Sermon for the 11th Sunday after Trinity Luke 18:9–14 — The Pharisee and the Tax Collector

 

The Great Reversal

The Trap of the Mirror

There is a story about a man who went into an art gallery. He stopped in front of a huge, beautifully decorated mirror. He looked at himself, adjusted his tie, smoothed his hair, and said to his friend, “Look at that. Not bad!”

His friend gently pulled him back and said, “My dear fellow, that isn’t a mirror. It’s a painting of a mirror.”

It’s a funny story, but there is something deeply human about it.

We can spend a lot of our lives looking at the wrong thing.

We compare ourselves with other people. We look around and think, “At least I’m not as bad as him.” Or, “I would never do what she did.” Or perhaps we look at our own lives and say, “I’m a decent person. I work hard. I try to do what is right. I go to church. I help people.”

And perhaps all of those things are true.

But Jesus asks us to look somewhere deeper.

Today, Jesus takes us into the Temple and introduces us to two men.

Two men come to pray.

Two men stand before God.

Two men are sinners.

But only one of them goes home justified.

And that is where the great reversal begins.

The story moves us from comparison to confession, from pride to mercy, and from trying to prove ourselves to simply receiving God’s grace.

There are three things I want us to see today: the Law, the Gospel, and the life that flows from the Gospel.

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1. The Law: When Goodness Becomes a Trap

Let us begin with the Pharisee.

It is easy for us to hear the word “Pharisee” and immediately think, “Here comes the bad guy.”

But that isn’t how Jesus presents him.

This man was probably respected in his community.

He was religious.

He prayed.

He fasted.

He gave his money to God.

He tried to live a moral life.

In fact, if we met him today, we might say, “There is a good man. A committed Christian. Someone who takes his faith seriously.”

And yet something has gone terribly wrong.

Listen to his prayer:

“God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all I get.”

Notice something.

He begins by saying, “God, I thank you…”

But before long, he is no longer really talking about God.

He is talking about himself.

“I am not like them.”

“I fast.”

“I give.”

“I do.”

His prayer has become a résumé.

He is presenting his accomplishments to God.

And then comes the most revealing moment of all.

He looks at the tax collector and thinks, “At least I’m not like him.”

That is the trap.

The Pharisee isn’t measuring himself against God’s holiness.

He is measuring himself against somebody else.

And that is something we understand very well.

We rarely say, “Lord, I am perfect.”

Instead, we say, “Well, at least I’m not as bad as…”

And suddenly someone else’s failure becomes the foundation of our righteousness.

We don’t need to be perfect.

We just need someone else to be worse than us.

But Jesus will not let us escape that easily.

The Law of God does not ask, “Are you better than your neighbour?”

The Law asks, “How do you stand before the holy God?”

And when we stand there honestly, we discover something uncomfortable.

We all need mercy.

The problem with sin is not simply that we sometimes do bad things.

The deeper problem is that we want to believe that we can stand before God on our own.

We want to believe that our goodness will be enough.

That our religious commitment will be enough.

That our respectable life will be enough.

That if we can just point to enough good things, we won’t have to admit how desperately we need grace.

But the Law takes away those excuses.

The Law is not a ladder that helps us climb our way up to heaven.

The Law is a mirror.

And when we look honestly into that mirror, we discover that we are not as righteous as we imagined.

Imagine someone drowning in the ocean.

The Law is not the lifeboat.

The Law is the moment when the person finally realizes, “I cannot save myself.”

And that realization is painful.

But it is also necessary.

Because until I know that I am drowning, I will not reach for the lifeboat.

The Pharisee was drowning.

But he was too busy looking at the tax collector to notice.

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2. The Gospel: The Prayer of Empty Hands

Now look at the other man.

The tax collector.

He stands at a distance.

He doesn’t even lift his eyes toward heaven.

He beats his breast and says:

“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

That’s his entire prayer.

No résumé.

No excuses.

No comparison.

No attempt to explain why he isn’t really as bad as people think.

Just:

“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

And Jesus says something astonishing:

“I tell you, this man went home justified rather than the other.”

Justified.

What a beautiful word.

It means that God declares the sinner righteous.

Not because the sinner has suddenly become a perfect person.

Not because he has earned God’s favour.

Not because he has managed to repair his life before coming to God.

He comes with empty hands.

And God fills those empty hands with mercy.

That is the Gospel.

The Gospel is not God saying, “Try harder.”

It is not, “Do more.”

It is not, “Make yourself good enough and then come back.”

The Gospel is God’s word to people who have nothing left to prove:

“I forgive you.”

The tax collector understands something the Pharisee does not.

He understands that he cannot save himself.

And that is precisely why he is ready to be saved.

He doesn’t bring God his achievements.

He brings God his need.

And that is enough.

Of course, we know something the tax collector himself could not yet fully see.

We know where God’s mercy would ultimately lead.

We know the Cross.

We know Jesus.

We know that the mercy of God is not a vague feeling of kindness.

It has a name.

It has a face.

It has hands stretched out upon a Cross.

Jesus takes the place of sinners.

Jesus carries our sin.

Jesus bears our guilt.

Jesus gives us His righteousness.

This is the great exchange at the heart of the Gospel.

Our sin is placed upon Christ.

His righteousness is given to us.

That is why we can stand before God.

Not because we have become good enough.

But because Christ is good enough for us.

Righteousness is a gift.

It is not achieved.

It is received.

