June 7, 2026 (Second Sunday after Pentecost) - Dr. Marian Thompson

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Lord, speak to me and through me. Amen.

You may be seated.

I have never let fear of people stop me from interacting with them. In fact, some people would probably say I'm a little strange that way. I am drawn toward people that many others avoid.

Most of my closest friends are quiet people, introverted people, people who don't always fit neatly into the expectations of the world around them. I care about people who hear voices. I care about people who think differently. I care about people who have been told they are too much, not enough, too weird, too broken, too complicated, or too difficult.

Part of my ministry, both in the Church and in my work, is sitting with people that others often walk around. Not because I'm especially brave. Not because I'm a saint—far from it. I think it's because I know what it feels like to be walked around.

I grew up learning that there were parts of me that made some people uncomfortable. Many of us have had that experience. Maybe because of who we are. Maybe because of where we came from. Maybe because of a mistake we made. Maybe because of grief, illness, addiction, divorce, poverty, mental illness, or simply not fitting into somebody else's idea of normal.

And because I know what that feels like, I've made it part of my life's work to do my best to see people, to hear people, to make room for people, to remind them that they are more than whatever label has been placed upon them.

And when I read today's Gospel, I realize that Jesus seems to have had the very same habit.

Everybody else walked around people.

Jesus walked toward them.

The first person we meet today is Matthew. Matthew is sitting at a tax booth.

Now, we hear "tax collector" and think IRS employee. That is not how first-century Jews heard those words.

Tax collectors worked for Rome. They were viewed as collaborators, traitors, cheaters—the kind of people respectable folks avoided.

And yet Jesus walks right up to Matthew and says two simple words:

"Follow me."

Not explain yourself.

Not get your life together.

Not prove you're worthy.

Just follow me.

The crowd sees a tax collector.

Jesus sees a disciple.

Then Jesus does something even more scandalous. He sits down to dinner with Matthew and all his friends. And suddenly the religious leaders are upset—not because Jesus is talking to sinners, but because Jesus is treating them like they belong.

That is the real scandal.

Because there's a difference between helping people and welcoming people. A difference between serving people and sitting at the same table with them.

The Pharisees ask, "Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?"

In other words:

Why are those people here?

And if we're honest, every generation of the Church has wrestled with that question.

Why are those people here?

The poor.

The mentally ill.

The immigrant.

The addict.

The formerly incarcerated.

The person who votes differently.

The person who looks differently.

The person whose life story makes us uncomfortable.

Why are those people here?

And Jesus answers with the words that still challenge us today:

"I desire mercy, not sacrifice."

Not performance.

Not appearances.

Not on-time attendance.

Thank God, not having all the right answers.

Mercy.

Because mercy is what God keeps extending to us.

And if mercy is what God extends to us, then mercy must be what we extend to one another.

Then Matthew gives us two more stories: a grieving father and a woman who's been bleeding for twelve years.

Notice how different they are.

One is a respected leader.

One is an outcast.

One approaches Jesus publicly.

One approaches Jesus secretly.

One has status.

One has none.

And yet Jesus stops for both.

Because Jesus does not measure human worth the way the world does.

The woman reaches out and touches the fringe of his cloak.

For twelve years she's been suffering.

For twelve years she has likely been isolated.

For twelve years she has probably heard people explain why her life is the way it is.

For twelve years people have likely walked around her.

But Jesus stops.

He turns, and perhaps the most beautiful word in the whole Gospel appears:

"Daughter."

"Take heart, daughter."

Not patient.

Not problem.

Not burden.

Not outcast.

Daughter.

Beloved child of God.

Seen.

Known.

Loved.

Sometimes healing begins before the miracle.

Sometimes healing begins when someone finally sees us.

When someone calls us by our true name.

When someone reminds us that we belong.

Then Jesus continues on to the house of the grieving father.

Everyone there has already accepted death's verdict.

The mourners are gathered.

The funeral has begun.

The crowd laughs when Jesus says the girl is sleeping.

Because that's what the world often does when God begins something new.

The world laughs.

The world says nothing can change.

The world says that relationship is over.

That person is beyond help.

That church is dying.

That community is too broken.

That wound is too deep.

But Jesus walks into the room anyway.

He takes the girl by the hand.

And life returns.

Because Jesus is in the business of bringing life where everyone else sees only endings.

And perhaps that is the thread connecting every story in today's Gospel.

Matthew.

The sinners at dinner.

The bleeding woman.

The dead girl.

Everyone else has already decided who they were.

Everyone else had already written the ending.

Everyone else had already walked around them.

Jesus walked toward them.

And that leaves us with a question:

If we are the Body of Christ in the world today, who are we walking around?

Who have we stopped seeing?

Who have we decided is too difficult, too different, too broken, too strange, too far gone?

Because every person in this Gospel is someone the world had already given up on.

And every one of them discovers that God's mercy is larger than the labels placed upon them.

My friends, the good news today is not simply that Jesus loved Matthew, or healed a woman, or raised a little girl.

The good news is that Jesus is still walking toward people.

And by God's grace, the Church is called to walk with him.

Amen.