Blessed be God.
Praise Jesus Christ,
now and forever. Amen.
We pray:
Come Holy Spirit,
fill us with your joy,
set our hearts ablaze
with your presence.
Amen.
This week marked the beginning of school.
My daughter Sarah took her children
to meet the teachers—
Lillian, third grade,
Liam, second,
and little Logan,
starting kindergarten with all the excitement
a five‑year‑old can hold.
In the hallway stood a cardboard cutout of a student
holding a pencil almost as tall as Logan.
He wanted a picture—
wanted to stand close and to belong.
But as he leaned in,
the cardboard tipped,
the pencil snapped,
and his little heart broke with it.
He burst into tears:
“They’re not going to let me come to school!”
Before Sarah could comfort him,
Liam—steady, simple, big-brother‑strong—
put his arm around him and said,
“Don’t worry. I’ve done a lot worse…
and they haven’t kicked me out yet.”
That moment—
that gentle loving arm around another—
is the doorway into today’s readings.
Because the heart of the Gospel is this:
God, through Jesus Christ,
wants us to allow Him
to love us as we are.
I want to say that again:
God, through Jesus Christ,
wants us to allow Him
to love us as we are.
Not the perfect us.
Not the polished us.
Not the freshly‑scrubbed‑clean‑by‑confession us.
Just… us.
Human.
Hurting.
Trying.
Reaching.
Isaiah tells us:
“Observe what is right, do what is just;
for my salvation is about to come.”
Salvation is not God waiting for us
to get our act together.
Salvation is God bending low,
reaching out to reassure us
when we think we’ve broken something
too big to fix.
God’s justice is not rejection—
it is restoration.
It is mercy moving toward fear.
Saint Paul continues the story.
He says he is sent to the Gentiles—
to the outsiders,
to the ones who think they don’t belong.
He glories in that mission
because he knows something deep and freeing:
“The gifts and the call of God are irrevocable.”
Irrevocable—
meaning God does not change His mind
about loving us.
He doesn’t revoke His welcome
when we knock something over,
break something fragile,
or fall apart in fear.
And then Jesus meets a Canaanite woman—
a mother outside the covenant,
outside the circle,
outside the “approved list.”
She cries out:
“Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David.”
She doesn’t bring perfection.
She brings need.
She brings love.
She brings the fierce hope of a mother
who refuses to give up.
Jesus tests her,
but she answers with humility and fire:
“Even the dogs eat the scraps
that fall from the table.”
And Jesus says:
“O woman, great is your faith.”
Great—
not because she was flawless,
but because she trusted
that God’s mercy is bigger
than the boundaries people draw.
She allowed Jesus to love her
as she was.
The Canaanite woman thought she didn’t belong.
Paul preached to people who felt unworthy.
Isaiah spoke to hearts afraid of judgment.
And in all of that,
God speaks one truth:
Allow me to love you as you are.
Not the version of you
you wish you were.
Not the version others expect.
Not the version you promise to become someday.
Just you—
just as you are—
with all the broken cardboard moments of life,
your fears,
your trembling prayers,
your quiet hopes.
Because the gifts and the call of God
are irrevocable.
And His mercy
is always
stronger
than your fear.
God, through Jesus Christ,
wants us to allow Him
to love us as we are.
And in that love
We find the source of goodness,.
The strength reach for holiness
And we preach the Gospel
By a life lived,
love for one another,
just as we are
and the ability to forgive.
Praise be to Jesus Christ,
now and forever. Amen.
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