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3. The Christian Life: Living with Empty Hands

So the Law shows us our sin.

The Gospel gives us Christ.

Now comes the question:

How then do we live?

Jesus gives us the answer at the end of the story:

“For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

This is the great reversal.

The Christian life begins when we stop trying to prove ourselves.

And it continues as we learn to live by grace.

That doesn’t mean we stop caring about how we live.

Quite the opposite.

Grace changes how we live.

But we no longer do good things in order to make God love us.

We do good things because God already loves us.

We don’t serve our neighbour because we are trying to earn salvation.

We serve because Christ has already served us.

We don’t forgive because we are trying to buy God’s forgiveness.

We forgive because we have already been forgiven.

And we don’t come to church saying, “Look, God, at how good I am.”

We come saying,

“Lord, have mercy.”

And then we hear God’s answer:

“Your sins are forgiven.”

Think about how this works in ordinary life.

Imagine a husband and wife have an argument.

The husband knows he was wrong. He said something cruel. He knows he hurt his wife.

But instead of admitting it, he begins making comparisons.

“Well, I didn’t hit you.”

“I work hard.”

“I provide for this family.”

“You do things wrong too.”

And perhaps all of those statements are true.

But none of them changes the fact that he was wrong.

That is the Pharisee in us.

We defend ourselves by pointing somewhere else.

But imagine instead that he stops.

He puts down the excuses and simply says:

“I was wrong. I hurt you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

There is something powerful about those words.

“I was wrong.”

No excuses.

No comparisons.

No pretending.

Just confession.

That is not weakness.

That is faith.

Because confession says, “I don’t need to pretend anymore.”

And that is one of the great gifts of the Gospel.

We don’t have to pretend before God.

We don’t have to pretend before one another.

We can tell the truth.

We are sinners.

And Christ is our Saviour.

Perhaps there is something in your own life that you have been hiding.

Perhaps it is something you are ashamed of.

Perhaps it is resentment.

Envy.

Bitterness.

Pride.

A failure you keep trying to forget.

A relationship you have damaged.

A habit you know is wrong.

And perhaps, when you think about it, you tell yourself:

“Well, at least I’m not as bad as that person.”

But Jesus gently brings us back to the Temple.

Back to the two men.

Back to the prayer:

“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

That is where freedom begins.

Repentance is not simply feeling bad about ourselves.

Repentance is turning around.

It is turning away from ourselves and turning toward God.

It is dying to the old habit of self-justification and learning, day by day, to trust Christ.

And here is the beautiful thing:

We don’t repent because we are trying to convince God to love us.

We repent because we already know that He does.

We don’t confess our sins in order to earn forgiveness.

We confess because Christ has already won forgiveness for us.

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The Great Reversal

And so Jesus puts two ways of living before us.

The way of the Pharisee says:

“I am good enough.”

“I have done enough.”

“I am better than them.”

“Look at what I have accomplished.”

The way of the tax collector says:

“Lord, have mercy.”

One man leaves carrying his résumé.

The other leaves carrying God’s mercy.

And Jesus tells us which one went home justified.

The great reversal is this:

The person who thinks he has everything discovers that he has nothing.

The person who admits that he has nothing discovers that, in Christ, he has everything.

That is the heart of the Gospel.

So when you come before God, don’t bring your résumé.

Bring your need.

Don’t bring your comparisons.

Bring your confession.

Don’t bring your pride.

Bring your empty hands.

And then hear what God gives you.

Forgiveness.

Mercy.

Grace.

Peace.

A new beginning.

The world tells us that we need to prove ourselves.

Jesus tells us that we are loved.

The world tells us to climb higher.

Jesus comes down to us.

The world tells us to make ourselves righteous.

Jesus gives us His righteousness.

That is the theology of the Cross.

God works through what looks weak.

He saves sinners.

He raises the humble.

He brings the proud down.

He fills empty hands.

And He does it all through Christ.

So perhaps the question for us today is very simple:

Which man are you?

The answer may change from day to day.

Sometimes we are the Pharisee.

Sometimes we are the tax collector.

Sometimes we stand proudly before God, convinced that we have everything under control.

And sometimes we finally reach the end of ourselves and whisper,

“Lord, have mercy.”

And the good news is that Jesus is there in both moments.

He meets the proud with the Law.

He meets the broken with the Gospel.

And He leads us again and again to the Cross.

So let us stop looking sideways.

Stop measuring ourselves against one another.

Stop trying to prove that we are good enough.

Instead, let us look to Christ.

Look at His Cross.

Look at His mercy.

Look at His open hands.

And hear His promise:

“Your sins are forgiven.”

He died for Pharisees.

He died for tax collectors.

He died for respectable sinners.

He died for obvious sinners.

And He died for you.

So go home today not trusting in yourself, but trusting in Christ.

Go home not carrying the burden of having to prove yourself.

Go home forgiven.

Go home justified.

Go home free.

And when you have nothing else to say, you can always pray the prayer of the tax collector:

“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

And because of Jesus, you already know the answer.

He is merciful.

Amen.

Let us pray.

Lord Jesus Christ,
we confess that too often we look at other people instead of looking honestly at ourselves. We compare. We judge. We make excuses. We try to prove that we are good enough.

Forgive us.

Take away our pride and give us humble hearts.

Teach us to come before You with empty hands, trusting not in what we have done, but in what You have done for us.

Thank You for Your Cross.

Thank You for Your forgiveness.

