The Rev. Canon Melanie Dickson Lemburg
The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost-Proper 7A
St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Mountain Home, AR
June 21, 2026
Can you “imagine the personal and social loss that Matthew’s community must have experienced in order to make today’s gospel reading an encouraging word for them?”[i]
Jesus tells them: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.
For I have come to set a man against his father,
and a daughter against her mother,
and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law;
and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.
He continues, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”
We know a little bit about the historical context in which the writer of Matthew’s gospel is writing. Matthew’s community of primarily Jewish believers has certainly gotten cross-wise with the Jewish authorities of their day, and they may have even been forced out of their synagogues. They have lived through the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem by the Romans, and they may have known persecution by the Romans as well. And that’s not even considering whatever personal disappointments or losses or divisions the listeners may have experienced in their lives.
But knowing what it means to be human, we can be certain they have experienced disappointment; we know that they have suffered loss.
We see another heart-breaking portrait of loss and disappointment in our Old Testament reading for today as well. Hagar has been forced out of Abraham and Sarah’s house with her child Ishmael, and after the food and water run out, Hagar recognizes there is nothing more she can do for her child, so she begins to try to prepare herself for his death.
Now, what’s interesting about this story that we don’t see in today’s portion is that Hagar’s own actions have been a factor in leading her to this point of desperation. Earlier in the story, she has frequently taunted Sarah about her continued childlessness by flaunting the existence of her own child Ishamel. So when Sarah’s son Isaac is born, the seeds of resentment and competition between the two women and their children have firmly taken root and are now bearing rotten fruit.
But just when things are at their bleakest for Hagar and Ishmael, God steps in to offer Hagar the tools for salvation, and God continues to be with Ishmael even in their exile.
It’s interesting to me because Jesus’s teaching to his disciples offers them a similar promise and assurance of God’s protection, care and intervention for them in the midst of their disappointments, sufferings, losses, and trials. He tells them: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.”
Three times in this section of the reading, Jesus tells his disciples: “do not be afraid.” “Do not be afraid.” “Do not be afraid.” It’s like a drumbeat or an echo or a refrain for this disappointed and downtrodden community.
The question I’ve been wrestling with this week is this. The word “disciple” means to be a learner. So what is my understanding of my own discipleship in light of this text, especially as it pertains to disappointment and loss? What are the aspects of following Jesus that the Holy Spirit is inviting me to learn right now?
This past year, our family has been living in a sort of liminal space, a place of in between. My husband has stayed in Savannah, Georgia, with our son so he could graduate from high school there. And I’ve been mostly in Little Rock. Happily, our son has now graduate from high school, so we are in the process of selling our home in Savannah and buying a home in Little Rock. There has been so much uncertainty in all of this that even my best-laid plans have been thwarted. Just this past week, we decided to terminate a contract on a house that we were planning to buy in Little Rock. I know it’s the right decision, and yet, I’m so disappointed. And it’s really hard not to be discouraged because I thought we were making good progress in moving, and now we’ve got to start all over in finding a new home.
I suspect you all know a taste of this disappointment as well, as you all thought you were close to calling a new priest after this long, liminal, in-between season for you as a congregation. And that call did not materialize and so you, too, are, in some ways, back to the beginning.
So what might the Holy Spirit be inviting us all to learn about our disappointment in this season? How might it be an invitation to grow deeper in our faith?
About a month ago, I read the book Joyful, Anyway by Kate Bowler. Bowler is a professor of religion at Duke Divinity school; she is known for having done significant research on the prosperity gospel, and she has written extensively about her journey through a medical diagnosis of stage 4 colon cancer with a husband and a very young child. She is deeply faithful, luminous, and remarkable, along with the added bonus of being very easy to read. This new book explores the notion that the human condition is such that we all have an underlying ache. This ache can be fueled by loss or disappointment or suffering or just the daily slog that is life—the never-ending piles of laundry or to-do lists, the argument that you keep having over and over again, the uncertainty that takes up space in your life like an unwelcome guest who will never leave.
She writes about how we know the ache, because it is often accompanied by the question: “Is this it? Is this really all there is?” And she writes about how the ache is found in the intersection of grief, guilt, and longing. She has a whole host of quotes from other theologians and writers about this ache and the human condition, but it’s her conversation with a man named Father Ron that really spoke the most to me. This is in her chapter titled, “Is this it?”.
Bowler writes, “We plug along, and we make our plans. We make more with less—but still, we know:
A small void lies in each of us, and it acts as a perfect echo chamber.
Hope. Fear. Possibility.
There is a longing that rings through us. Is it anxiety? Is it a malaise? Can it simply be solved with some psychological strategies and a little more self-care? Or is this soul work?”
She writes about how a friend of hers tells her that she needs to talk to a man named Father Ron, and she goes on to share that conversation. When Bowler asks Father Ron about “the ache” he tells her, “I think a lot of people think it’s only a downside. But in fact, that energy, that perpetual disquiet, that inchoate feeling…it is also divine…”. He continues, “We are made in the image and likeness of God. So that feeling isn’t a mistake. There’s a fire inside of us. But it’s a divine fire…”
When Bowler asks him what, then, do we do with all of our longing (and our disappointment), he says, “ ‘Well, I think that’s the very definition of spirituality. It’s what we do with that divine fire,’ he said, and described how some people might use it for unhealthy pursuits of endless more, more, more. Or some people might try to snuff out their own fire in an attempt to be very pious. But that the divine moves through our longing, channeling it toward better and better aims.”
Father Ron concludes with these words: “We are going to die with a lot of hopes unfulfilled….But if you can mourn it, you can live with it. There’s a deep spiritual and psychological genius here: I need to mourn this. I can die without being fulfilled, but I can’t die with the unfulfillment not being mourned.”
Bowler writes, “I closed my eyes and took a moment to let that thought settle into place. I had been hoping that there was a solution to the ache…but I’ve never found a short-cut when it comes to genuine, life-altering wisdom.”
And listen to how she concludes this chapter. “The ache cannot be ignored. Distraction or anger can only get so far…so I supposed I would have to be more honest about what I need to grieve. Mourning is the terrible process of allowing reality to wash over you again and again and again. What do you do when nothing can change but everything must? I will need some help, but at least I know where to start: say yes to the dark unfinishedness of this symphony.
Turn your face toward the ache and say yes.
The ache? Yes
The longing? Yes
The grief? Yes
The holiness of all this want? I’m not sure how, but yes.”[ii]
(Pause)
This past week, I was feeding the birds outside my friend Caroline’s house where I am staying. Caroline feeds the birds faithfully, and I had missed a day while we were both out of town. As I walked out the front doors to spread the birdseed on the walk and in the front yard, I happened to look back over my shoulder to the corner of the front porch, where what can only be described as a “gang” of three, fat squirrels sat watching me with their beady little eyes.
After I scattered the seed and went back inside, I stayed at the front windows to watch. Well, those three squirrels were going at it like an all you can eat buffet. But there were also birds scattered and eating in and among the squirrels and even a little bunny over to the side in the grass. I watched as the squirrels would try to scare off the sparrows, the smallest birds who were out there eating, and to my delight the sparrows would fly off and then circle back to land right behind the squirrels and continue to eat. I was so impressed with their intelligence and their persistence in the face of adversity, and for me, it has been a helpful lesson in discipleship this week.
“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.”
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