<font color='black' size='4' face='Times New Roman, Times, serif'><font color="#33cc00" face="Microsoft Sans Serif"><strong><b><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Free Resource from
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<div align="center"><b><font size="4">Preaching Matthew 11:
16-19, 25-30</font></b></div>
<div align="justify"><em></em></div>
<div align="justify"><em><font size="4">Woe to you,
Chorazin! woe to you, Bethsaida!…And for you,
Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? You shall
be brought down to Hades. </font></em></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Sometimes Matthew sounds
like such a Monday morning quarterback, doesn’t he?</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">We are in the thick of a
long string of judgment texts, here, and I can
appreciate that Matthew had his work cut out for him;
really, I can. There were people to teach and
doctrines to reconcile. There were to sins to expose
and scores to settle. There were <em>agendas</em>, no
matter where you looked. Matthew must have felt like
he was walking on eggshells, which is no way to win a
football game. If his tone gets a little smarmy and
I-told-you-so in places, perhaps we can forgive him
for that; telling a story in retrospect, without <em>any
</em>commentary at all, is hard for an evangelist to
do.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">There is still the
matter of all these <em>Woes!</em> to preach.
Historical context and empathy only takes us so far;
you can’t <em>preach </em>context. Not instead of
gospel, anyway. So where to go? </font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Look to the end of this
passage. Did you notice what comes right on the heels
of the <em>Woes!</em> section? No sooner does Jesus
finish lambasting those high-and-mighty,
good-for-nothing towns than he abruptly turns around
and offers one of the gentlest words in scripture. </font></div>
<em>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Come to me, all who
labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am
gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest
for your souls. </font></div>
</em>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Does this strike anyone
else as curious?! Righteous indignation followed by
warm invitation. Zealous anger paired with tender
comfort. Judgment—and grace. Even for the cities that
deserve it least. Even for those who rejected Jesus
himself.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">I don’t think the
placement is accidental, on Matthew’s part; these
things rarely are. What an astonishing picture of
Jesus’ depth of love and spirit that he can extend
such grace to those who hurt and betrayed him most.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">As I reflected on this,
I was reminded of something that happened to me a few
years ago.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Everyone knows that our
Roman Catholic sisters and brothers have lived through
a very difficult period, as more and more priests were
brought up on charges of sexual abuse of children.
Hardly a year goes by that we do not read of yet
another trial, with its share of secrets, cover-ups,
and wrecked lives. As Christians, we surely join in
prayer for all those who have suffered at the hands of
priests. We pray for their healing, and for the
healing of the church that betrayed them. We pray for
new life and truth to renew God’s people.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">But the priests
themselves? Well. That’s a touchier subject. Praying
for those who have damaged the littlest of these
verges on the unthinkable, for some of us; the pain is
just too deep.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">For years I thought
about the crisis in the Roman Catholic Church as
something that was happening to the family next door.
I could bring the equivalent of a meal, a hug, a
shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen, but it wasn’t
really wasn’t <em>mine</em>, any more than my
neighbor’s diagnosis of cancer is mine. Then one
morning I opened <em>The New York Times </em>and
read a first page article about a number of priests
who had been arrested in my home state. I scanned the
list, not really expecting to see a name I
recognized—and went numb. There he was: Father M. The
priest in my hometown. The priest of all my Catholic
friends. The priest who presided over the first
funeral I ever attended, of a ten-year-old classmate.
The priest who presided over the many funerals I
attended in high school, of friends killed in car
accidents. The priest who ministered to my best friend
when her father died, our senior year. The priest we
all loved. The priest the whole town loved. The priest
who stood for everything good and right and who even
supported women in ministry, which made an impression
on me. He was <em>there</em>, on the front page: a
name followed by a list of accusations. How could this
be? How?</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Woe to you, Father M.
Woe to you and all those who brought hell to these
little ones. Woe; oh, woe. You shall be brought down
to Hades. </font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">I thought about how the
list of accusers probably contained people I knew. I
thought about how the abuse, if it happened, was
probably going on while we were growing up. This
wasn’t happening to the family next door, anymore.
This was <em>my </em>family. I might never know the
extent of the damage.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Then I remembered
something else. At every Catholic funeral I attended
in those years, Father M. always preached from the
same text: <em>this </em>text. <em>Come to me, all
who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you
rest. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.</em></font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">It was an amazing
sermon—the first sermon I truly remember, actually.
The church would be packed, since these were the
funerals of children and young people, and Father M.
would come down from the pulpit and speak straight to
us. "How can this yoke be easy?" he would ask with
quiet intensity and love. "How can Jesus say this to
us, today of all days? Our hearts are broken. We can’t
carry <em>anything</em>. But he promises us—I don’t
know how, but he does—that we will find rest. We will
find rest in him. He has already taken on the yoke for
us."</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Woe to you, Chorazin.
Woe to you, Bethsaida. Woe to you who bring hell to
these little ones and so to us all.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">But the promise is for
all of us, even the damned: We will find rest for our
souls. Somehow. Some day. In spite of the words we
preach and cannot live.</font></div>
<div align="justify"><font size="4">Anna Carter Florence</font></div>
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