Thank You that our righteousness does not depend upon our performance, but upon Your grace.

When we are proud, bring us back to Your mercy.

When we are ashamed, remind us of Your forgiveness.

When we are discouraged, remind us that our salvation rests not on us, but on Christ.

Help us to live as forgiven people: ready to forgive, ready to serve, ready to love, and ready to confess our need for You.

For You alone are our righteousness, our hope, and our peace.

In Your holy and precious name we pray.

Amen.

And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen.

Night Blessing loving and gentle Mercy with a touch of Irony in English and Portuguese.

 The Mud and the Mercy

You have granted me life and favor, and Your care has preserved my spirit.
(Job 10:12)

And so, here we are. Again. Another night, another inventory of the day’s small wars and smaller victories. The dog is asleep at your feet, the dishes are done, and the silence is settling in like a familiar, slightly worn-out guest. It is in this quiet that the blessing feels almost... accusatory.

Life and favor. It sounds so grand, doesn’t it? Like a proclamation from a mountaintop. But you and I know better. We know life is the chipped coffee mug, the unsent text message, the love that arrives not as a tidal wave but as a persistent, gentle drip that threatens to drive you mad with its constancy. Favor is finding the parking spot just as you’re about to give up, and the bitter irony that you’re too tired to celebrate it.

The man in John’s gospel, the one born blind, he knew something about this. When they asked him how his sight was restored, he didn’t give a theological dissertation. He didn’t recite the Nicene Creed. He just said, “The man they call Jesus made some mud and put it on my eyes. He told me to go to Siloam and wash. So I went and washed, and then I could see.” (John 9:11)

It is so mundane, this miracle. Dirt and spit and a walk to a pool. A recipe any child could follow. There is a profound, almost cruel, irony in the ordinary nature of divine intervention. We wait for the celestial choir, the parting of the sea, and instead, we get a poultice of earth. We are saved by the very things we trip over. We are healed by the mud. Tonight, look at the mundane things of your day—the argument you resolved with a deep breath, the meal you shared, the work you did that no one thanked you for. That was the mud. That was the walk to the pool. You didn't see the miracle because you were busy looking for the lightning bolt.

And then, there is the sermon from last Sunday, still rattling around in my head like a loose marble. Romans. The great, knotty mystery of Paul’s letter. The part where he practically throws up his hands in wonder at the sheer, illogical mercy of God. “For God has bound everyone over to disobedience so that he may have mercy on them all.” (Romans 11:32).

Let that land on you, heavy and strange. It is not a mercy for the good, the righteous, the ones who have their lives perfectly curated on social media. It is a mercy for the disobedient. For the stubborn. For the ones who, like us, have driven the wrong way down a one-way street, more than once. The irony is staggering: God’s mercy is not a reward for getting it right, but the very thing that makes getting it right possible in the first place.

We are all, in some way, the blind man, and we are all, in some way, the disobedient. We stumble. We rebel. We insist on our own maps. And yet, the Spirit says, “Mercy for all.” All. It is a terrible, wonderful, democratic love that does not ask for a résumé. It is a scandal. It is a comfort. It is a deep, quiet, relentless river that sweeps up the saint and the sinner in the same, surprising current.

So, here is your blessing for tonight:

May you find the courage to see the mud in your own life, and not despise it. May you recognize the walking as part of the healing, not just the arrival. And in the deep, frustrating, wondrous mystery of it all—in the mercy that seems to make no sense—may you rest. Because you are not blessed despite your brokenness, but somehow, impossibly, through it.

Sleep well, my dear disobedient one. The mercy is already here, waiting for you to wake up to it.

A Lama e a Misericórdia

"Tu me concedeste vida e favor, e o teu cuidado preservou o meu espírito."
(Jó 10:12)

E então, aqui estamos. De novo. Mais uma noite, mais um inventário das pequenas guerras e das vitórias ainda menores do dia. O cachorro dorme aos seus pés, a louça está lavada, e o silêncio vai se instalando como um hóspede familiar, ligeiramente gasto. É nesse silêncio que a bênção soa quase... acusadora.

Vida e favor. Soa grandioso, não soa? Como uma proclamação do topo de uma montanha. Mas você e eu sabemos melhor. Sabemos que a vida é a caneca de café lascada, a mensagem não enviada, o amor que chega não como uma onda gigante, mas como um gotejamento persistente e suave que ameaça enlouquecer você de tão constante. Favor é encontrar aquela vaga de estacionamento exatamente quando você está prestes a desistir — e a amarga ironia de que você está cansado demais para comemorar.

O homem no evangelho de João, aquele que nasceu cego, sabia algo sobre isso. Quando perguntaram como sua visão fora restaurada, ele não deu uma dissertação teológica. Não recitou o Credo Niceno. Apenas disse: "O homem chamado Jesus fez um pouco de lama e a pôs sobre os meus olhos. Ele me disse para ir a Siloé e lavar-me. Então fui, lavei-me e passei a ver." (João 9:11)

É tão mundano, esse milagre. Terra e cuspe e uma caminhada até uma piscina. Uma receita que qualquer criança poderia seguir. Há uma ironia profunda, quase cruel, na natureza ordinária da intervenção divina. Esperamos o coro celestial, a abertura do mar — e, em vez disso, recebemos um cataplasma de barro. Somos salvos pelas mesmas coisas em que tropeçamos. Somos curados pela lama. Esta noite, olhe para as coisas mundanas do seu dia — a discussão que você resolveu com uma respiração funda, a refeição que compartilhou, o trabalho que fez e ninguém agradeceu. Aquilo era a lama. Aquela era a caminhada até o tanque. Você não viu o milagre porque estava ocupado procurando o raio.

