Sermon by The Very Rev Chris Yaw, 10/11/2026
Are You All In?
October 11, 2026 | Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost
Exodus 32:1–14 | Psalm 106 | Philippians 4:1–9 | Matthew 22:1–14
The Very Rev. Chris Yaw, Preaching
I've noticed something about myself over the years.
I really like the idea of “commitment.”
But it's the actual “committing” that sometimes gives me trouble.
Take exercise, for example.
I love the idea of being physically fit.
Strong, healthy, energetic.
I love the idea of having the body of a 30-year-old.
It's just that I'd prefer to accomplish all this without getting up early, breaking a sweat, or giving up ice cream.
Is that really so unreasonable?
Or consider marriage.
I love having someone who loves me unconditionally, stands beside me through thick and thin, and shares the joys and sorrows of life.
But then I discover that marriage also involves sharing the television remote, negotiating the thermostat, and having detailed conversations about how to load the dishwasher correctly.
Who knew love could be so demanding?
Apparently, every wonderful thing in life comes with a few responsibilities.
And I've discovered that my relationship with God isn't all that different.
Because I love knowing that I'm loved.
I love knowing that I'm forgiven.
I love being part of a community like St. David's, where we believe goodness, mercy, love, and radical acceptance really do have the final word.
And I especially love knowing that God is always there for me.
God, bless my plans.
Protect my family.
Forgive my mistakes.
And, if it's not too much trouble, could you arrange for a decent parking space at Costco?
But then something happens.
God begins nudging me in directions I hadn't anticipated.
Toward a conversation I've been avoiding.
Toward a generosity that stretches me.
Toward a different way of thinking about someone I don't particularly like.
And suddenly I discover that following Jesus might involve more than I originally imagined.
It's like signing up for a gym membership and discovering that, apparently, I'm expected to go.
I thought paying the monthly fee was enough!
And this brings me to our rather extraordinary Gospel this morning.
Jesus tells a story about a great wedding celebration thrown by a king for his son.
The first part is a severe judgment, filled with descriptive hyperbole, aimed at those who had power but weren't using it as God intended.
But then the story takes a remarkable twist.
The king decides to invite everybody.
Everybody!
The good and the bad.
The respectable and the disreputable.
Nobody has to prove they're worthy.
Nobody has to submit a résumé or pass a theological examination.
The invitation is simply to come.
And I think that's where I need to begin this morning.
Not with what God demands of me, but with what God offers me.
Before God asks me to change, God loves me.
Before God asks me to serve, God welcomes me.
Before God asks me to give, God gives to me.
None of those gifts are based on performance – they’re based on the remarkable nature of God.
That's grace.
And grace is always where the Christian story begins.
But then Jesus introduces a surprising twist.
The king notices one guest who isn't wearing a wedding garment, and things take a rather dramatic turn.
Now, I can sympathize with the guy.
After all, he was invited in off the street!
Nobody told him he needed a tuxedo!
And if there's one thing I've learned after years of being an Episcopalian, it's that wearing the wrong garment can be a serious ecclesiastical offense.
But Jesus isn't really talking about clothing.
He's talking about what happens when I accept God's invitation to a new life.##
There’s a rather curious correlation I find in Paul’s letter to the Romans:
He says to "Clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ."
I love that image.
Put Jesus on.
Not just on Sunday morning, when I'm wearing my clerical collar and theoretically on my best behavior.
But when I'm driving.
Shopping.
Dealing with someone who irritates me.
When I'm scrolling through Facebook and somebody posts something so ridiculous that my fingers are already composing a response before my better judgment wakes up.
Maybe especially then.
Because following Jesus isn't simply about believing certain things.
It's about allowing Christ's love to reshape how I live.##
And that's where our first reading becomes interesting.
In Exodus, Moses has gone up the mountain, and the Israelites are getting impatient.
They're frightened and uncertain.
They've been delivered from slavery but haven't yet learned how to live in freedom.
So they take their gold jewelry, melt it down, and make a golden calf.
An idol they can see, touch, and control.
And then they declare that this is the god who brought them out of Egypt.
Think about that.
They've literally walked through the parted waters of the Red Sea…
been miraculously fed with bread and quail in the wilderness…
and experienced the visceral presence and protection of God!
And now they're worshiping a farm animal made out of earrings.
It's astonishing.
But before I get too judgmental, I have to admit I've made a few golden calves myself.
Mine just aren't shaped like cows.
Sometimes they're shaped like security.
Success.
Money.
The need to be admired… or the desire to be right.
And sometimes my golden calf is simply the belief that I ought to control everything.
I like having a plan.
I like knowing what's coming.
And when life becomes uncertain, I can find myself grasping for anything that promises security.
The Israelites wanted a god they could manage.
A god who wouldn't surprise them or ask them to walk into an uncertain future.
And sometimes that's exactly what I want.
A God who agrees with me.
Who shares my priorities.
Who approves my decisions.##
But I've learned something.
If my god agrees with me about absolutely everything, there's a good chance I'm not worshiping God:
I'm worshiping myself.
And that's a rather small god.##
But there's another wonderful detail in Exodus.
When God becomes angry with the Israelites, Moses intervenes.
He pleads for mercy.
He reminds God of the covenant.
And the text says God changes course.
Even in a story about rebellion and idolatry, mercy interrupts judgment.
Moses stands in the breach, advocating for people who have made terrible mistakes.
And perhaps that's another picture of what it means to put on Christ.
Standing up for vulnerable people.
Refusing to give up on someone others have written off.
Speaking up when silence would be easier.
