Sermon by The Very Rev Chris Yaw, 9/6/2026
What to Do with the Fire Inside
Matthew 18:5–20 | Sunday, September 6, 2026 | The Very Rev Chris Yaw
St. David’s Episcopal Church, Southfield, MI
Thank you St. Matthew for that Gospel reading –
Or shall we call it “God’s memo from H.R.?”
But before we deal with that - I’d like to share a story about a friend who was born in the Middle East -
Right now his heart is currently breaking, and he doesn’t know what to do with the pieces.
When he looks at the news and sees bombs falling across the Middle East, he doesn’t just see abstract headlines or distant political strategy. He sees his childhood.
He sees the courtyard where his grandfather sat, the ancient olive trees his family walked beneath, the streets where he learned to walk—all pock-marked with chaos, even dust and rubble. The anger inside him is not a mild disagreement; it is a roaring, white-hot fire.
But if you were to look for him today, you wouldn't find him very easily.
You’d find him sitting alone in his living room with the blinds drawn.
He stays home. He avoids his friends. He turns off his phone.
When I asked him why, he looked at me with tired eyes and said,
"I’m afraid if I open my mouth, the anger will boil over. I’m afraid I’ll lose the friends. Nobody wants to carry this with me."
I have another friend whose heart breaks in a completely different direction, but with the same weight.
She cannot pass a suffering, abandoned animal without stopping.
Where most of us see a stray cat on the side of the road and keep driving, her chest physically aches.
She opens her door, brings them in, feeds them, and pays their vet bills.
But that visceral compassion has come at a massive cost.
It has strained her finances to the breaking point.
It has driven away roommates who couldn't live with the noise and chaos.
Her mercy is beautiful, but because she is carrying it entirely by herself, it is quietly burning inside of her.
Look closely at both of these friends, and you will see something deeply holy.
You will see a refusal to become numb.
You will see a refusal to look at suffering and simply shrug.
You will see the tragedy of unchanneled compassion:
When we carry the crushing weight of this world’s injustice in total isolation, our righteous rage turns inward into withdrawal, and our boundless mercy turns outward into burnout.
We care deeply, but we feel utterly helpless.
We wonder: Is there any place for this kind of intense, vocal passion in the kingdom of God? Or are we just supposed to sit down, be quiet, and keep the peace?
But this kind of compassion is not just a struggle to be endured –
It is also a holy part of God’s creation that points us toward bigger things – holy things – that are meant not to take us away from God – but toward God.
If you have ever felt that explosive anger at injustice, or that overwhelming urge to protect the defenseless, we are wise to remind ourselves of something foundational:
God felt it first.
Look at our first reading today from Exodus.
Why did God intervene in Egypt?
Because God heard the cries of the oppressed and felt divine compassion for them.
But God didn't just feel bad for Israel—God used that holy compassion to power the Exodus!
And notice how God directed that energy on the eve of the first Passover. God didn't tell each person to lock themselves in a dark room with a tub of ice cream and hide. God commanded: Gather in households.
And if a household was too small for a whole lamb, they were commanded to join with their nearest neighbor. (Basically, God invented the potluck right there in Egypt!)
God took their shared hope and fear, bound neighbors together in community, and channeled their compassion into a movement toward freedom.
Too often, I read the Gospels as if Jesus were a calm, detached philosopher walking through life with a mild smile.
But when I arrive at Matthew chapter 18, I encounter a Jesus who is visibly, passionately protective.
The chapter opens with the disciples asking a typical, self-serving, political question: "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?"
They want to know who gets the power, who gets the status, who gets the top seats.
And Jesus doesn't even answer them with words at first.
He walks over, grabs a little child—someone with zero social status, zero legal protection, zero power in the Roman world—and places that child right in the center of the room.
Then He looks these ambitious men in the eye and utters one of the most terrifying warnings in all of Scripture:
"If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea."
Do not miss the heat in those words.
Jesus is explicitly, fiercely angry at spiritual predators, corrupt systems, and powerful bullies who harm the vulnerable.
Right after this, He tells the story of a Shepherd who leaves ninety-nine safe, secure sheep to trek through the dangerous wilderness for just one lost, vulnerable sheep.
Why?
Because, Jesus says in verse 14, "Your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish."
Jesus validates the outrage my friend feels over destroyed homes.
He validates the fierce mercy my friend feels for a helpless animal.
He validates the sadness and empathy many of us bring into church over war, injustice, and God does not ask us to extinguish our holy passion for justice.
He planted it there.
As we sang in our sequence hymn Come, labor on, we are called not to stand idle on the harvest plain while enemy forces sow seeds of destruction.
God gave us passionate hearts so that even through feeblest agents—and believe me, some days I know I’m as feeble as they come—God’s righteous, loving will can be fulfilled in the world.