E então, há o sermão de domingo passado, ainda chacoalhando dentro da minha cabeça como um bolinha de gude solta. Romanos. O grande e emaranhado mistério da carta de Paulo. A parte em que ele quase joga as mãos para o alto, maravilhado com a misericórdia tão ilógica de Deus. "Porque Deus a todos encerrou em desobediência, para com todos usar de misericórdia." (Romanos 11:32)

Deixe isso cair sobre você, pesado e estranho. Não é uma misericórdia para os bons, os justos, os que têm a vida perfeitamente curada nas redes sociais. É uma misericórdia para os desobedientes. Para os teimosos. Para aqueles que, como nós, já dirigiram na contramão de uma rua de mão única, mais de uma vez. A ironia é estarrecedora: a misericórdia de Deus não é uma recompensa por acertar, mas exatamente aquilo que torna possível acertar em primeiro lugar.

De alguma forma, todos nós somos o cego, e todos nós somos, de alguma forma, os desobedientes. Tropeçamos. Nos rebelamos. Insistimos em nossos próprios mapas. E, ainda assim, o Espírito diz: "Misericórdia para todos." Todos. É um amor terrível, maravilhoso, democrático, que não pede currículo. É um escândalo. É um conforto. É um rio profundo, calmo e incansável que arrasta santo e pecador na mesma corrente surpreendente.

Então, aqui está a sua bênção para esta noite:

Que você encontre coragem para enxergar a lama em sua própria vida — e não a despreze. Que você reconheça a caminhada como parte da cura, não apenas a chegada. E no profundo, frustrante e deslumbrante mistério de tudo isso — na misericórdia que parece não fazer sentido algum — que você descanse. Porque você não é abençoado apesar de sua ruptura, mas, de algum modo impossível, através dela.

Durma bem, minha querida e desobediente criatura. A misericórdia já está aqui, esperando você acordar para ela.

 

A Night Blessing from KuGompo in English and Portuguese

For a soul resting after a golden East London day  

The Blessing:

As the last warmth of the sun fades from the rooftops of KuGompo, and the evening star begins its watch, may the gentle hand of the Almighty tuck you in.

May you sleep with the deep assurance that He remembers His covenant forever (Psalm 105:8). The same sun that painted our sky in hues of gold and amber today is a token of His faithfulness—a promise that will not fade with the daylight, but burns bright even in the dark.

And because all of God’s promises find their "Yes" in Christ (2 Corinthians 1:20), you are not just a recipient of grace—you are a living, breathing "Amen" to His goodness. So, tonight, let your heart be that Amen. Quiet. Confident. At rest.

The Sermon Echo:

Remember the mystery we sat with on Sunday: that God has bound everyone over to disobedience so that He might have mercy on them all (Romans 11:32). Let that sink in as you close your eyes. The God who holds the stars holds you. The God who allowed a "no" for some, orchestrated a cosmic "YES" for all.

So tonight, don't worry about the branches. Don't fret about the grafting. Rest in the root. His mercy doesn't make sense to our small logic—and isn't that the point? It's a wild, relentless, absurdly generous love that chases you to your pillow.

A Touch of Humor:

And since we are in East London, let me add this: May the only thing that "howls" tonight be the wind off the ocean, and not your thoughts. May your sleep be deeper than the potholes on Oxford Street, and your dreams sweeter than a scoop of Gompo’s best ice cream. And if you wake up in the middle of the night, don't start solving the mystery of predestination—just smile, roll over, and tell God, "I trust You, but I'll take that answer in the morning."

The Amen:

Goodnight, beloved of KuGompo. Mercy is your blanket. Grace is your guard. And the "Yes" of God is your peace.

Sleep well. You are held. You are loved. You are part of the Mystery.

Amen.

Para uma alma descansando após um dourado dia de sol em East London

A Bênção:

Enquanto o último calor do sol se despede dos telhados de KuGompo, e a estrela da tarde começa sua vigília, que a mão suave do Todo-Poderoso te aconchegue.

Que você durma com a firme certeza de que Ele se lembra da sua aliança para sempre (Salmo 105.8). O mesmo sol que pintou nosso céu em tons de ouro e âmbar hoje é um sinal da Sua fidelidade — uma promessa que não se desvanece com a luz do dia, mas brilha forte mesmo na escuridão.

E porque todas as promessas de Deus encontram o seu "Sim" em Cristo (2 Coríntios 1.20), você não é apenas um receptor da graça — você é um "Amém" vivo e respirante à bondade d'Ele. Então, nesta noite, que seu coração seja esse Amém. Silencioso. Confiante. Em repouso.

O Eco do Sermão:

Lembre-se do mistério que meditamos no domingo: que Deus prendeu todos à desobediência para ter misericórdia de todos (Romanos 11.32). Deixe isso penetrar enquanto você fecha os olhos. O Deus que segura as estrelas também segura você. O Deus que permitiu um "não" para alguns, orquestrou um "SIM" cósmico para todos.

Então, nesta noite, não se preocupe com os ramos. Não se angustie com a enxertia. Descanse na raiz. A misericórdia d'Ele não cabe na nossa lógica pequena — e não é esse o ponto? É um amor selvagem, implacável, absurdamente generoso que te persegue até o travesseiro.