It's not always comfortable, but it's part of the life God invites us into.##
And then we come to Philippians, where Paul gets wonderfully practical:
If I'm supposed to put on Christ, what does that actually look like?
Paul says, "Rejoice in the Lord always."
"Let your gentleness be known to everyone."
Bring your concerns to God in prayer.
Focus on whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, and worthy of praise.
Notice Paul doesn't say, "Make sure you have all the correct theological opinions."
He doesn't say, "Memorize the Thirty-Nine Articles."
Or, "Learn the difference between a cope and a chasuble."
No. Paul talks about how we treat people, what we think about, and how we behave.
He even names two women in the congregation who apparently aren't getting along: Euodia and Syntyche.
Imagine having your disagreement with another church member preserved in Holy Scripture for two thousand years:
One argument at coffee hour, and suddenly your name is being read aloud in churches around the world until the end of time…
But Paul doesn't ask the congregation to choose sides.
He asks them to help these women find unity.
Because Christian faith isn't just about my private relationship with God.
It's about how I live with other people.
And this is where I find the Gospel especially challenging.##
The Franciscan theologian Richard Rohr writes about the difference between the false self and the true self.
The false self is the identity we construct around accomplishments, possessions, status, and control.
The true self is who we are in God.
Beloved. Accepted. Connected. Free.
The spiritual journey involves letting go of the false self so that the true self can emerge.
Which sounds wonderful until I discover that some things God wants me to release are things I've grown rather attached to.
My judgments.
My resentments.
My assumptions.
My need for approval.
My conviction that my way is generally the best way.
Apparently, I have quite a wardrobe of old clothes.
And perhaps that's part of Jesus' point.
I can't fully embrace the new garment while clinging to everything that keeps me from becoming the person God created me to be.
Most of this transformation doesn't happen in dramatic moments.
It happens when I choose patience instead of irritation.
When I listen instead of interrupting.
When I admit I'm wrong.
When I offer forgiveness or choose compassion over convenience.
Nobody is likely to write a biography about the afternoon I managed not to lose my temper.
But these may be precisely the moments when Christ is taking shape in me.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer warned about "cheap grace," grace without discipleship or transformation.
It's possible to turn God's forgiveness into an excuse for never changing.
But grace isn't simply permission to stay put.
Grace is the power to begin again.
And again.
And again.
I don't believe God stands over us with a clipboard evaluating our spiritual performance.
We already have God's love.
We already have God's invitation.
The question is what that love might make possible.
What might happen if I really trusted that I was loved?
Would I be less defensive?
More forgiving?
More generous?
Would I be more courageous in standing up for justice?..
..Less interested in protecting my little kingdom and more interested in helping build God's?
I suspect I would.
And perhaps that's what being “all in” really means.
That’s the title and challenge of today’s sermon – as it reflects the question this man without the wedding garment may have been asking:
“Am I All In?
Asking not simply, "What do I want?"
But, "What does love require of me?"
Not simply, "What's best for me?"
But, "What's best for us?"
At the wedding banquet I love that Jesus describes God's kingdom as a feast.
Not a courtroom.
Not an examination.
Not a performance review.
A feast!
A celebration where people who might never otherwise sit together discover that they belong to one another.
And isn't that what we celebrate every Sunday at this altar?
We come with our doubts, fears, failures, and unfinished lives.
Perhaps with a few golden calves tucked discreetly into our pockets.
And God welcomes us.
God feeds us.
God reminds us that we belong.
But we're also being formed into a community, nourished so that we can nourish others.
We're receiving Christ's love so we can carry it into a world that desperately needs it.
Not a Christianity obsessed with winning arguments or controlling other people's lives.
But a Christianity that looks and acts like Jesus.
That washes feet.
Welcomes strangers.
Protects the vulnerable.
Challenges injustice.
Forgives enemies.
That's the wedding garment.
That's what it means to put on Christ.
So here's a practical invitation.
Sometime this week, think about one area of your life where God might be inviting you to grow.
Not ten... Not a complete spiritual renovation.
Just one.
Perhaps a relationship that needs healing.
A conversation you've avoided.
A habit you'd like to change.
An opportunity to serve.
And ask yourself:
What would it look like to put on Christ here?
What would love require?
Then take one step.
Because discipleship is rarely one enormous decision.
It's a thousand small decisions, day after day, through which God's love gradually changes us.
Friends, the invitation has already gone out.
The banquet is ready.
The table is set.
And the doors are open.
For everybody.
For you.
For me.
For the people we love and those we find difficult to love.
And we’re going!
The question isn't whether we've earned our place.
The question is whether we're willing to let the love we receive here transform the lives we lead beyond these doors.
Because grace gets us into the banquet.
And it’s grace that also gives us a new way to live.
The wedding garment isn't a costume we put on to impress God.
It's the life of Christ taking shape within us.
Will we put it on?
Are we all in?
So when you come forward for Communion, remember that you're receiving an invitation.
To become more loving.
More generous.
More courageous.
More forgiving.
To become the person God created you to be.
And I've been asking myself a question this week.
Not whether I'm good enough.
Not whether I've earned God's approval.
But how much of this extraordinary life God offers I'm willing to embrace.
Am I all in?
Am I willing to let God's love change me?
That's a question worth taking home.
Not as a burden or a source of guilt.
But as an invitation.
Because here's the beautiful thing:
God is already all in on us.
God has been all in from the beginning.
And in Jesus, God has shown us how far that love will go.
All the way to the cross.
And beyond, to resurrection, new life, and a kingdom where love has the final word.
So come to the table.
Receive the grace.
Put on Christ.
And together let’s live it like we mean it.
Amen.