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

All Saints' Day
November 1, 2026

Revelation 7:9-17
Psalm 34:1-10, 22
1 John 3:1-3
Matthew 5:1-12

I’ve been thinking about the people who have made a difference in my life. Not necessarily famous people, but the ordinary people who showed up, offered encouragement, demonstrated kindness, and helped me recognize something of God's love. I suspect most of us can name someone like that. Someone who helped shape our faith, perhaps without even realizing it.

On All Saints’ Day, we remember those people. But we also remember that sainthood isn't reserved for the extraordinary or the perfect. It's the calling of all of us. And that's an important distinction in today's Gospel. Jesus gathers his disciples on the mountain and begins with a series of blessings.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.

Blessed are those who mourn.

Blessed are the meek.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Blessed are the merciful and the peacemakers.

Now, I don't know about you, but that's not exactly the list our world would come up with. Our society tends to celebrate wealth, power, influence, and success. We admire people who appear to have everything under control. But Jesus turns that picture upside down. He looks at people who are grieving and tells them they are blessed. He looks at people who are struggling and tells them they are blessed. He looks at those who work for peace in a world filled with conflict and tells them they are blessed.

Jesus isn't giving us a checklist of things we have to accomplish to earn God's favor. He's making a declaration about where God is present and whose lives matter. Our circumstances do not determine our worth in the eyes of God.

When we mourn, God is with us. When we struggle, God does not abandon us. And when we work for justice and peace, even when our efforts seem small, God is at work through us. That's good news, because we live in a world that often measures our worth by what we own, what we accomplish, or which side we're on.

Just look at the headlines. Political disagreements become personal hostility. Public conversations are increasingly fueled by outrage. Wars continue to devastate communities, families are displaced, and violence touches lives in ways that are difficult to comprehend.

Closer to home, people worry about the cost of groceries, housing, health care, and simply making ends meet. Behind every headline are real people. People who are afraid. People who are grieving. People who are struggling to find a little hope. And in the middle of all this, Jesus calls us blessed.

Not because suffering is good, or because injustice doesn't matter, but because God has not abandoned us. Jesus calls us to be peacemakers. Not people who pretend disagreements don't matter, or who remain silent when others are mistreated. But people who seek peace grounded in justice, mercy, and the dignity of every human being.

Sometimes that means standing up for someone who is being treated unfairly. Sometimes it means listening to someone with whom we disagree. And sometimes it means choosing kindness when anger would be easier. That's not always easy, but it is the work of the saints.

And that brings us to our reading from Revelation. John is on the Island of Patmos, and he gives us a vision of a great multitude gathered before the throne of God and before the Lamb. The multitude comes from every nation, tribe, people, and language. Think about that for a moment.

In a world that constantly sorts people into opposing camps, deciding who belongs and who doesn't, and building walls between us, John sees a multitude that cannot be counted. People from every nation. Every language. Every background. And they ALL stand together before God.

They are not gathered because they all look alike, think alike, or agree on everything. They are gathered because they belong to God. This is a remarkable vision, especially when we remember the circumstances in which Revelation was written.

John was writing to Christian communities experiencing pressure, suffering, and marginalization. They were living in a world where the powerful claimed authority, where violence and fear were tools of control, and where faithfulness to Christ could come at a cost. John wasn't offering them an escape from reality. He was reminding them that the powers of this world do not have the final word. 

And then comes the promise... They will hunger no more and thirst no more. Their suffering will end. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Every tear. Not just the tears of people we understand. Not just the tears of people who agree with us. Every tear.

This is the hope of All Saints' Day. A world where suffering does not have the last word. Where death does not have the last word. Where hatred and division do not have the last word.

God has the last word, and God's last word is love.

And notice something else about this vision. The Lamb becomes the shepherd. The one who was wounded and suffered is the one who leads God's people to living water. Our hope is not in a world where suffering never happened. It is in a God who has entered into our suffering, who knows our wounds, and who promises to bring us through them.

The Christian life isn't about proving that we're worthy of God's love. It's about learning to live because we are already loved. We love because God first loved us. We forgive because we have been forgiven. We serve because Jesus came not to be served, but to serve. And we hope because the God who raised Jesus from the dead is still making all things new.

That's why All Saints' Day isn't simply about looking backward. Of course, we remember those who came before us. We give thanks for their faithfulness and for the ways they shaped our lives. But their witness isn't meant to leave us longing for the past.

Sometimes the Church spends so much time remembering when the pews were full, when Sunday school was thriving, and when church seemed to occupy a more central place in community life that we forget to ask what God is doing now. Of course, whenever we talk about the good old days, we tend to remember the things we liked and conveniently forget some of the things we didn't!

There is nothing wrong with remembering the past with gratitude. But the saints who came before us didn't live faithfully so that we could spend our lives wishing we were living theirs. They lived faithfully so that the Gospel could be carried into the next generation. And now that work belongs to us.

The question isn't whether we can recreate the past. The question is whether we will trust God enough to live faithfully in the present. Will we welcome the stranger? Will we care for those who are hungry, lonely, or forgotten? Will we stand beside those who are grieving? Will we work for reconciliation when relationships are broken? Will we respect the dignity of every human being, even when doing so challenges us?