Um Toque de Humor:

E já que estamos em East London, deixa eu acrescentar: que a única coisa que "uive" esta noite seja o vento vindo do mar, e não os seus pensamentos. Que seu sono seja mais profundo do que os buracos da Oxford Street, e seus sonhos mais doces do que uma colherada do melhor sorvete de Gompo. E se você acordar no meio da madrugada, não comece a decifrar o mistério da predestinação — apenas sorria, vire-se e diga a Deus: "Confio em Ti, mas deixa essa resposta para de manhã."

O Amém:

Boa noite, amado(a) de KuGompo. A misericórdia é seu cobertor. A graça é sua guarda. E o "Sim" de Deus é a sua paz.

Durma bem. Você está seguro(a). Você é amado(a). Você faz parte do Mistério.

Amém.

Night Blessing Rainy Weather in English and Portuguese

 A Blessing for the Soggy-Hearted

Good evening, you shivering children of the sun.

Tonight, as you pull on your third pair of socks and listen to the relentless drumming of rain on the roof—the very rain you prayed for six months ago—remember that the God of the universe looks upon you not with the cold indifference of a weather front, but with the tender compassion of a Father.

For it is written: "As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him" (Psalm 103:13). And because you are children, He has sent the Spirit of His Son into your hearts, crying out, "Abba! Father!" (Galatians 4:6). Abba. Not "Meteorologist." Not "Climate Controller." Father.

So, here is your irony for the night: Your bones ache for the kiss of the sun, yet the One who holds the clouds is holding you closer than any summer heat ever could. You are tempted to grumble at the grey, but the grey is a sign of His mercy—water for a land that thirsts, even when you’ve had your fill of it. You wanted the warmth of His face; He is giving you the depth of His rain. It is not punishment; it is providence dressed in a wet coat.

And as we recall last Sunday’s sermon on Romans 11:25-32—that great and bewildering mystery—we are reminded that mercy is never fair. It is the rain that falls on the just and the unjust, and it is the mercy that has fallen on all of us, Jew and Gentile, South African and Brazilian, without distinction. St. Paul writes that God has consigned all to disobedience, that He might have mercy on all. All. Not just those with umbrellas. Not just those who prefer 25°C and a light breeze. All.

So here is your blessing:

May the cold seep into your bones only to remind you that the Spirit within you is a fire that no damp can quench.
May the endless grey skies teach you that the mystery of mercy does not depend on the forecast—it depends on the Father.
And may the rain that makes you sigh also make you laugh, for the Son will rise, and when He does, you will remember these soggy days as the very backdrop of His relentless, ridiculous, all-encompassing grace.

Sleep, child of the South. Sleep, child of the Tropics.
The rain is His. The mercy is yours. And the sun—oh, the sun—is already on its way, even now, burning bright behind the clouds of His loving, ironic, and wholly mysterious heart.

Good night. Stay dry in the shelter of the Most High.

Uma Bênção para os Corações Encharcados

Boa noite, seus filhos do sol que estão tremendo de frio.

Nesta noite, enquanto você calça o terceiro par de meias e escuta o tamborilar implacável da chuva no telhado — exatamente a chuva pela qual você rezou seis meses atrás —, lembre-se de que o Deus do universo olha para você não com a indiferença gelada de uma frente fria, mas com a compaixão terna de um Pai.

Pois está escrito: "Assim como um pai se compadece de seus filhos, o Senhor se compadece daqueles que o temem" (Salmo 103:13). E porque vocês são filhos, Ele enviou o Espírito de seu Filho aos seus corações, que clama: "Aba! Pai!" (Gálatas 4:6). Aba. Não "Meteorologista". Não "Controlador do Clima". Pai.

Então, aqui está a sua dose de ironia para a noite: Seus ossos doem pela saudade do beijo do sol, mas Aquele que segura as nuvens está segurando você mais perto do que qualquer calor de verão jamais poderia. Você está tentado a resmungar contra o cinza, mas o cinza é um sinal da misericórdia d'Ele — água para uma terra que tem sede, mesmo quando você já está cheio dela. Você queria o calor do Seu rosto; Ele está lhe dando a profundidade da Sua chuva. Não é castigo; é providência vestida de casaco molhado.

E, como lembramos do sermão de domingo passado sobre Romanos 11:25-32 — aquele grande e desconcertante mistério —, somos lembrados de que a misericórdia nunca é justa. Ela é a chuva que cai sobre justos e injustos, e é a misericórdia que caiu sobre todos nós, judeus e gentios, sul-africanos e brasileiros, sem distinção. São Paulo escreve que Deus entregou todos à desobediência, para que tivesse misericórdia de todos. Todos. Não apenas os que têm guarda-chuva. Não apenas os que preferem 25°C e uma brisa suave. Todos.

Portanto, aqui está a sua bênção:

Que o frio penetre em seus ossos apenas para lembrá-lo de que o Espírito dentro de você é um fogo que nenhuma umidade pode apagar.
Que os céus infinitamente cinzentos lhe ensinem que o mistério da misericórdia não depende da previsão do tempo — depende do Pai.
E que a chuva que faz você suspirar também o faça rir, pois o Sol vai nascer, e quando Ele nascer, você vai se lembrar desses dias encharcados como o próprio cenário da Sua graça incansável, ridícula e que abraça todas as coisas.

