Good Shepherd Sermons & Blogs

2026-52
sermon preached at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
www.goodshepherdfw.org
by the Rev. Josh Hosler, Rector

The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 21A-tr 2), September 27, 2026

Ezekiel 18:1-4,25-32; Psalm 25:1-8; Philippians 2:1-13; Matthew 21:23-32

Back in the 2010s there was a TV show called Steven Universe. It was a kids’ show, technically speaking. But you could get me going for hours on its profound theological ramifications. I will not indulge that urge today. I won’t even tell you the premise of the show. I only want to share the lyrics of a tiny little song that we hear Steven sing in the final season, in the final episode, in the very final scene:

I don't need you to respect me, I respect me

I don't need you to love me, I love me

But I want you to know you could know me

If you change your mind

For the past two weeks, we’ve heard a lot about forgiveness—forgiveness of sinners and forgiveness of enemies. But we don’t always want to forgive. Why should we, when the one who has wronged us doesn’t deserve forgiveness? Even if they appear to repent and change, as we saw last week in the story of Jonah, we still don’t want to forgive. How can we trust that their repentance is sincere? That they won’t turn around and harm us again? Well, I’m happy to see that this week’s readings address this troublesome layer of forgiveness.

Let’s start with Ezekiel. Ezekiel writes to a people in exile in Babylon, people who are nursing legitimate grudges against those who have conquered them. As the decades in exile wore on, a narrative began to emerge among the Jews that this was God’s righteous punishment for the sins of previous generations. That explanation would never go away, but Ezekiel calls it into question. Why? Well, if you believe that God punishes you for things you personally didn’t do, you remain stuck. But when you take accountability for your own sins, you have an opportunity to grow, because you have an opportunity to be forgiven.

In a way, both sides of the narrative are true. American racism was addressed by the Civil Rights Movement, but it certainly wasn’t solved. The wars going on in our world today didn’t occur spontaneously, but as the product of decades and centuries of history. And the decisions we make today will continue to affect people for generations. Even within a given family, the effects of addiction and abuse reliably transfer down the line to children and grandchildren in ways that really can get people stuck.

When we’re dealing with these kinds of generational traumas, though, it’s important first to name the trauma for what it is, and then also to decide what we personally will do about it. The past is the past. But what will the future be? We are not helpless to change it. But one prerequisite may have to be … changing our minds.

See, there’s a difference between being guilty and being accountable. I am not guilty of the history of American racism, but I am absolutely accountable. Centuries ago, my ancestors decided to create a category for themselves called “white,” specifically so they could make others “not-white” and then exploit their labor and dehumanize them. As their descendant, I need to accept that this will not magically fix itself. But we aren’t stuck. We are capable of repentance, not just for that of which we personally are guilty, but for that of which we are collectively accountable. So the Jews could treat the Exile as God’s judgment, but Ezekiel needed them to move forward into the future in a healthier way.

I love the clear connection here between the Prophet Ezekiel and today’s gospel reading. Let’s set the scene: Jesus has just ridden into Jerusalem on a donkey, gone straight into the temple, and overturned the tables of the moneychangers. Now he’s sitting in the temple courtyard teaching, and the people in charge are fed up with him. If I were in charge, I would be too! So they ask Jesus a perfectly reasonable question: “What gives you the right to do these things? What is the source of the authority you claim for yourself?”

Now, if one of Jesus’ disciples were to ask this question, I think his answer would be different. But Jesus knows he’s dealing with people who aren’t interested in changing their minds. They only want to trap him in his words well enough to convince his many followers to reject him. But it’s fair game for a rabbi to answer a question with a question, so … “Let’s talk about John the Baptist. Where did his authority come from?”

At this point we need to remember three crucial things about John the Baptist: One, John was an anti-establishment troublemaker. Two, John specifically identified Jesus as the Messiah. And three, King Herod had John executed.

Now, standing in the temple in Jerusalem, the holy seat of power, one, Jesus is an anti-establishment troublemaker. Two, Jesus is not identifying himself as the Messiah, but he is showing respect for John’s teachings. Three … hmmm, where is this likely to lead?

Jesus shows a remarkable amount of dignity here. He refuses to play ball with those who only want to bring him down. Does Jesus preach forgiveness? Absolutely. Will he immediately forgive those who are trying to undermine him? Absolutely not. Why not? Because they are not yet in a place to receive that forgiveness. By identifying himself as the Messiah only in a sideways manner, he denies the priests and elders a weapon. He asserts his own authority—the authority to call out what’s wrong, and also the authority to forgive.