These aren't questions reserved for the great saints whose names appear in books or on liturgical calendars. They're questions for us. For those who pray for one another, visit the sick, prepare meals, teach children, welcome newcomers, and quietly care for people in need. For those who keep showing up, even when life is difficult, and faith doesn't come easily.

This is how the kingdom of God becomes visible in the world. Not through one grand accomplishment, but through countless acts of love, mercy, courage, and faithfulness. And we don't do this work alone.

In baptism, we are welcomed into God's family and made members of Christ's Body. We promise to follow the teachings of Jesus, proclaim the Good News, seek and serve Christ in all people, and strive for justice and peace. And we promise to do them with God's help.

Those promises don't mean we've got everything figured out. They mean we're committed to the journey. And when we fall short, as we inevitably will, God's grace gives us the opportunity to begin again. That is what it means to be a community of saints. It means we belong to God. We depend on God's grace. And we learn together to follow Jesus.

So, on this All Saints' Day, I invite you to think about the people who have helped you recognize God's love. Perhaps it was a parent or grandparent. A Sunday school teacher. A friend. A priest. Someone who may not even realize how much their faithfulness meant to you.

Remember what they did. Remember how they loved you. Remember how they helped you see something of God. And then ask yourself one question: Whose life might be touched by God's love through me?

You don't have to change the whole world. You don't have to have all the answers. You don't have to be perfect. You simply have to be willing to let God's love take root in your life and bear good fruit in the lives of others. Because the world needs saints.

It needs people who show mercy, work for peace, stand up for justice, and refuse to give up on the possibility that God's love can transform our lives and our world. Jesus is already at work among us. Our calling isn't to save the world by our own strength. Jesus has already accomplished what we could never accomplish on our own.

Our calling is to follow him, to love as he loves, and to join in his work of reconciliation and restoration. One day, the vision John saw will be fulfilled. Hunger and thirst will be no more. Suffering will end. And God will wipe away every tear. Until that day, we live as people of that promise. We live as people who believe that mercy is stronger than hatred, that reconciliation is possible, and that love is worth the risk. We live as people who know we are not alone.

So, my brothers and sisters, take heart. We are saints of God not because we're perfect, but because we're loved. Not because we've finished the journey, but because God continues to transform us. And not because we have all the answers, but because we belong to the One who is the source of our deepest hope.

Let us keep walking in the way of Jesus. Let us keep loving our neighbors, seeking justice, making peace, and extending mercy. And let us trust that the small acts of faithfulness we offer today are part of God's much larger work of making all things new.

Because one day, we will join that great multitude from every nation, tribe, people, and language, gathered before the throne of God and the Lamb, and with ALL the saints, we will sing: “Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen.”

22 Pentecost (Proper 25A) 2026

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

The 22nd Sunday after Pentecost
October 25, 2026

Leviticus 19:1-2,15-18
Psalm 1
1 Thessalonians 2:1-8
Matthew 22:34-46

Some Sundays bring back memories of my childhood. I remember the priest standing before the congregation and saying what we call the Summary of the Law: “Hear what our Lord Jesus Christ saith: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” 

Some of you remember those words, too. We heard them Sunday after Sunday. But there is a danger in hearing something so often that we stop listening. We know the words. We can recite them from memory. And sometimes, before we realize it, we have stopped letting them challenge us. So I want us to pause for a moment and hear these words again as if we were hearing them for the very first time.

Love God with everything you are. And love your neighbor as yourself. Jesus isn’t just offering us a nice religious sentiment to carry home with us. He is describing a way of life. And honestly, it’s a way of life that can get pretty complicated and uncomfortable at times.

Look around at the world today. There is great political turmoil… disagreements have divided families and communities. People seem to be arguing all the time and quickly condemn someone they have never met. And then if that wasn’t enough for our anxiety, when the news comes on… We are reminded daily of senseless wars, suffering, economic challenges, and people struggling to afford the necessities of life.

From our politicians, we hear a great deal about what is wrong with the world and who is to blame. But Jesus asks us something different. How are we loving God, and how are we loving our neighbors? Not how well we defend our opinions. Or how many Bible verses we can quote. Not even how loudly we can proclaim our faith. But simply, how are we loving? 

Because the commandments Jesus gives us are not simply about following rules. They are about our relationships… Our relationship with God and our relationships with one another. And with Jesus and those who follow Jesus, these are two things that cannot be separated.

So, what Does It Mean to Love God? Jesus says we are to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind. We learned last week… that our heart has to do with what we treasure, what captures our attention, and what receives our energy. Jesus reminds us in Scripture that where our treasure is, there our heart will be also.

So where does your heart go when you have a quiet moment? What occupies your thoughts when you lie awake at night? What receives the best of your time, your attention, and your resources? Is there room for God in the middle of our busy lives? Is there room for prayer, gratitude, compassion, and service? 

Loving God with our soul means allowing God to reach the deepest parts of who we are, including those places we would rather keep hidden. It means trusting that God’s grace is at work in us, even when we are uncertain, imperfect, or struggling with our faith.

