Sermon by The Very Rev Chris Yaw, 7/5/2026
Hope for an Unfinished Nation
Pentecost 6 | 5 July, 2026 | St. David’s Episcopal Church, Southfield, MI
The Very Rev. Chris Yaw
Happy 250th Fourth of July!
It’s a joy to be here this morning with you as we commemorate the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
I want to give a special nod to a long-time servant of the Church, Jim Kenning. Jim was actually there at the time, but, humble as he is, he chose to let everyone else sign first… we’ll have a declaration of our own just for you later in our service, Jim.
But let’s face it—for many people this weekend hasn't exactly been a celebration of eye-popping fireworks and patriotic pop songs that fill every single heart with unbridled, uncomplicated enthusiasm.
According to recent data from the Pew Research Center, nearly 70% of Americans say they are dissatisfied with the direction of our country.
In times like these, trying to muster up pure, uncritical celebration can feel a bit like trying to do the Macarena at a funeral.
As we know, America is beautiful, complicated, and unfinished.
On this patriotic weekend, we have to look honestly at our reality:
However, I have not come to preach this morning about the shortcomings of our democracy.
I have come to preach about the Gospel—which, not surprisingly, has something profound to say about this.
I want to look at the hope of the Gospel, whose core principles of fairness, respect, and service to the vulnerable are not just the ways we redeem our own souls, but the ways we redeem a nation.
Through this lens, we can celebrate extraordinary freedoms while simultaneously acknowledging our unfinished work.
That is not cynicism.
That is honesty.
And Christians ought to be the most honest people in the room.
We worship a Savior who never confused loving someone with pretending they were perfect.
Jesus loved people enough to tell them the truth.
Which means loving our country doesn't mean pretending it has no flaws.
It means loving our country enough to want it to become its very best self.
It means loving our country enough to fight for the fulfillment of its highest ideals.
The freedoms we enjoy were not simply handed down; they were won.
And we have many more to win.##
Anniversaries like this 250th milestone are more than just birthday parties.
They are mirrors.
They invite us to ask not simply, "What have we accomplished?"
But rather, "Who are we becoming?"
The hope of the Gospel is that we can become better—that our best days are not behind us, but ahead of us.
And that transformation begins as each one of us draws nearer to the God who calls us.
That’s why we come to church: to hear God speaking, to hear God asking questions.
And on a Fourth of July weekend, the question God asks is not simply,
"What kind of nation do you want?" but,
"What kind of people are you becoming?"
That question sits quietly underneath every single one of today's scripture readings.
In Genesis, we see a union built on providence—a God-ordained meeting between Isaac and Rebekah.
This community wasn't built on military might or political alliance; it was built on God’s gentle leading and a simple, humble trust.
But building a community on trust is hard because we are fractured people.
This is exactly what Paul wrestles with in his letter to the Romans, giving us one of the most honest confessions ever written:
"I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do."
Has anyone here ever experienced that?
You lose your temper... again.
You gossip... again.
You judge someone... again.
You promise yourself this time will be different, and then Tuesday rolls around.
Paul reminds us that the greatest struggle we face is not between Republicans and Democrats.
It’s not between liberals and conservatives, or America and her adversaries.
The greatest battle is fought inside the human heart.
And it is right into that internal war zone that Jesus speaks these astonishing words:
"Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."
Notice what Jesus does not say.
He doesn't promise perfect governments, flawless economies, or perfect neighbors.
He offers something much deeper: real rest for exhausted souls.
Because tired souls make frightened people.
Frightened people become angry people.
Angry people become divided people.
And divided people build divided nations.
Jesus begins his healing work somewhere much closer to home.
He begins with the human heart.##
Years ago, I built a sandcastle with my kids on the shores of Lake Huron.
It was magnificent—complete with moats, towers, and little shells decorating the walls.
Frankly, it deserved historical landmark status.
But the next morning?
It was entirely gone.
The lake had reclaimed every ounce of it.
I wasn't surprised, because sand isn't meant to carry permanent things.
If you want something to last, you need bedrock.
The same is true for nations.
Every society longs for justice, peace, and opportunity.
But those things do not simply appear because they are written into a constitution or proclaimed in a speech.
Those things are fruits.
The roots run much deeper.
The foundation of any healthy society rests on ordinary people who choose honesty over deceit,
forgiveness over revenge,
generosity over greed,
service over self-interest, and
humility over arrogance.
Those are not political values; they are Gospel values.
And here is the wonderful surprise:
governments cannot manufacture them.
Laws can restrain evil,
but they cannot create virtue.
Only transformed people can create transformed communities.
That is why Jesus spent so little time trying to seize political power.
Instead, he changed fishermen, tax collectors, women, children, Roman soldiers, and religious leaders.
One heart at a time.
One life at a time.
One village at a time.