Durma, filho do Sul. Durma, filho dos Trópicos.
A chuva é d'Ele. A misericórdia é sua. E o sol — ah, o sol — já está a caminho, mesmo agora, queimando radiante atrás das nuvens do Seu coração amoroso, irônico e inteiramente misterioso.

Boa noite. Fique seco no abrigo do Altíssimo.

A merciful night blessing in English and Portuguese.

The Scandal of Rest

The light is failing, and the noise of the day fades into a hum. It’s a relief, honestly. The pressure to perform, to be counted among the sheep rather than the goats, is exhausting.

Lord, I remember Your word this morning: "Let me hear of your steadfast love in the morning, for in you I trust. Make me know the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul" (Psalm 143:8). It sounds so simple. But the way forward seems so often obscured by my own judgment—of myself and of others.

I’m not sure I even want to know the way. What if it leads to a place I don't want to go? To the edges, to the forgotten, to the ones I have carefully, religiously placed on the "other" side of the sheep-and-goat divide? You, in Matthew, remind me that You are the Shepherd who separates. But in John, Peter, in a moment of raw honesty, didn't say, "You are the most logical choice." He said, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life... we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God" (John 6:68-69). He stayed not because he understood, but because there was nowhere else to go.

And then there was Sunday’s sermon. Romans 11. That infuriating, glorious mystery. The final word is not our neat theology, but mercy for all. You have consigned all to disobedience—the proud, the humble, the saint, the sinner—so that You might have mercy on all. It’s a humbling truth. It strips me of my right to be offended, to keep score, to draw the line. It means the person I find most difficult to love is also swimming in the same ocean of mercy I am barely treading water in.

So tonight, in the quiet, I will lay down my heavy, self-righteous ledger. I cannot parse the mystery. I can only receive the mercy. And if it is for all, then it is for me, and it is for them, whoever them is.

Sleep, then, not as a sheep who has earned its rest, but as a beggar who has been given a feast. Rest in the scandalous, all-encompassing mercy that makes no sense to a world that loves to judge. May that unearned, unpredictable grace cradle your soul tonight. You are not judged, you are gathered. You are not exiled, you are held.

 

O escândalo do descanso

A luz está se apagando, e o barulho do dia se dissolve num zumbido. Que alívio, para ser sincero. A pressão de ter que performar, de ser contado entre as ovelhas e não entre os bodes, é exaustiva.

Senhor, lembro-me da Tua palavra esta manhã: "Faze-me ouvir a Tua misericórdia pela manhã, pois em Ti confio; faze-me saber o caminho que devo seguir, porque a Ti elevo a minha alma" (Salmo 143:8). Parece tão simples. Mas o caminho à frente parece tão obscurecido pelo meu próprio julgamento — o de mim mesmo e o dos outros.

Não tenho tanta certeza se quero saber o caminho. E se ele me levar a um lugar para onde não quero ir? Para as margens, para os esquecidos, para aqueles que eu, cuidadosa e religiosamente, coloquei do outro lado da divisão entre ovelhas e bodes? Tu, em Mateus, me lembras que és o Pastor que separa. Mas em João, Pedro, num momento de honestidade crua, não disse: "Tu és a escolha mais lógica". Ele disse: "Senhor, para quem iremos? Tu tens as palavras da vida eterna... nós temos crido e conhecido que Tu és o Santo de Deus" (João 6:68-69). Ele ficou não porque entendeu, mas porque não havia outro lugar para ir.

E então houve o sermão de domingo. Romanos 11. Aquele mistério infuriante e glorioso. A palavra final não é a nossa teologia arrumadinha, mas misericórdia para todos. Tu colocaste todos sob desobediência — os orgulhosos, os humildes, o santo, o pecador — para que pudesses ter misericórdia de todos. É uma verdade que humilha. Isso me despoja do meu direito de me ofender, de ficar guardando pontuação, de traçar a linha divisória. Significa que a pessoa que acho mais difícil de amar também está nadando no mesmo oceano de misericórdia em que mal estou boiando.

Então, nesta noite, no silêncio, vou deixar de lado meu pesado e farisaico livro de contas. Não posso decifrar o mistério. Só posso receber a misericórdia. E se é para todos, então é para mim, e é para eles, quem quer que eles sejam.

Durma, então, não como uma ovelha que mereceu seu descanso, mas como um mendigo que recebeu um banquete. Descanse na misericórdia escandalosa e incompreensível que não faz sentido para um mundo que adora julgar. Que essa graça imerecida e imprevisível embale sua alma esta noite. Você não está sendo julgado, você está sendo recolhido. Você não está exilado, você está sendo acolhido.

 

Night Blessing with a rain of mercy, in English and Portuguese.

A Night Blessing Over the Rain and the Mystery

As the cold settles and the rain taps its final rhythm against the glass, may you hear not the dreariness of the weather, but the drumbeat of a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.

Look up.
The skies may be gray, but they are not empty. For "The Lord has established His throne in the heavens, and His kingdom rules over all" (Psalm 103:19). This is your bedrock tonight. The rain does not fall by accident; the cold does not creep in without His knowledge. His sovereignty is not a harsh rule, but a warm canopy. Because His throne is fixed, your footing is sure—even when the ground is wet and slippery.