And loving God with our minds means allowing our faith to shape the way we see the world. In a culture that often measures success by money, influence, popularity, and power,  Jesus invites us to measure our lives differently. What if we judged the strength of our community not by the wealth of its richest members, but by how it cares for its most vulnerable? What if we measured our success not by how many people agree with us, but by whether we treat those who disagree with us with dignity? What if we asked not just simply, “What is best for me?” but also, “What is faithful to God?” That is what it means to begin putting on the mind of Christ.

And Then There Is Our Neighbor. This is where Jesus really begins to challenge us. It is relatively easy to love the people who love us, who share our ideals and values… people who see the world as we do. But Jesus doesn’t say, “Love your neighbor if you agree with them.” He doesn’t say, “Love your neighbor if they deserve it.” He simply says, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

And who is our neighbor? Our neighbor is the person struggling to pay the rent. The family worried about putting food on the table. Our neighbor is the child who needs a warm coat. The older adult who spends too many days alone. The person whose political views frustrate us... The stranger whose language, background, or experiences are often different from our own. Our neighbor is the person we find easy to overlook.

And loving our neighbor isn’t simply about feeling sorry for someone. Love asks something of us. Love demands action. It may mean sharing what we have. It may mean listening before we judge. It may mean standing beside someone who is being treated unfairly. It may mean setting aside our need to be right long enough to recognize another person’s pain.

Sometimes loving our neighbor requires opening our wallets. Sometimes it requires opening our minds. And sometimes it requires opening our hearts. None of this means we must agree with everyone or pretend that injustice doesn’t exist. 

Love can speak the truth. Love can establish boundaries. Love can hold people accountable. But Christian love refuses to forget the humanity of the person standing before us. Every person we encounter bears the image of God. That includes the people we struggle to understand. 

Now, most of us could probably admit that we don’t always get it right. We become impatient. We judge too quickly. We hold grudges. We protect our comfort. And sometimes care more about winning an argument than preserving a relationship. It’s sad to say, if loving God and neighbor were a test, I suspect most of us would have some serious work to do.

But here’s some good news… God is not waiting for us to become perfect before inviting us to love. God meets us where we are and invites us to take the next faithful step. Perhaps that step is a phone call to someone we have neglected. Perhaps it is a little more generosity, a little less judgment, or a willingness to listen to someone whose story we have never taken the time to hear.

Perhaps it is simply asking ourselves, before we speak or act, “Does this reflect the love of Christ?” These commandments are simple, but they are not easy. They ask us to keep growing, to keep changing, and to keep allowing God’s grace to transform us.

And that brings us to the heart of today’s Gospel lesson. Jesus is speaking here of a reconciling and restoring love … A Love That Changes Us. The love Jesus describes is the very love he shows us on the cross. A love that gives itself away, completely. A love that refuses to abandon us. A love that reaches beyond the boundaries we create and welcomes us into the reconciling grace of God.

We will never love perfectly. But we can keep turning toward the One who loves us perfectly. And when we do, something begins to change… not only in us, but in our families, our church, our community, and even in the wider world.

So this week, I invite you to carry these two questions with you: How can I love God more fully? And how can I love my neighbor more faithfully? Not in some grand, extraordinary gestures that we may never get around to making, but in the ordinary moments of our daily lives. In the way we speak to one another. In the choices we make. In the people we welcome. In the resources we share. In the grace we offer when it would be easier to condemn.

Imagine what our homes, our communities, and our world would look like if we took these two commandments seriously. Imagine a world where love mattered more than winning, where compassion mattered more than contempt, and where we saw one another not as enemies or strangers, but as beloved children of God. That is the life Jesus calls us to live. And we don’t have to wait to be good enough to begin. We can begin right here. We can begin today.

For everything else hangs on these two commandments… Everything God expects of us… Love God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. And love your neighbor as yourself.

21 Pentecost (Proper 24A) 2026

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

The 21st Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 24A)
October 18, 2026

Isaiah 45:1-7
Psalm 96:1-9, (10-13)
1 Thessalonians 1:1-10
Matthew 22:15-22

It’s no secret that money matters in this world. We use money to pay our bills, put food on our tables, keep a roof over our heads... money helps us provide for our families.  Money can create opportunities, offer security, and open doors that might otherwise remain closed. And when money is combined with position and influence, it can become a source of power. As the saying goes… and I’m not entirely sure whether it belongs to Voltaire or Spider-Man… “With great power comes great responsibility.” 

But somewhere along the way, money became more than just a means of exchange. It became a measuring stick. We use it to measure success, status, and unfortunately sometimes even a person's worth. We look at the size of someone's house, the car they drive, the vacations they take, and the things they can afford as if they were indicators of their worth as individuals.

Advertisements promise us that the next purchase, the next upgrade, or the next big thing will somehow make our lives just a little bit better. And sometimes it makes us look at what other people have and wonder why we’re falling behind. 

Those who don’t have enough worry about making ends meet. Those who have enough worry about losing it. And those who have plenty can still find themselves wanting more. There’s always another bill to pay, another expense we didn’t anticipate, or another thing we’ve convinced ourselves we need.