Now, forgiveness is never given to those who deserve it—it’s given to those who need it, who can make use of it to grow. Jesus wants to give people not what they deserve, but what they need. And that means holding them accountable. Will the chief priests and elders take accountability for the ways they have abused their authority?

And so a parable follows, and it’s probably a stretch to call it a parable because it’s so darn straightforward. A man has two sons. He says to the first, “Go do your chores.” The son is belligerent and refuses. He says to the second, “Go do your chores.” That son says, “Of course, I’ll do them right away!” Well, the first son changes his mind and does his chores. But the second son, the seemingly agreeable one, blows off his chores. Which one actually did his chores? It’s not a difficult answer.

So Jesus holds the chief priests and elders accountable for not fulfilling God’s will, though they claim to do so. And he honors those who have done God’s will without anyone expecting them to. He says, in essence, “The ones who changed their minds about what’s possible, about the deep ocean of forgiveness God is aching to give them—these will be the first ones to welcome the fullness of God’s Realm. You who are stubborn and refuse to change your minds will have to wait your turn and go in behind them.”

Now, there’s been some lousy preaching on this parable over the years. The worst versions set up the chief priests and elders as “the Jews” and Jesus and the tax collectors and prostitutes as “the Christians,” and draw direct lines from two thousand years ago to the current situation for both religions. That’s not what’s going on here. It’s not about religious affiliation, and it never has been. It’s about our own willingness to get ourselves unstuck. And the first step toward getting unstuck from generational trauma and victimization is to step into vulnerability … and to claim our God-given dignity.

I spend a surprising amount of time sitting with people while they work through self-hatred, the most common effect of religious abuse. Maybe people in the church told them they are worthless. In certain circles it’s even a litmus test for true Christian faith: you must acknowledge that the heart is endlessly deceitful, and only God—but really, only your pastor’s selective interpretation of the Bible—can save you from a life of sin.

Now, I myself point out sometimes that your personal conscience is not God, and that “believe in yourself” is not the gospel. That much is true. We are certainly capable of fooling ourselves into thinking that our own opinions, our own experiences, our own certainties carry an inherent authority that nobody else’s knowledge or expertise should dare question. But we are also capable of humbly, gently holding dear the little nuggets of wisdom life has taught us. I believe that our quiet, unassuming certainties are often a sign of the divine spark within us.

Anyway, God made us to be individuals—individuals who need one another, yes, but you are an individual with a perspective that nobody else can ever share. No one can truly walk in your shoes or see the world through your eyes. So whether in any situation you act wisely or foolishly, your decisions are still your own. In that way, you do have divine authority that nobody can take away from you. But better than that, you have divine dignity. Even when you’re dead wrong and need to repent, in God’s eyes your dignity remains, and it will never be taken away from you.

Jesus says to the chief priests and elders, “If you won’t even account for your own sins, you don’t get to question my authority.” Jesus is no doormat. His boundaries are super clear. But I find it fascinating that while Jesus’ boundaries extend to refusing to argue with those who won’t listen, the same boundaries will not keep Jesus from his own death—a dignified death he embraces as the only available means to prick the conscience of the world.

I imagine Jesus going to the Cross singing Steven Universe’s song:

I don't need you to respect me, I respect me

I don't need you to love me, I love me

But I want you to know you could know me

If you change your mind

Do you want to know Jesus? Any sincere effort to get to know him will make you vulnerable. You’ll have to change your mind about something! To change our mind means to repent of what we had missed before—to allow Jesus to hold up a mirror to us—to accept that God’s eternal love has never been far away and is in no danger of ever being withheld. To know Jesus is to come to know the reality of your inherent belovedness, to rejoice in it, and to share that joy with others.

Can I change my mind enough to accept that those I most despise are going into God’s Realm ahead of me? Can I imagine a reality in which our conflicts are behind us, in which I take accountability for my own growth but also accept that God is holding everyone else accountable as well? That I will not get a front-row seat to anyone’s redemption but my own?

For indeed, we worship the God who refuses to dominate—the God who instead invites us to know him. God held Godself accountable for the state of humanity by coming to be part of it. And all of us are invited to get to know this God a little more, every time we change our minds. Amen.