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Up next is where Jesus does something revolutionary.
He knows that unchanneled anger, left alone in a dark room, will eventually consume the person holding it.
He knows that individual mercy, left without boundaries, will crush the caregiver.
So right after He talks about the lost sheep, Jesus gives us our text for today—verses 15 through 20.
For centuries, churches have treated these verses like, as I mentioned, a cold, bureaucratic H-R policy for firing church members.
But in context, this is a blueprint for protecting the vulnerable and holding harm accountable.
Notice the execution strategy Jesus lays out when harm occurs:
"If your brother or sister sins against you, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you..." (v. 15)
First, He says: Name the harm directly.
Do not swallow your pain.
Do not pretend it didn't happen for the sake of an artificial, fake peace.
But do not broadcast it as gossip either.
Keep the circle small to protect the dignity of everyone involved.
"But if they will not listen, take one or two others along..." (v. 16)
Second, He says: Never carry the burden alone.
Bring witnesses. Why?
Because unaccountable power relies on isolation.
Bullies, abusers, and unjust systems always thrive when they can isolate the victim and turn the situation into a "he-said, she-said" debate.
Bringing two or three others isn't just about collecting evidence—it is about companionship in the work of justice.
It means saying to the injured party, “You do not have to stand in front of this threat by yourself anymore. We are standing with you.”
"If they still refuse to listen, tell it to the church..." (v. 17)
Finally, if the person or system refuses to stop causing harm, bring it into the light of the entire community.
Expose the injustice.
And if they still refuse to repent?
Treat them "as you would a Gentile or a tax collector."
We often think that means shunning them or throwing them out with hatred.
But how did Jesus treat Gentiles and tax collectors?
He loved them, He ate with them, but He set clear boundaries.
He recognized that the covenant bond of trust was broken.
He did not pretend things were fine.
Jesus is teaching us that true love demands firm boundaries.
You cannot have community without safety.
You cannot have reconciliation without repentance.
This is what St. Paul is getting at in our reading from Romans 13: "Owe no one anything, except to love one another... Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law."
Love is not a weak, passive feeling; it is active, protective goodness.
Paul tells us it’s time to "wake from sleep, lay aside the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light."
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This brings us to the most famous, and most misquoted, verse in the entire passage.
In verse 20, Jesus says: "For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them."
We usually quote this verse when church attendance is low on a snowy Sunday morning. "Well, there are only four of us here, but praise God, where two or three are gathered, He is with us!"
Or in the Episcopal Church there’s the tired joke – “Where 2 or more are gathered, you always find a fifth…”
But look at where Jesus places this promise.
He does not say it during a worship service.
He says it right in the middle of a hard, dangerous, uncomfortable conversation about confronting injustice and restoring broken human beings.
Jesus is saying: When you gather the courage to step out of your solitary isolation... when you stop carrying the world's pain all by yourself... when you grab two or three brothers and sisters and say,
"We are going to stand up for this vulnerable person, we are going to name this harm, and we are going to demand truth and safety"—God’s authority and presence meet you right there in the struggle.
You do not have to fix the Middle East by yourself in your living room with the blinds down.
You do not have to rescue every suffering creature on earth until you are broke, homeless, and exhausted.
You do not have to go through life carrying the debilitating weight of injustice, violence, and suffering so that you can never smile again.
Individual rage isolates us.
But collective, structured, gospel-centered action transforms our private grief into a shield for the weak.
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To everyone who is sitting in the dark, paralyzed by anger over a destroyed homeland: Jesus sees your heart.
God gave you that deep love for your people not to burn you up, but to light a path.
Bring your outrage out into the light.
Bring it to two or three others who love you. Let your passion become a shared prayer, a collective witness, and an organized force for relief and peace.
To all who are drowning in the cost of your own mercy: God gave you that tender heart because the world desperately needs extra mercy.
But God never intended for you to be a solo hero.
Let this community surround you and share the load, so your divine compassion can build sustainable structures of care rather than burning your life down.
And to all of us here at St. David's who look at a broken world and feel our hearts burning: thank God for the burn!
Do not shut it down.
Do not numb yourselves.
Put on the armor of light.
Recognize your anger and your empathy for what they truly are—God's fuel, placed in your heart to drive good into the world.
Find your two or three.
Join hands.
Channel your passion into love, justice, and protection.
When we do this, we can sing our closing hymn, Blessed Assurance, as our confident battle cry:
"This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long."
We have a blessed assurance because when we use God's gifts for God's good, we are never alone.
For when we gather in His name—not just to sing songs, but to do the hard, beautiful, sacred work of love—the living Christ steps into the room, stands beside us, and whispers: "I gave you this heart for a reason. Now let's go do some good."
AMEN.