Jesus understood something about the human heart when he said, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” We tend to spend our money on the things we value, the things that matter to us, the things we need… and, of course, the things we think we need! 

I remember helping lead a youth retreat some years ago. One of the activities involved posters with photographs of families from different parts of the world. They were all standing in front of their homes with all their possessions gathered around them. Some families lived in places where resources were pretty scarce. Their possessions were simple: a few cooking pots, some bowls, a bedroll, perhaps a couple of goats. Everything they owned could be seen in the small space in front of their home.

Then there was a photo of an American family. They had so much STUFF spread across the yard that you could hardly see the family! It was quite a contrast. And it left me wondering… How much is enough? Now, there’s nothing wrong with having possessions. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a comfortable home, providing for your family, saving for retirement, or enjoying the fruits of your labor.

The question isn’t whether we have things. The question is whether our things have begun to determine the kind of lives we live. Are we using what we have to serve the life God has given us? Or have we begun to organize our lives around protecting, acquiring, and accumulating more stuff? That’s not just a question about money. It’s a question about what we value, what we trust, and where we place our hearts.

We see the consequences of those questions all around us. Families struggle with the cost of groceries, housing, health care, and education. Communities are wrestling with poverty, homelessness, and food insecurity. Political arguments about taxes, government spending, and public resources can become so heated that we forget there are human beings on the other side of the argument.

Money itself isn’t evil. But our relationship with money can become a spiritual problem when we trust it more than we trust God. It’s an issue when we value possessions more than people, or become so concerned with protecting what we have that we forget to care for our neighbors.

Perhaps that’s one reason Scripture has so much to say about money and possessions and how we use money and possessions... Much more than any other subject that folks like to argue about. Jesus returns to the subject of money again and again because he knows that money has a way of getting into our hearts.

And that brings us to this morning’s Gospel. Jesus is confronted by two groups… the Pharisees and the Herodians. Now, these are two groups who didn’t ordinarily see eye to eye. The Pharisees were deeply committed to the law of Moses and traditions. Many opposed the Roman occupation and the influence of pagan rule. The Herodians, on the other hand, supported the political establishment associated with Herod, who ruled under Roman authority.

The two groups had different religious and political priorities. But on this occasion, they found something they could agree on… they wanted to get Jesus into trouble. So they approached him with a little flattery. They praised his honesty, his faithfulness, and the fact that he didn’t show any partiality. So, they sprang their trap.

“Tell us, then, what you think (they say). Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” They believed they had Jesus cornered. If Jesus said, “Yes, pay the tax,” he risked alienating people who resented Roman occupation and the financial burden it placed on the people. If he said, “No, don’t pay the tax,” he could be accused of opposing Roman authority. Either answer could be used against him.

It’s a little like some of the questions we encounter in our own public and political conversations. Sometimes a question is asked because someone genuinely wants to understand the other person's perspective. Other times, a question is asked simply to put someone in a corner, where the goal isn’t understanding; it’s winning. But Jesus refuses to play their game.

He asks them to show him the coin used to pay the tax. They bring him a denarius, a silver Roman coin commonly associated with a day's wages. Jesus asks, “Whose head is this, and whose title?” “The emperor’s,” they answer. And Jesus responds with those familiar words, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

Over the centuries, people have misunderstood this passage to be just a simple lesson about paying taxes and obeying the government. Civic responsibility certainly matters, but Jesus is doing something more profound here than just offering a lesson in tax policy.

Look again at the coin. Whose image is stamped on it? Caesar’s. And the inscription proclaims the emperor’s authority. In the Roman world, imperial imagery often reflected claims about the emperor’s divine status. In this case, the coin was inscribed with “Tiberius Caesar Divi Augusti Filius Augustus.” Translation… "Tiberius Caesar, Son of the Divine Augustus"

Now, for someone who follows the God of Israel, this is a big problem… Caesar may claim authority over the empire. He may demand taxes. He may stamp his image on coins. But Caesar is not divine… Caesar is not God. So Jesus says, in effect, let Caesar have his coin. But Jesus doesn’t stop there.

He adds… “And give to God the things that are God’s.” And that’s where it gets personal. Because if we’re going to talk about images, we need to remember another image. We need to remember the image we hear about in the very first chapter of Genesis. 

We are created in the image of God. Not just some of us. Not just the people who agree with us politically, or share our opinions, belong to our church, or see the world the way we do. Every human being bears the image of God. The neighbor we love and the neighbor who frustrates us. The person who votes differently from us. The stranger coming into this land looking for safety or opportunity. The person we see sleeping outside as we return to the comfort of our homes. Every one of them bears God’s image.

And so the question Jesus places before us isn’t simply, “What do we owe Caesar?” The question Jesus is asking is, “What do we owe God?” Or perhaps we could clarify it a bit, “What does it mean to belong to God?” 

Because we can spend a lifetime chasing the things that the world tells us are important. We can work hard to build a good life, provide for our families, seek recognition, and find security. And there is nothing wrong with working hard or caring for the people we love. But none of those things can answer the deepest question of who we are.

We belong to God. And God doesn’t trade in Caesar’s currency. 

