The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost - Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30 - The Rev. Colette Hammesfahr

 

July 5, 2026 - Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

One of the hardest lessons I've had to learn as a priest is that I cannot manufacture what only God can do. I can prepare sermons. I can visit the sick. I can organize ministries. I can pray. But I cannot make someone believe. I cannot heal a broken heart. I cannot make a church grow spiritually. Those things belong to God. This can be very frustrating. I like to “see” measurable results. I like to know if attendance is growing, if the budget is healthy, or if a ministry is thriving – it’s evidence that we are doing a good job.

But over time, I’ve realized that while those things are important, they are not the measure of faithfulness. Some of the most faithful days in ministry don't look successful at all. They're spent sitting beside a hospital bed. Listening to someone whose heart is breaking. Praying with a family. Visiting someone who may never remember that I came. No one applauds those moments. They don't show up on an annual report. Yet they may be among the holiest things I ever do.

And I wonder if that's true for all of us. We live in a world that measures almost everything – grades, salaries, attendance, followers, productivity, and success. Before long, we begin to think that God must measure us in the same way. But Jesus asks a different question. Not, "How impressive are you?" Not, "How accomplished are you?" Not even, "How much do you know?" Instead, he asks, "Will you come to me?"

“Come to me” is not a command to do more. It’s an invitation from Jesus. Before he asks us to be obedient, he offers himself. Before he asks us to carry his cross, he offers to carry our burdens.

This is what ties all our readings together this week. They all point us away from self-reliance and toward dependence on God.

Abraham’s servant has been tasked with one of the most important assignments imaginable: find a wife for Isaac. He could go out with a list of all the qualities of a good wife, rely on his own instincts, or manipulate the circumstances, but instead, he prays. He prays and trusts God to provide the right bride for Isaac. He doesn’t put his confidence in his own ability. His confidence is in God’s ability to lead him well. Prayerful trust over self-reliance.

In the psalm, the bride is invited to leave behind her former loyalties and embrace a new identity. She is called to trust the future God is giving her rather than cling to the past she already knows.

Paul, in his letter to the Romans, does not pretend to have it all together. Instead of coming off as spiritually impressive to the church, he confesses his struggle, “I do not do the good I want.” He is being honest before God instead of pretending he is whole, strong, or perfect. Paul’s honesty is actually an act of faith. He has finally stopped pretending that he can fix himself and he’s started depending on the grace of God.

In our gospel, Jesus contrasts the “wise and intelligent” with “little children.” He’s not condemning education or intelligence. He’s making a contrast of our hearts. Those who rely on their own wisdom, status, or religious credentials often miss out on what Jesus has for them. Those who come with the openness and trust of children receive him.

Why is dependence on God so difficult for us? I think it’s because we’d rather be competent than dependent. We’d rather solve than surrender. We’d rather produce than receive. We’d rather have answers than trust. Our perception is that dependence makes us vulnerable. Maybe that’s why Jesus speaks of children. Children know something we’ve forgotten. Children have no choice but to trust. They know how to receive. They know they can’t do everything alone. As adults, we spend much of our lives trying to avoid needing anyone. Somewhere, as we got older, we decided that maturity meant needing God less. But Jesus points us to children because they know something we have forgotten. Maturity in God’s kingdom looks exactly the opposite of what we think.

What’s ironic is that in God’s kingdom, dependence does not mean weakness. Dependence is where God’s strength becomes visible. We spend so much of our lives trying to convince ourselves and everyone else that we’ve got it all together. We try to hide our fears and cover up our failures. We work harder. We try to achieve more. We become experts in self-sufficiency. But God’s kingdom is not built on self-sufficient people.

Think about the people God chooses throughout Scripture. Abraham and Sarah were too old to have children. Moses insisted he couldn't speak well enough to lead. David was the youngest son, overlooked even by his own father. The disciples were fishermen, tax collectors, and ordinary people with no special religious credentials. And Paul openly admitted, "I do not do the good I want." Again and again, God works through people who know they need God.

Why? Because when we finally stop pretending that we can do it all ourselves, we create room for God to do what only God can do. Faith isn't pretending we're strong enough. Faith is trusting that God is.

Maybe that's why Jesus doesn't invite the accomplished, the polished, or the impressive. He invites the weary. The weary have finally discovered something the rest of us spend years trying to avoid: that we cannot carry life alone. And that discovery, painful as it is, becomes our doorway to grace.

Maybe the greatest miracle God performs is not removing every burden from our lives. Maybe it is teaching us that we were never meant to carry those burdens by ourselves. "Come to me," Jesus says, "and I will give you rest." That is not the promise of an easier life. It is the promise that we will never have to live it alone.

I’d like everyone to hold up your hand and then make a tight fist. Now, with that tight fist, try receiving something. If I threw a ball to you, could you catch it? You can’t, can you? The first act of faith is opening our hands. Open your hands and hold them with your palms facing up. This is what Jesus means when he says, “Come to me.” Come with open hands. Come without pretending. Come ready to receive what only God can give. Amen.