Look ahead.
You have walked through this day with the good humor of life—that sacred ability to smile at the weather, to laugh at the small absurdities, to find warmth in a cup of coffee or a kind word. That humor is not a distraction; it is a fruit of faith. It is the light-heartedness of a people who know how the story ends. For the King is coming, and "when the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the angels with Him, then He will sit on His glorious throne. Before Him will be gathered all the nations" (Matthew 25:31-32). Tonight, He is not separated from you. He is the Shepherd who already knows your name, already counts you among His own. The final separation is not your fear; the final gathering is your hope.

Look back.
You heard it in the sermon: The Mystery of Mercy for All (Romans 11:25-32). The cold rain reminds you of the hardness of winter, the stubbornness of the ground. But Paul speaks of a mystery: God has consigned all to disobedience, that He may have mercy on all. The rain is not a judgment; it is a baptism of the earth. The stubbornness of Israel was not the end; it was the doorway for the Gentiles. And your own stubborn heart? It is not a wall; it is a wound that only mercy can heal. God’s gifts and His call are irrevocable. He has not forgotten a single one of His children.

So tonight, rest in this threefold cord:

1. The Throne is established—so your anxiety is smaller than you think.
2. The King is coming—so your labor is not in vain, and your humor is holy.
3. The Mercy is for all—so the rain that falls on the just and the unjust is ultimately a rain of grace, watering the seed of resurrection.

Receive this blessing now:

May the cold remind you of God’s steadfastness—for ice and snow obey His word.
May the rain wash away your striving, and leave only His peace.
May the good humor of life be your shield, for a joyful heart is good medicine.
And when you lay your head down, may you sleep like one who is already gathered, already known, already loved—from the mystery of the ages, to the mercy of this very night.

Rest. For the Lord is King. And His mercy endures forever.

Amen.

Uma Bênção Noturna Sobre a Chuva e o Mistério

Enquanto o frio se instala e a chuva bate sua última cadência no vidro, que você ouça não a melancolia do tempo, mas o tamborilar de um Reino que não pode ser abalado.

Olhe para cima.
Os céus podem estar cinzentos, mas não estão vazios. Pois "O Senhor estabeleceu o seu trono nos céus, e o seu reino domina sobre tudo" (Salmo 103:19). Esta é a sua rocha firme nesta noite. A chuva não cai por acaso; o frio não se insinua sem o Seu conhecimento. A soberania de Deus não é um domínio severo, mas um dossel acolhedor. Porque o Seu trono está firme, os seus pés estão seguros — mesmo quando o chão está molhado e escorregadio.

Olhe adiante.
Você atravessou este dia com o bom humor da vida — essa capacidade sagrada de sorrir para o tempo, de rir das pequenas absurdidades, de encontrar calor em uma xícara de café ou em uma palavra gentil. Esse humor não é uma distração; é um fruto da fé. É a leveza de um povo que sabe como a história termina. Pois o Rei está voltando, e "quando o Filho do Homem vier em sua glória, e todos os anjos com ele, então se assentará no trono da sua glória. E todas as nações serão reunidas diante dele" (Mateus 25:31-32). Esta noite, Ele não está separado de você. Ele é o Pastor que já sabe o seu nome e já o conta entre os Seus. A separação final não é o seu medo; a reunião final é a sua esperança.

Olhe para trás.
Você ouviu no sermão: O Mistério da Misericórdia para Todos (Romanos 11.25-32). A chuva fria lembra a dureza do inverno, a teimosia do solo. Mas Paulo fala de um mistério: Deus consignou todos à desobediência, para que tivesse misericórdia de todos. A chuva não é um juízo; é um batismo da terra. A teimosia de Israel não foi o fim; foi a porta de entrada para os gentios. E o seu próprio coração teimoso? Não é um muro; é uma ferida que somente a misericórdia pode curar. Os dons e o chamado de Deus são irrevogáveis. Ele não se esqueceu de um único dos Seus filhos.

Portanto, esta noite descanse neste cordão de três dobras:

1. O Trono está estabelecido — então a sua ansiedade é menor do que você imagina.
2. O Rei está voltando — então o seu trabalho não é em vão, e o seu humor é santo.
3. A Misericórdia é para todos — então a chuva que cai sobre justos e injustos é, no fundo, uma chuva de graça, regando a semente da ressurreição.

Receba esta bênção agora:

Que o frio lhe lembre da fidelidade de Deus — pois o gelo e a neve obedecem à Sua palavra.
Que a chuva lave o seu esforço e lhe deixe apenas a Sua paz.
Que o bom humor da vida seja o seu escudo, pois o coração alegre é bom remédio.
E quando você deitar a cabeça, que durma como alguém que já foi reunido, já é conhecido, já é amado — desde o mistério dos séculos até a misericórdia desta noite.

Descanse. Pois o Senhor é Rei. E a Sua misericórdia dura para sempre.

Amém.

 

Sermon of the 10th Sunday os Trinity. Rm 11.25-32. 10th of August, 2026

 The Mystery of Mercy for All

10th Sunday after Trinity
Romans 11:25–32

Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ.

Why Me?

Every baptism invites us to wonder about something that is both beautiful and mysterious.

Today, as we gathered around the baptismal font, we watched God make a promise. He will place His name on a child and say, "You belong to me."

And if we're honest, that raises a question many of us have asked at one time or another:

Why me?

Why was I born into a family where I heard about Jesus, while millions have never heard His name? Why have I received baptism? Why has God been so patient with me, despite all my failures?

And then we look around the world. We see wars, poverty, natural disasters, families torn apart by violence, and people living without hope. We can't help asking, "Why them? Why not me?"