Now, you may not hear many preachers say this, especially during stewardship season. And I apologize in advance to the treasurer and vestry! But here it is… God doesn’t need your money. God doesn’t need your checkbook or another line item in the parish budget. The Creator of heaven and earth isn’t sitting in heaven worrying about how to make payroll.

But what God does want is you. God wants your heart, your love,  your attention, your gratitude, your worship, and your life. God wants us to live with open hearts and generous spirits, recognizing that everything we have and everything we are... are gifts from God. And yes, that includes our money. 

Our generosity matters. The way we use our resources matters. The ministries we support, the neighbors we care for, and the community we help build... they all matter. But stewardship is about more than writing a check or making a pledge. It is about how we use our time, how we share our gifts, how we care for and make room for one another, and how we live as people who belong to God.

It is about what we do with all that has been entrusted to us. Our time. Our talents. Our possessions. Our influence. Our relationships. It is about living in such a way that the world sees something different in us… Not the relentless pursuit of more stuff, but the generosity of God's abundance.

Because if we truly believe that every human being bears the image of God, then our faith must shape and inform how we treat one another. We cannot claim to give God what belongs to God while withholding compassion from our neighbors. We cannot worship the God of abundance while living as though there will never be enough to share. And we cannot say that we belong to God while allowing money, possessions, political loyalties, or the need to be right to claim our ultimate allegiance.

So perhaps this Gospel lesson invites us to ask ourselves a few questions. What do we value? Where do we place our trust? What has a claim on our hearts? Are we using what we have to build up our neighbors and our community, or are we simply trying to accumulate enough to feel secure?

And when people meet us, in our homes, in our workplaces, in our community, and in our church… do they see the image of Caesar, with its promises of power and status? Or do they catch a glimpse of the image of God?

We live in Caesar’s world. We have bills to pay, we have responsibilities to fulfill, and decisions to make about the resources entrusted to us. But we belong to God. And that means we are called to live by a different measuring tool. Not by how much we accumulate, but by how generously we give. Not by how much influence we possess, but by how faithfully we use it. Not by how successfully we protect our own interests, but by how lovingly we care for one another.

So when Jesus says, “Give to God the things that are God’s,” the invitation isn't simply to give something to God. The invitation is to remember that our lives already belong to God. All that we are. All that we have. All the time. Every breath, every gift, every opportunity to love and serve.

And every day, we have the opportunity to offer those gifts back to God, not out of fear or obligation, but out of gratitude for the life and love we have already received. 

May we have the grace to loosen our grip on the things that can't ultimately save us… the wisdom to recognize the image of God in every person we meet, and the courage to live generously in a world that so often tells us to hold on tightly.

For the truth is, we don’t have to earn our worth. We don’t have to buy our place in God’s heart. We don’t have to accumulate enough to become somebody. We are already beloved. We already bear God’s image. And we already belong to God.

So let us give to God what is God’s; not just our money, not just our Sunday mornings, but our whole selves. All that we are. All that we have. All the time.

20 Pentecost (Proper 23A) 2026

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

The 20th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23A)
October 11, 2026

Isaiah 25:1-9
Psalm 23
Philippians 4:1-9
Matthew 22:1-14

Over the past several weeks, we have been hearing some powerful lessons from the Gospel according to Matthew. If you have been paying attention, you may have noticed that Jesus seems to be making the same point over and over again.

We are called to be the Church. We are called to live lives of faith and obedience, to forgive, to love our neighbors, and to be a living witness to what we believe. In other words, Jesus is not simply interested in what we say we believe. He is interested in how we live. And apparently, this is something he thinks we need to hear more than once!

Today, Jesus tells us another parable. This time, it is about a king… a king who throws a wedding banquet for his son. Now, a royal wedding was quite an occasion. There would be fine food, beautiful decorations, important guests, and probably a seating chart complicated enough to require a committee meeting.

But when the invitations go out, the guests refuse to come. The king sends out his servants again. The feast is ready... The table is prepared... Everything is waiting. But the guests have other things to do. Some ignore the invitation. Others return to their farms and businesses. And some even mistreat the messengers.

So the king does something remarkable and something considered quite scandalous in his time. He sends his servants into the streets to invite everyone they can find… everyone... the good and the bad, the respectable and the not-so-respectable. And the banquet hall is filled. The invitation that some reject is received by others. This is scandalous because common riffraff off the streets are not invited and not welcome at wedding banquets. 

Now, let's talk about that wedding garment a bit, because it is important, and it's a rather puzzling part of this Gospel. The king has invited people straight off the streets, and then one guest is confronted for not wearing the proper garment. Jesus doesn't explain exactly what the garment represents. But I think we can hear an important message in this image.

The wedding garment was provided by the King, and all guests were expected to wear it; otherwise, it would be disrespectful to the King. The wedding garment is not about wearing the right clothes to church. So, you don't have to rush home this afternoon and check your closet to make sure you have the proper outfit for the kingdom of heaven. We have enough trouble deciding what to wear on Sunday mornings without adding eternal consequences to the decision!

The garment is NOT something we put on to earn God's love or secure our salvation. The invitation has already been given. The guests are welcomed by grace. The wedding garment represents the new life that grows out of our response to God's grace.

