September 13, 2026, The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Today feels a little like crossing the Red Sea.

Not because water separates us from where we have been, but because returning matters. After summer’s quieter rhythms—vacations, travel, long evenings, and a different pace of parish life—we begin again.

Children’s Chapel returns. The choir is back. Adult formation is on the horizon. Our Centennial celebrations continue, with a Hymn Festival of Thanks in October and our Patronal Feast in November. The calendar fills, familiar rhythms resume, and parish life gathers momentum once again.

And so, on this Homecoming Sunday, it is worth asking: What does it mean to come home?

The Israelites in our first reading know something about coming home—or, more accurately, about discovering that home is not simply behind them, but in the future God is leading them toward.

Crossing of the Red Sea by Cornelis de Wael - Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, Bilddatenbank., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=38042675

For generations they had lived under the yoke of Egypt. Their lives were defined by oppression, forced labour, and the loss of freedom. And then, through the mighty hand of God, they are led out.

But leaving Egypt is not the same thing as arriving.

At the edge of the Red Sea, the Israelites find themselves trapped, with Pharaoh’s army behind them and no obvious way forward.

The past is chasing them.

The future is in front of them.

And there is an impossible barrier between the two.

Then Moses raises his hand, the waters part, and the Israelites walk through on dry ground.

It is one of the great images of Scripture: God making a way where there appears to be no way.

And notice something important here. The Israelites do not cross the sea one person at a time.

They cross together.

Families, elders, children, the frightened, and the confident all travel together. Those who sense what God is doing walk beside those still wondering whether this will work.

That seems especially appropriate for us as we begin another program year.

Because church is not simply a place we come to. It is a people with whom we travel.

That is part of what Paul is trying to tell the Romans.

The Christian community is made up of people who do not always agree with one another. They do not all have the same convictions, the same practices, the same histories, or even the same understanding of what faithful living looks like.

And Paul says: make room for one another.

“Welcome those who are weak in faith,” he writes, “but not for the purpose of quarreling over opinions.”

That is wonderfully practical advice for any Christian community.

It is easy to assume that the person beside us should think, worship, read Scripture, or approach church life as we do.

But Paul reminds us that Christ has made us into a community in which belonging comes before agreement.

We are not called to become identical.

We are called to become one and that distinction matters.

As we begin a new program year, there are many ways to find a place here: perhaps singing in the choir, or serving in the altar guild, or welcoming people to worship as sides people, or offering hospitality after worship, or simply showing up in the pew where you return Sunday after Sunday.

But whatever your place, the invitation is the same:

Come and walk with us.

Because none of us crosses the sea alone.

And that brings us to Jesus’ teaching about forgiveness.

Peter asks, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

And Jesus answers, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.”

In other words: Stop keeping score.

Which is difficult.

We like keeping score.

We remember the hard things: the conversation that went badly, the broken promise, the moment someone did not show up for us.

Communities can keep score, too.

Churches are particularly good at remembering.

We remember who used to do what, who was here, who left, what changed, what we loved, and what we lost.

And memory is a gift.

Our Centennial year is, in part, an act of holy remembering: the saints who built this parish, the baptisms and weddings and funerals, the sermons and hymns, the celebrations and struggles, and the many ways God has been faithful here.

But Jesus reminds us that memory cannot become a prison.

The Israelites could not remain forever staring back at Egypt.

Peter could not remain forever counting the number of times he had forgiven.

And neither can we.

There is a new future ahead of us.

That is what makes Homecoming Sunday here at All Saints so beautiful.

We are not simply returning to what was; we are returning to one another so that God can lead us into what comes next.

The Christian life is always both remembering and moving forward.

We remember God’s faithfulness, and then we step into the future God is opening before us.

The Israelites walked through the sea into freedom.

The Romans were learning how to live together as one body despite their differences.

And Jesus teaches his disciples that forgiveness is not a mathematical equation but a way of life.

All three readings are ultimately about what it means to become a people.

A people who are imperfect, who do not always agree, and who still hurt one another.

But also a people who learn to walk together, make room, and forgive.

And a people learning to trust that God is still making a way through the waters.

That is the invitation before us as this new program year begins.

Find your place in this community—not simply because there is work to be done, though there is, but because you belong here.

You bring something no one else can bring.

God has placed gifts within you that this community needs: your voice, your wisdom, your laughter, your ability to organize, your compassion, your willingness to listen, your simple and faithful presence.

The Body of Christ is not built by extraordinary people waiting until they are ready. It is built by ordinary people bringing what they have and trusting God to make it holy.

So as we come home today, let us not imagine that we are only restarting the usual routines.

Let us imagine instead that we are standing once more at the edge of the sea.

Behind us is all that has shaped us: the blessings, the wounds, the memories, the mistakes, the faithfulness of God through it all.

Before us is all that God is still preparing.

And beside us are the people God has given us—not perfect people, not identical people, but companions for the crossing.

As we return to the rhythms of fall and begin the journey toward Advent and Christmas, may we discover again that the church is not a building we maintain or a program we restart.

It is a people God is gathering, healing, forgiving, and sending.

So welcome home—not to what was, but to what God is doing among us now.

Welcome back to the people who will walk with you, make room for you, forgive with you, and grow with you.

Welcome into this new season of grace, where the waters still part, the path still opens, and God still calls us forward together.

Because home is not simply where we have been, or even where we gather.

Home is the future God is opening before us—and the people with whom God calls us to journey with because the journey is better together.