July 26, 2026 (Ninth Sunday after Pentecost) - Dr. Marian Thompson

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Lord, speak to me and through me. Amen.

There are certain stories that stay with you long after you finish them. Some stories entertain you. Some stories make you cry. And every once in a while, a story tells a truth so deep that you find yourself thinking about it years later.

One of those stories for me is The Color Purple by Alice Walker.

Now, if you've never read the book, seen either of the movies, or watched the Broadway musical when it came through town, I highly recommend it. Bring tissues. Maybe two boxes.

The story takes place during the Jim Crow South in the early twentieth century, a time when life for Black Americans was marked by violence, injustice, and very few choices.

At the center of the story are two sisters, Nettie and Celie.

Nettie is beautiful by the standards of society. Celie... well, the world doesn't see her that way.

A man everyone simply calls Mister comes looking for a wife. He wants Nettie. He's told no. Instead, he's offered Celie, almost as though she's livestock, almost as though she doesn't get a say.

The sisters are torn apart. And just before Nettie leaves, she tells Celie something that becomes a promise for the rest of the story. She says, "Nothing but death can keep me from you."

Well, Mister certainly tries.

He hides Nettie's letters for years—decades. He lies. He manipulates. He isolates Celie until she believes her sister has forgotten her.

Life is cruel. Trauma piles upon trauma. Heartbreak upon heartbreak.

And yet, unknown to Celie, Nettie never stopped writing, never stopped loving, never stopped hoping.

In the end, against every odd, they are reunited.

The promise was true.

Nothing—not Mister, not lies, not distance, not years—could separate one sister from the love of the other.

Now, church, when I read today's Epistle—you know I love Paul—I can't help but hear an echo of that promise.

Paul writes:

"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come... nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."

I can almost hear Nettie saying, "Nothing can keep me from my sister."

Only this promise is infinitely greater, because this isn't merely the love between two sisters. This is the love of Christ.

And unlike Mister, there is no force in heaven or earth strong enough to hide God's love from us.

Now, life can certainly make it feel that way.

Sometimes it feels like God has stopped writing.

Sometimes it feels like our prayers are bouncing off the ceiling.

Sometimes grief gets so loud, anxiety gets so heavy, or the diagnosis gets so frightening that we begin to wonder if God has forgotten our address.

Paul says, No.

God hasn't stopped speaking.

In fact, earlier in Romans he says that when we don't even know how to pray, the Holy Spirit prays for us.

Have you been there, where you weren't even sure what words to use?

Maybe all you could do was cry, or stare at the ceiling, or sit in silence.

Paul says those moments aren't prayer failures.

Those moments are where the Holy Spirit starts praying.

God understands tears just as well as sentences.

And then Jesus gives us these curious little parables: a mustard seed, yeast, treasure hidden in a field, a pearl.

Honestly, if I were introducing the kingdom of heaven, I don't think these would have been my marketing choices.

I'd probably choose fireworks, or mountains splitting apart. Maybe a rainbow unicorn.

You know, something impressive.

Jesus says, "No. Let me tell you about gardening and baking."

Let's be honest—that's a very different recruitment strategy.

Then Jesus says something fascinating.

The kingdom is like a mustard seed.

Now here's the part that makes me smile.

Mustard wasn't admired. Many farmers considered it a weed.

Jesus could have said, "The kingdom is like a mighty cedar of Lebanon."

Instead, he says, "It's kind of like that annoying plant you keep trying to pull out."

I love that, because apparently God has a habit of using ordinary things: ordinary people, ordinary churches, ordinary Tuesdays, ordinary conversations, ordinary acts of kindness.

God doesn't always arrive with fireworks.

Sometimes he arrives like yeast, quietly hidden, working where nobody notices.

Until one day, everything has risen.

Isn't that how life with God often works?

You don't usually notice yourself becoming more patient until that thing that used to make you lose your mind doesn't anymore.

You don't realize healing has happened until one day the memory still hurts, but it no longer owns you.

You don't notice the kingdom growing until suddenly you realize, I'm not the same person I used to be.

While we're busy living what the Church calendar calls Ordinary Time, God is doing extraordinary things.

We're just going to work.

Making dinner.

Taking care of aging parents.

Changing diapers.

Paying bills.

Showing up to church late.

Trying to forgive difficult people.

Trying not to say what we're really thinking in construction traffic.

Lord, have mercy.

And somehow, while we're simply living faithfully, the kingdom keeps growing.

The yeast keeps rising.

The seed keeps stretching toward heaven.

God keeps redeeming suffering.

God keeps transforming ordinary people.

And here's the beautiful part.

None of that depends on having perfect faith.

Jesus never said you need mountain-sized faith.

He said mustard-seed faith.

Tiny.

Sometimes barely hanging on.

Sometimes held together with duct tape and coffee.

Sometimes just enough faith to whisper, "Lord, help."

Apparently, that's enough.

Because the power was never in the size of the seed.

The power was always in the God who makes it grow.

So maybe that's the good news today.

Life is going to keep... well... lifing, as the kids say.

There will be days when faith feels easy.

There will be days when faith feels impossible.

There will be seasons where God seems silent.

There will be moments where all you have is one tiny mustard seed of hope.

But while we're doing our best, while we're living ordinary lives, God is still working underground.

The Spirit is still praying.

The yeast is still rising.

The kingdom is still growing.

And nothing—not death, not life, not fear, not grief, not cancer, not divorce, not anxiety, not our doubts, not our failures, not anything in all creation—will ever separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.