In many baptisms (especially in the early church), the newly baptized wear a white garment as a sign of this new life. A candle reminds us to let the light of Christ shine in the world. And then we are welcomed to the table, where we receive the bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ, to nourish us on our journey of faith. 

God's invitation is not a one-time event. God keeps inviting us. Sunday after Sunday, day after day, through the people we meet, the needs we encounter, and the opportunities we have to share God's love. But there is a difference between receiving an invitation and responding to it.

We live in a world where invitations come in all kinds of forms. Some we eagerly accept. Others we put off. Some we forget about entirely. And some we leave sitting in our inbox until the event has passed because we somehow convinced ourselves we would get around to answering them eventually.

I think that we sometimes do the same thing with God. We intend to pray more... We intend to forgive that person... We intend to reach out to someone who is lonely... We intend to become more involved in the life of the Church... We all mean well. But sometimes our good intentions never quite make it into our calendars… or to our lives.

And Jesus reminds us that the invitation to God's kingdom is not simply an invitation to attend a religious event. It is an invitation to live differently. It is an invitation to put on the garment of our baptism and allow God's grace to shape who we are.

Think about the invitation… Think about our baptismal promises. We promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to strive for justice and peace, and to respect the dignity of every human being. Those are not simply words we recite during a baptism. They describe the life we are called to live.

By following through with these promises, we are learning to wear the garment of Christ... a garment woven out of compassion, humility, mercy, forgiveness, generosity, and love. It shows up when we forgive someone who has hurt us. When we welcome someone who feels like an outsider. It’s there when we stand up for someone whose dignity is being ignored. Or when we choose kindness over cruelty or reconciliation over resentment. 

We won’t always get it right. None of us does. Because we're all works in progress, and thank God that God's grace is patient with us.

There is a difference between stumbling as we try to follow Jesus and deciding that the invitation makes no difference in how we live. Grace welcomes us as we are, but it also calls us toward the people God is creating us to be. And that is where the rubber meets the road.

Because our world has become increasingly divided, angry, and suspicious of anyone who thinks differently… we have become very good at turning our disagreements into personal attacks, our differences into divisions, and our neighbors into enemies. We spend a lot of time deciding who is wrong, 

who is to blame, and who doesn't belong. But the kingdom of God operates by a different set of rules.

At God's banquet, the invitation goes out to people we might not have invited ourselves. People we don't know. People we don't understand. People that we disagree with. People who, if we were arranging the seating chart, might find themselves at the far end of the table. We need to realize, God invites them, too.

The Church is called to bear witness to that kind of hospitality, God's hospitality. We are not the gatekeepers of God's grace. We are the people who have received it. And because we've received it, we are called to share it.

I was reminded of a story I heard some years ago about a young priest right out of seminary who had just been called to serve a small country church. The congregation was delighted. They had a new priest, a fresh face, and someone who had spent several years studying Scripture and theology.

On his first Sunday, the priest preached a wonderful sermon. It was thoughtful, inspiring, and very well received. Everyone was delighted. The following Sunday, he preached exactly the same sermon. People thought, well, perhaps it was a simple mistake, or maybe he was just making sure everyone had heard it the first time. Even the best of us occasionally find ourselves thinking about lunch during a sermon.

But on the third Sunday, he preached the same sermon again. By the fourth Sunday, the congregation began to wonder whether their new priest had run out of material. So the vestry approached him after worship. They told him how happy they were that he had come to serve them, but they had one small concern. He had preached the same sermon four Sundays in a row! The priest smiled and said, "I'll change my sermon when y’all start listening and living the one I preached!"

Now, in my years of helping form new clergy, I wouldn't recommend that approach to every new priest. It might not be the best way to begin a relationship with the vestry. But perhaps I think there is a little truth in that story.

Maybe we have been hearing these lessons from Matthew repeatedly because we NEED to hear them repeatedly. We can hear a message without allowing it to change us. We can listen to a sermon about forgiveness and still carry a grudge. We can hear about loving our neighbors and still treat certain people as though they are beyond the reach of God's love. We can gather at the Lord's Table, receive the bread and wine, and then walk back into the world as though nothing has happened. We can accept the invitation without ever putting on the garment.

So what difference does God's invitation make in the way we live? Does the love we receive at this table make us more loving? Does the forgiveness we receive make us more willing to forgive? Does the grace we experience make us more gracious toward others? Does the hope we proclaim help us become people who bring hope to a world that so desperately needs it?

The world does not need a church that simply repeats the words of Jesus. The world needs to see what those words look like when they take flesh in ordinary human lives. The world needs Christians who listen before judging, forgive rather than retaliate, welcome rather than exclude, and serve rather than demand to be served.

It needs people who can disagree without dehumanizing one another... who can speak the truth without cruelty... and who can stand firm in their convictions without losing sight of the dignity of those with whom they disagree. That is how we bear witness to Christ. 

