Two Anniversaries

A sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 19
Foundation Day
September 13, 2026, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Genesis 50:15-21; Psalm 103:(1-7), 8-13; Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35

Today we commemorate two anniversaries. The first is the 100th birthday of our current building. St. Luke’s parish has been present in this community for 160 years, and for the last 100, generations of the faithful have prayed here. We have worshiped our Lord; we have heard the Word and received the Sacraments; we have celebrated the triumphs of life; we have sealed our vows; we have observed our grief and buried our beloved dead. As the choir’s communion anthem will say today, “Hallowed this dwelling where the Lord abideth, this is none other than the gate of heaven; strangers and pilgrims, seeking homes eternal, pass through its portals.” But if I’m honest today, another anniversary this weekend presses on my mind: the 25th anniversary of the 9/11 terror attacks. I was in fifth grade in Mrs. Boggs’s classroom and I was terrified. My friend and mentor the Rev. Stuart Hoke was a priest at Trinity Church, New York City, at the time. He ran down the street carrying two infants from their day care program in his arms as the towers fell, and as he ran, he prayed. He was terrified, too. 

It’s funny, isn’t it? Our bodies remember tragedies. I find myself growing tense this time of year. I assume it is 9/11. Our bodies remember the grief. We carry worry and anxiety, and we forget to breathe. We find ourselves a little bit like the brothers of Joseph today. It has been years since their betrayal of their brother. They have apologized; he has forgiven them. And yet now, after their father has died, they hatch a plan just to make sure. And Joseph weeps. He weeps because they do not feel forgiven. He weeps, perhaps, because on some days he has to forgive all over again. No doubt his body still bore the scars of shackles. 

Or what about Peter today? I wonder why he asks his question about forgiveness. He asks Jesus, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” This does not sound like a rhetorical question. It sounds like Peter has something–or someone–in mind. Perhaps Peter bore some scars, too. Maybe not scars from shackles like Joseph, but scars nonetheless of past hurts. We all carry those. Regrets, griefs, sorrows, grudges. And sometimes we can’t seem to shake them. Our bodies remember. Our souls yearn for true liberty. We can think true liberty comes from revenge. Then, we tell ourselves, we will be able to rest easy. It’s not true. True liberty comes only from forgiveness. It’s true every time. 

Jesus answers Peter today, and it’s not the answer we would always like to hear. It is difficult to hear. Not seven times, but seventy-seven times. I still remember the first time I learned about this in Sunday school. My brother and I are close in age, and as boys, we were constantly fighting. So I decided to start counting the number of times I had to forgive him in a single day–the number of times I had to let something slide, the number of times I had to let something wash off of me and just move on. One, two, three… I remember making it to 25 or so before I lost count. And that’s the point. We forgive, and forgive, and forgive again. If we have to count, we haven’t learned what Jesus means yet. 

And then Jesus tells us this parable. A man is forgiven an exorbitant sum, roughly the equal to 150,000 years of work. It’s impossible to pay off, so the merciful king forgives it. And in response this man refuses to forgive a debt owed to him. For the average worker in the US today, 100 denarii is about $20,000. It’s nothing compared to the 150,000 years of work, but it hurts. It’s big enough. Then Jesus hits us with the teaching: We will face a similar fate if we do not forgive as we have been forgiven. 

The Church is called to be a community of mercy and forgiveness. If we can’t forgive here, if we cannot show mercy here, the world has no hope. We do not forgive and show mercy because we are extra nice, good people. We do so because we have been commanded by our Lord. It is our duty. Sometimes it is going to hurt. Sometimes it is going to require sacrifice. Sometimes it’s going to feel like the seventy-seven times standard is in the rear view mirror. Brothers and sisters in Christ, servants of the Most High God: Gird up your loins. Forgive anyway. Show mercy anyway. Be like Jesus anyway. That’s what the Church is called to do. That’s who the Church is called to be. 

This is where the two anniversaries come in. Someone told me this past week of a friend whose birthday is September 11. She can’t celebrate it on that day anymore. There’s too much heartache, too much tragedy, too many memories. I can understand that. And today might feel a little odd to some: Remembering 9/11 twenty-five years on and celebrating a 100th birthday. But I think it’s fitting the two go together. 

For the truth is, the world is full of pain and heartache. There is brokenness around and within us. If anything, this 25th anniversary reminds us of that. There is much we cannot control in this world; much that is in need of healing. And that’s the very world we have been sent into. Like sheep into the midst of wolves, we do not go into the world with our dukes up, with every problem solved, or with the prideful arrogance of the strong. We go into the world with mercy, with forgiveness. We go into the world welcoming the weak, without judgment. We do not go into the world trying to hold on to everything, for we are held by the Lord of all life, and we belong to him alone. We go into the world looking to the cross and resurrection–looking to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ alone, and pointing to him and his way of love. 

We have worshiped in this building for 100 years. We have been in Hot Springs for 160 years. In that time the world has gone to war and economies have collapsed. Plague has attacked and divisions have festered. Nation has risen against nation, brother against brother. And we have prayed. We have shown mercy. We have welcomed the weak and the forgotten. We have forgiven as we have been forgiven. We have loved as we have been loved. 

Should the Lord tarry, the next 100 or 160 years will see the same. There will be war and violence and things we cannot control. There will be plague and pestilence. And we will pray. We will show mercy. We will welcome the weak and the forgotten. We will forgive as we have been forgiven. We will love as we have been loved. For we have been commanded to do so by our Lord. And by God’s grace, and only by his grace, we will hear: well done, good and faithful servants.