View today's sermon on our YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MB3TBNjaT0Y.

Matthew 10:40-42

“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward; and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.” 

The Guest House

Jalaluddin Rumi Translated by Coleman Barks

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

from Rumi: Selected Poems, trans Coleman Barks with John Moynce, A. J. Arberry, Reynold Nicholson (Penguin Books, 2004)

Long-Term Member Sunday – June 28, 2026Matthew 10:40-42

Our reading from Matthew this morning sounds almost deceptively simple. Jesus speaks of welcome.

Welcome the messenger. Welcome the prophet. Welcome the righteous.

Offer a cup of cold water to someone who is thirsty.

These are small acts, ordinary acts, everyday acts.

And yet Jesus tells us these ordinary moments are never merely ordinary. Every act of welcome becomes an encounter with God. Every gesture of kindness ripples far beyond what we can see.

I find myself hearing these words differently on Long-Term Member Sunday.

Today we celebrate people whose membership spans twenty years... thirty... forty... fifty... even seventy years. Seventy years. Think about what that means…

It means welcoming generations of children into Sunday School, and then watching them bring their own children through these same doors.

It means surviving disagreements without walking away.

It means grieving together at hospital bedsides and cemetery graves.

It means celebrating births, baptisms, weddings, confirmations, anniversaries, and new beginnings.

It means showing up—again and again—not because the church was perfect, but because love kept calling us back.

That kind of faithfulness doesn't happen because every season is easy. It happens because people choose, over and over again, to welcome one another, and to love one another.

The poet Rumi writes:

"This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival...Welcome and entertain them all!"

It's a remarkable image. Our lives as guest houses.

Some mornings joy knocks at the door.

Some mornings grief arrives before we've had our coffee.

Sometimes disappointment shows up uninvited. Sometimes hope surprises us.

Rumi even says to welcome the difficult guests, because they may be making room for something new.

Now, Rumi isn't suggesting we celebrate suffering or pretend pain is good. Rather, he reminds us that transformation often comes through experiences we never would have chosen.

This congregation knows something about that, both individually and as a whole. 

Through the years this congregation has welcomed not only new members but new ideas. It has lived through change. Changing theology, changing leadership, changing expectations.

Every generation has probably wondered at some point, "Is this sustainable?" And every generation has discovered that people come and go, and methods change, but the heart of the gospels remain.

The heart of Jesus’ gospel message is making room at the table. He says they will know us by our love. And love always makes room at the table.

One of my favorite images from today's gospel is "a cup of cold water."

It is wonderfully unspectacular. Jesus doesn't mention miracles.

He doesn't mention impressive sermons or grand accomplishments.

Just a cup of cold water. A kindness almost anyone can offer.

A smile to someone sitting alone. A casserole after surgery.

A ride to a doctor's appointment. Learning someone's name.

Writing a note. Holding a hand. Listening without trying to fix.

These are holy acts.

Most churches aren't sustained by extraordinary moments. They are sustained by thousands upon thousands of kindnesses; like thousands and thousands of cups of cold water. Quiet acts of compassion that rarely make the annual report.

The people we honor today have offered those cups for decades. Some taught children.

Some balanced budgets. Some sang in choirs. Some made coffee. Some shoveled snow.

Some prayed faithfully from home when they could no longer venture into our sanctuary.

Each act whispered the same message: "We all belong here."

And here's the beautiful thing… 

Sometimes we are the ones offering the water. Sometimes we are the thirsty ones receiving it.

Learning to receive care is every bit as holy as learning to give it. After all, none of us stays strong forever. Eventually every one of us needs someone else to open the door.

Perhaps that's why belonging to this congregation matters so much. Not because we are always the helpers. Or always the receivers.  But because we take turns. Today's long-term members know this as well as anyone.

Over the decades, they have been both caregivers and those who needed care. Both teachers and learners. Both leaders and followers. Both strong and vulnerable. That is the beautiful rhythm of being in community.

The House by the Side of the Road written by poet Sam Walter Foss begins with these words:

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the place of their self-content;

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths

Where highways never ran-But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

It is a five-stanza poem that circles back several times and ultimately ends with, 

"Let me live in my house by the side of the road...And be a friend to man."

I love that image. A house beside the road. A place where travelers can stop. Rest. Receive a drink of water. Find a friend.

Isn't that exactly what the church is called to be? A house by the side of life's road. A place where everyone—from lifelong members to first-time visitors—finds the welcome of Christ.

So today, we give thanks for those who have kept the porch light on for twenty years... for seventy years… and for every year in between.

Your faithfulness has made this church a place where strangers become friends, where seekers become disciples, where children become elders, and where God's welcome keeps unfolding generation after generation.

May we honor your witness not simply by celebrating the years behind us, but by embracing the people still walking toward our door.

Because somewhere today, someone is thirsty.

Someone is looking for hope. Someone needs a cup of cold water.

May they find it here.

And may they discover, in the welcome we offer, the welcome of Christ himself.

Amen

Rev. TJ Mack – June 28, 2026

The House by the Side of the Road — Sam Walter Foss

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the place of their self-content;

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths

Where highways never ran-But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

Where the race of men go by-The men who are good and the men who are bad,

As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat

Nor hurl the cynic's ban-Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road

By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,

The men who are faint with the strife,

But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,

Both parts of an infinite plan-Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,

And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night.

And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice

And weep with the strangers that moan,

Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by-They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish - so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.