Not by going around quoting Scripture at people and instilling fear until they surrender. Not by assuming that if we win every argument, we will somehow win the world for Jesus. We bear witness to Christ by living lives shaped by his love. And when we get it right, people notice. They begin to wonder where our hope comes from; they may wonder why we forgive when it would be easier to hold a grudge, or why we keep showing up for people who cannot repay us.

Then we have an opportunity to tell them about Jesus and share the invitation we have received. Of course, we won’t always get it right. We will stumble. We will fall short of our baptismal promises. Sometimes our garment of grace will get tangled up in our pride, our impatience, and our desire to be right. But God's invitation doesn’t depend on our perfection.

God knows who we are. God knows our weaknesses, our failures, our doubts, and our fears. And God invites us anyway. But the same grace that welcomes us also calls us to grow. The same love that embraces us challenges us to become more loving. And when we fail, because we will... we can turn again to the One who has promised never to abandon us. Jesus, who is with us always, even to the end of the ages.

So, my friends, the table is set. The invitation has been extended. The feast is prepared. We have been welcomed into the household of God. The question is not whether we are good enough to receive it. Because God's grace has already made room for us. The question is whether we will allow the love of Christ to shape our lives.

Will we put on the garment of our baptism and live as people raised to new life? Will we carry the hospitality of God's table into our homes, our workplaces, our schools, our community, and the wider world? Will we make room for the people God is inviting, even when they are not the people we expected to find at the banquet? And when someone encounters us, will they catch a glimpse of the Christ who has welcomed us? 

That is our calling. That is our response to the grace we’ve been so freely given. So let us respond to the invitation once again. Let us put on the garment of our baptism. Let us seek and serve Christ in all persons, love our neighbors as ourselves, strive for justice and peace, and respect the dignity of every human being. And let us live in such a way that others will discover that there is plenty good room at God's table.

For the invitation has been given. The feast is waiting. And by the grace of God, there is plenty good room for us all.

19 Pentecost (Proper 22A) 2026

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

Isaiah 5:1-7
Psalm 80:7-14
Philippians 3:4b-14
Matthew 21:33-46

Today’s Gospel sounds, at first, like a pretty simple story. A landowner plants a vineyard. He puts a fence around it. He digs a winepress. He builds a watchtower. Then he leases the vineyard to some tenants and goes away. Simple enough. It sounds like just another one of those stories Jesus tells one more parable in a long series of stories we’ve been hearing over these past few weeks. But this isn’t really a simple story. And it certainly isn’t an innocent story. 

Because if we pay attention to where we are in Matthew’s Gospel, we realize that Jesus isn’t telling this story from the safety of a mountainside somewhere in Galilee. Jesus is in Jerusalem. He has already entered the city riding on a donkey while the crowds shouted, “Hosanna!” and called him Son of David. He has already gone into the Temple and turned over the tables of the money changers. He has already confronted the religious authorities to their face. And now he is teaching in the Temple precincts, knowing that a cross awaits him.

Jesus is telling this story on his way to his death. And suddenly, the story becomes much more personal. Suddenly, we hear it with different ears. The landowner sends servants to collect the harvest. The tenants beat one servant. They kill another. They stone another. So the landowner sends more servants. And the tenants do the same thing. Finally, the landowner says, “They will respect my son.” The son is sent into the vineyard. And the tenants kill him.

Jesus knows exactly what’s coming… Jesus isn’t simply telling a story about somebody else’s vineyard. He is telling a story about himself. He is telling the religious leaders and in turn us, in advance, what is about to happen. And yet there is something even deeper going on here. Because Jesus is also telling us something about God.

The vineyard belongs to God. The land belongs to God. The harvest belongs to God. The whole creation belongs to God. And we? We are tenants. We are the caretakers… the stewards. We are people entrusted with something that ultimately isn’t ours. And that is where Isaiah’s imagery helps us.

Isaiah describes Israel as God’s vineyard. God carefully plants it. God tends it. God protects it. God gives it everything it needs to flourish. And then God waits for the harvest. God expects fruit. But instead of fruit, God gets wild grapes. Instead of justice, God finds violence. Instead of righteousness, God finds oppression. Instead of love for neighbor, God finds people looking primarily out for themselves.

And that sounds uncomfortably familiar, doesn’t it? Because it is extremely easy for us to imagine that the vineyard belongs to us. Our church. Our community. Our money. Our property. Our time. Our lives. Everything is mine, mine, mine… And when we start thinking that way, we can forget that everything we have is ultimately something entrusted to us.

Even this church. St. James is not ours. It isn’t mine. It isn’t yours. It doesn’t belong to the vestry. It doesn’t even belong to the diocese. It belongs to God. We are merely the caretakers… the stewards of this place for a season.

And, as every vestry eventually discovers, being a steward of a church building, especially one that’s 175 years old… can sometimes feel a lot like being the temporary caretaker of a very large, very complicated house. There is always something. A light bulb. A leaky roof. A mysterious noise somewhere in the building. One of the committees wondering why we don’t have enough storage. And, of course, the eternal Episcopal question: “Who moved the chair?”

You can laugh, but I know there are people here today who could identify the exact chair I’m talking about. And we Episcopalians have a remarkable capacity to believe that a particular chair has been in a particular location since the time of the Apostles. 