Christianity has always worked from the inside out.
Abraham Lincoln once famously appealed to "the better angels of our nature."
I have always loved that phrase because, as Christians, we actually believe those better angels exist.
Not because humanity is naturally perfect, but because the Holy Spirit keeps whispering a better possibility into our hearts.
When resentment says, "Get even,"
the Spirit whispers, "Forgive."
When fear says, "Protect only your own,"
the Spirit whispers, "Love your neighbor."
When despair says, "Nothing will ever change,"
the Spirit whispers, "Behold, I am making all things new."
That is the Kingdom of God breaking into history.
But there is a danger here.
Sometimes, we mistake the structures of religion for the actual practice of discipleship.
Someone once said that God is the moon, and spirituality is the finger pointing toward the moon.
Religion becomes dangerous whenever we start worshipping the finger instead of the reality it points to.
Church attendance is not the moon.
Political ideology is not the moon.
The Book of Common Prayer is not the moon.
Even our finest theology isn't the moon.
Jesus is the moon.
Everything else exists only to point toward him.
If we forget that, we become people who argue bitterly over symbols while completely forgetting the reality they represent.
Jesus never invited anyone merely to become religious; he invited us into a movement of transformed lives.
And that transformation always begins with humility.
In today's Gospel, Jesus thanks the Father because divine truth has been hidden from the wise and revealed to little children.
Why children?
Because children are teachable.
They are curious.
They know they don't know everything.
There's an old story about a two-year-old boy whose parents had just brought home a newborn baby sister.
The little boy kept begging his parents to let him be alone in the room with the baby.
His parents were understandably nervous, but they finally agreed.
They closed the door but left it cracked just enough to peek inside.
They watched their toddler crawl up to the crib, lean over the bars, and whisper to his newborn sister:
"Tell me quickly... where did you come from? Who made you? Because I'm beginning to forget."
Deep inside of us, we still have that child.
We are still close enough to wonder, still humble enough to ask, still aware that there are mysteries much bigger than ourselves.
But growing older can often be a process of forgetting.
We forget wonder.
We forget gratitude.
We forget that every single human being bears the image of God, and that we ultimately belong to one another.
Perhaps this weekend, Jesus is inviting us to remember.
Because here is the baseline truth: we cannot heal a divided country while remaining divided inside ourselves.
If I carry bitterness, I will spread bitterness.
If I carry outrage, I will transmit outrage.
As Father Richard Rohr frequently reminds us, if we do not transform our suffering, we will inevitably transmit it.
Pain that isn't healed simply becomes pain we hand off to someone else.
Families know that.
Churches know that.
Countries know that.
Which brings me back to America.
I remain deeply hopeful.
Not because I imagine our problems are small, and not because I believe a single election or one political party possesses all wisdom.
I am hopeful because I have seen ordinary people changed by extraordinary grace.
I've watched people forgive seemingly impossible offenses. I
've watched churches feed hungry families.
I've watched strangers become lifelong friends.
I've watched hearts repent, enemies reconcile, and people discover joy again long after they thought it had disappeared forever.
Those moments don't make the headlines, but they are miracles.
And those are the miracles that build civilizations—one soul, one neighborhood, one congregation at a time.
It isn't just the occasional way change happens; it is the only way it happens.
Friends, this nation doesn't simply need better politicians;
it needs better neighbors. I
t needs people who tell the truth, keep their promises, and refuse to demonize those who disagree.
It needs people who care for the poor, welcome the stranger, visit the lonely, and practice mercy even when mercy feels expensive.
In other words, our nation needs saints.
And that is where you and I come in.
You may never write federal legislation.
You may never sit on the Supreme Court or occupy the Oval Office.
But every single one of us will directly influence someone's life this week.
The cashier,
the grandchild,
the difficult coworker,
the lonely neighbor,
the immigrant,
the veteran,
the person standing right behind you in line.
The future of a nation has always depended upon millions of ordinary acts of extraordinary goodness.
The Kingdom of God has always worked like that.
It influences the world quietly, patiently, and faithfully—like salt, like yeast, like a seed growing in the night.
So, celebrate this weekend.
Wave the flag, enjoy the hot dogs, watch the fireworks, and give profound thanks for the remarkable freedoms we enjoy.
But remember something even greater: your deepest citizenship is not American.
It is heavenly.
Your highest allegiance is not to an elephant or a donkey. It is to the Lamb.
And because you belong to Christ, you are truly free.
Free to love when others hate.
Free to hope when others despair.
Free to forgive when others retaliate.
Free to build up instead of merely criticizing.
You are free to become the kind of people upon whom every flourishing nation ultimately depends.
So go from here, dear saints, with a renewed faith in the God who lives within you—reminding you of your potential, inviting you to see new possibilities, and promising never, ever to leave you to do it on your own.
Amen.