These are not new questions. Christians have wrestled with them for centuries.

In today's reading from Romans, Paul doesn't answer every question we have. Instead, he points us to something even greater—the mystery of God's mercy.

A Mystery Bigger Than We Can Understand

Paul begins by saying,

"I do not want you to be ignorant of this mystery."

When Paul uses the word mystery, he doesn't mean a puzzle waiting to be solved. He means something that no human being could ever have figured out unless God revealed it.

The Christians in Rome were mostly Gentiles—people who were not Jewish. Some had begun thinking that because many Jews rejected Jesus, God must have replaced Israel with them.

You can almost hear the temptation.

"We believed."

"They didn't."

"Maybe we're better."

Paul immediately stops that kind of thinking.

"Don't become proud."

Because that's exactly what grace destroys.

Paul explains that Israel has experienced a partial hardening, but only for a time. Through that, the Gospel spread throughout the nations, and one day God's saving plan for Israel will also be fulfilled.

It sounds complicated, but the point is surprisingly simple.

God is working a story far bigger than any of us can see.

Sometimes what looks like failure in God's kingdom turns out to be the very way He brings blessing.

The rejection of Jesus by many in Israel opened the door for the Gospel to reach people like us.

Who could ever have imagined that?

God's ways are often beyond our understanding—but they are never beyond His love.

We All Stand on the Same Ground

Then Paul says something that almost takes our breath away.

"For God has consigned all to disobedience so that He may have mercy on all."

At first those words sound unsettling.

Is Paul saying God causes people to sin?

No.

Scripture is clear that we are responsible for our own sin. We choose our own selfishness. We wander away from God by nature.

But God allows us to discover what life without Him really looks like.

Why?

Because people who think they are healthy never look for a doctor.

People who think they are righteous never look for a Saviour.

Only when we realise how deeply we need God's mercy do we stop pretending we can save ourselves.

Paul says that every one of us stands in exactly the same place.

Jew or Gentile.

Religious or not.

Rich or poor.

Young or old.

Pastor or visitor.

Every one of us is a sinner.

And every one of us needs exactly the same thing.

Mercy.

That means none of us has room for pride.

We cannot say, "God loves me because I'm better."

Or, "I've earned my place."

Or, "Those people are beyond hope."

No.

We all came through the very same door.

Grace.

Charles Spurgeon once observed that one of the greatest dangers to the human heart is self-righteousness—the idea that somehow we contribute to our own salvation.

Paul says exactly the opposite.

Everything begins with God's mercy.

Baptism Is God's Promise

That brings us to the baptism we celebrate today.

Paul writes,

"The gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable."

What a wonderful word.

Irrevocable.

It means God does not change His mind.

He doesn't wake up one morning and regret His promises.

He doesn't say, "I've decided to take my grace back."

When God calls, He means it.

When God promises, He keeps it.

That is exactly what happens in baptism.

Today, God isn't simply performing a ceremony.

He is making a promise.

He says,

"I know you completely.

I know every weakness.

I know every future failure.

And still I place My name upon you."

That's astonishing grace.

Someone might ask,

"But what happens when I sin again?"

The answer is not that baptism stops working.

The answer is that baptism continually points us back to Christ.

Martin Luther famously said that the Christian life is a daily return to baptism.

Every day we confess our sins.

Every day the old sinful nature is drowned again.

Every day we hear God's promise again:

"You belong to Me."

Our faith may sometimes become weak.

Our hearts may sometimes become cold.

But God's promise remains stronger than our weakness.

His calling is irrevocable.

Living as People Who Have Received Mercy

What difference should this make tomorrow morning?

First, it leaves no room for pride.

If everything we have comes from mercy, then there is nothing to boast about except Christ.

The ground is perfectly level at the foot of the cross.

Second, it gives us hope.

Perhaps someone you love has drifted away from the faith.

Perhaps you've prayed for years for a son, a daughter, a husband, a wife, or a friend.

Don't lose heart.

Paul reminds us that God is not finished with people simply because we cannot yet see what He is doing.

The same God who patiently pursued Israel is still pursuing people today.

Never stop praying.

Never stop hoping.

Finally, this fills us with worship.

Paul cannot talk about God's mercy for very long before he bursts into praise.

"Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!"

That is where theology should always lead us.

Not merely to bigger brains.

But to bigger hearts.

To wonder.

To gratitude.

To worship.

God's Final Word Is Mercy

As we gather around the baptismal font today, remember this.

God's final word is not condemnation.

It is mercy.

Not because sin doesn't matter.

But because Jesus has carried our sin to the cross.

God's mercy is not only for people who have everything together.

It is for sinners.

For doubters.

For people who struggle.

For people who have failed.

For people who know they cannot save themselves.

In other words—

It is for us.

Today God says once again,

"You are Mine."

Not because we deserved it.

Not because we earned it.

But because He is merciful.

May we leave this place with humble hearts.

May we treat others with the same mercy we ourselves have received.

And may we never stop giving thanks for the God whose gifts and calling are forever faithful.

To Him alone be all glory, now and forever.

Amen.

Prayer

Merciful Father, thank You for calling us by name and making us Your own. Keep us from pride and teach us to live each day in the joy of Your grace. Help us to trust Your promises even when we cannot understand Your ways. Bless this child who is baptised today, and remind each one of us that Your gifts and Your calling are never taken back. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.