But that’s the funny thing about stewardship. We can become very attached to the things we’ve been entrusted with. Sometimes we get so attached that we forget the difference between caring for something and owning it. And that’s true of much more than chairs.

We do the same thing with traditions, with buildings, with the way we worship. We do this with ministries and with money. We can even do this with our ideas about what the Church is supposed to be. We begin to say, “This is ours.” And then Jesus gently reminds us, “No, it’s not. It’s God’s.”

We’re the tenants. We’re the stewards. But our job is not simply to preserve what we have received. Our job is to ask, “What fruit is God asking us to produce? What does God want us to grow here? What kind of people is God calling us to become? Who is God sending through our doors? Who is still waiting outside to be invited in? And what does God want us to do with the vineyard we are responsible for?”

Because here is the interesting part about the story Jesus tells... God doesn’t give up. Again and again, God sends people to remind us who we are. Prophets, Teachers, Saints, Neighbors, Friends... and sometimes even complete strangers. And eventually, God sends the Son. And the tenants kill him. But even that doesn’t bring God’s story to an end.

And that’s the part I think Jesus wants us to understand when he says, “The stone that the builders rejected becomes the cornerstone...” What looks like defeat becomes the beginning of something new. The cross becomes resurrection. And that perspective changes everything.

Because if the cross teaches us anything, it’s that God can take even our worst rejection and make something new out of it. God can take our failures and make them a new beginning. God can take our brokenness and make it a place where grace enters. God can take death and bring new life.

And thank God that means that our stories aren’t finished either. Because I don’t know about you, but there are chapters of my life that I am perfectly happy to leave behind. There are things I have said that I wish I could unsay. Decisions I wish I could make again. Moments when I got it wrong. Relationships that didn’t go the way I hoped. And I’m probably not alone in that feeling...

But the good thing is that our story isn’t over yet. God isn’t finished with us. God isn’t finished with St. James. God isn’t finished with the Church. And God certainly isn’t finished with this world.

We live in a time when it can be tempting to believe that everything around us is falling apart. We see division everywhere... Socially, politically, economically, religiously... People seem increasingly willing to treat one another as enemies rather than love them as neighbors. There is anxiety about the economy, the future, our communities, our businesses, and about the Church. And sometimes it can feel as though the problems are simply just too big and heavy for us to handle.

But the Gospel doesn’t ask us to solve everything. It asks us to be faithful with the vineyard we’ve been given. We’ve been asked to produce good fruit in this place at this time...

And what kind of good fruit are we asked to produce? I think Jesus has been remarkably clear about that. Love God. Love your neighbor. Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Care for the sick. Visit the lonely. Forgive one another. Seek justice. Practice mercy. Tell the truth. And remember that every person you meet is someone whom God loves.

That is what it means to live as people of the kingdom. God isn’t particularly interested in whether we look impressive. God isn’t asking us to prove that we’re better than somebody else. God isn’t asking us to win every argument. God is just asking us to bear good fruit... 

Fruit of the kingdom. The fruit of love. The fruit of mercy. The fruit of justice. The fruit of reconciliation. The fruit of compassion. The fruit of holiness.

And that brings us right back to the vineyard. Because the question isn’t whether the vineyard belongs to God. Because we know it does. The question is, what will we do with what God has entrusted to us? Will we hoard it? Will we protect it only for ourselves? Will we act as though we own it?

Or will we remember that we are stewards? Will we open the gates? Will we share the harvest? Will we make plenty good room? Will we make this place be a little more like the kingdom of God today than it was yesterday? 

That’s the work in front of us. And sometimes it happens in very ordinary ways. A simple phone call to someone lonely. A meal shared with someone who needs one. A hand extended across a disagreement. A word of forgiveness. A little generosity when we could easily keep it for ourselves. A willingness to listen before we judge. A willingness to say, “I was wrong.” A willingness to welcome someone who isn’t quite sure whether they belong.

These things may seem small. But God’s kingdom is built out of small things. One act of mercy at a time. One conversation with one person at a time. One little piece of the vineyard tended faithfully. I think that’s why I find the ending of this Gospel so hopeful. 

The story isn’t over. Not then. Not now. Not ever. The tenants may have rejected the Son. But God did not abandon the vineyard. The cross may have looked like the end. But it wasn’t. The tomb may have looked like the end. But it wasn’t. And whatever chapter we may be living through right now, it isn’t the end either.

There is still time for us to become something more than we have been. There is still time for this church to become more fully the people God is calling us to be. There is still time for grace. There is still time for repentance. There is still time for reconciliation. There is still time for this community to discover that we really do belong to one another. And fortunately, there is still time for the world to become more just, more merciful, and more peaceful.

Because God is still at work. And God has entrusted this vineyard to us. So when the landowner comes looking for the harvest, may we be found a people, diligently at work. Not fighting over who owns the vineyard. Not building higher fences. Not protecting what we think belongs to us. But tending the soil. Planting seeds. Sharing the harvest. Making plenty good room. And loving the people God has placed in our care.

Because the vineyard belongs to God. The harvest belongs to God. And, by the grace of God, the story isn’t over yet. Thanks be to God.