Most of us do not like interruptions. We have plans, things we need to get done. We are moving through our day and suddenly something happens. Someone asks for help. A door shuts when we thought it would stay open. A diagnosis changes the week. A responsibility shows up without warning.
Interruptions do not just slow life down. They take control away from us. They force us into something we did not choose.
When we read the Gospels, we notice something that keeps repeating. Jesus is constantly interrupted. And he does not move away from those moments. He moves into them.
In today’s Gospel, interruptions happen one after another, three different stories with one common thread running through them all: the mercy and compassion of God, revealed through the life of Christ in the lives of real people.
People like you and me. People who need compassion, care, and even correction. Through it all, we see a God who is not limited by our sense of order. We see the mercy of God moving through chaos without hesitation.
Jesus sees Matthew sitting at the tax booth. That booth is not just a job. It is a social break. Tax collectors worked for Rome. They collected money from their own people. They were seen as dishonest, unclean, and untrustworthy. Most people would cross the street rather than look at them.
Jesus walks straight up to him and says, "Follow me." No warning. No preparation. No explanation of what comes next.
Matthew gets up and leaves the booth. That is an interruption. Everything that gave him security is left behind. The system he depended on stays there. The identity he knew is interrupted by the call of Christ.
Then Jesus goes to Matthew's house and eats with tax collectors and sinners. That table becomes a public scandal. The religious leaders see it and they cannot understand it. In their world, closeness to God should separate you from people like this.
Jesus responds with words that reveal the heart of God: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice."
Jesus is quoting the prophet Hosea. The religious leaders knew the words well, but they had missed what God was saying through them. God was never looking for people who simply went through the motions of religion. God was never impressed by sacrifices, rituals, or outward displays of faith when they were disconnected from love for people.
Mercy is what God desires. Mercy sees the person before it sees the problem. Mercy moves toward people instead of away from them. Mercy looks like calling the person everyone else has stopped calling. Mercy looks like sitting beside someone whose story makes us uncomfortable. Mercy looks like refusing to reduce a person to their worst mistake.
The Pharisees were focused on who belonged at the table and who did not. Jesus was focused on who needed God's grace.
That meal at Matthew's house becomes a living example of God's mercy. Jesus sits with people others have already judged. He creates space for those who have been pushed to the margins. He shows that God's kingdom is not built on exclusion but on invitation.
Mercy interrupts judgment.
And that mercy does not stop there.
As they are eating, a synagogue leader comes to Jesus with heartbreaking news. His daughter has died. Jesus immediately goes with him. As Jesus is on the way, another interruption happens.
A woman who has been bleeding for twelve years pushes through the crowd. Twelve years of suffering. Twelve years of isolation. Twelve years of carrying a burden that likely made her feel invisible.
She is not looking for attention. She simply thinks, "If I just touch his cloak, I will be healed." She reaches for the edge of his cloak. That touch is desperation. It is hope that refuses to die.
Like that woman, many people carry struggles that remain hidden from everyone around them.
Jesus could have kept walking. He could have ignored the moment. He could have focused on getting to the grieving father and the dead child waiting ahead. Yet he stops. He sees her. He listens to her. He calls her "daughter."
Sometimes healing begins when someone truly sees us.
There are people among us who carry burdens that no one knows about. There are those who live with fear because of their family's immigration status. They worry about what tomorrow may bring. They worry about whether a loved one will come home from work. They worry about decisions made far away that deeply affect their lives.
There are those facing financial struggles, illness, grief, or broken relationships. There are people who keep going every day. They go to work. They prepare meals. They care for children, grandchildren, spouses, or aging parents. They smile when someone asks how they are doing. But inside they are exhausted.
Jesus sees all of that. He does not just see our Sunday smiles. He sees our weekday tears.
The woman interrupted Jesus' journey. Yet Jesus treated that interruption as someone worthy of attention, dignity, and love.
Then Jesus continues to the little girl's house. When he arrives, everyone thinks the story is over. The mourners are already there. The grieving has begun. The future her parents imagined is gone. Death appears to have the final word. No one expects anything different.
Yet Jesus walks into what everyone else calls an ending. He takes the girl by the hand, and she gets up.
Jesus interrupts death itself.
That is the heart of the Gospel. Again and again throughout this story, Jesus interrupts what people assume is final. Matthew's past does not define his future. The woman's suffering does not define her life. Death does not define the little girl's story. Jesus brings life where others see only endings.
What Jesus does with this little girl points to something even greater. It points to the cross and the empty tomb. It points to the promise that death will never have the final say over those who belong to Christ.
That promise belongs to us as well.
In our baptism, God claimed us as beloved children. When water was poured over us and God's name was spoken over us, God made a promise. Not that life would be easy. Not that interruptions would stop coming. God promised that we belong to Christ and that nothing can separate us from his love.
When life feels uncertain, we return to that promise. When fear grows, we return to that promise. When we feel forgotten, we return to that promise.
And that same promise comes to us today at the Lord's Table. When we receive the bread and wine, we are not merely remembering something that happened long ago. Christ himself comes to us. He nourishes us with his grace. He strengthens us for the journey ahead. He reminds us that his love is stronger than our sin, stronger than our failures, and stronger even than death.
Every time we come to the table, we hear God's promise again: you belong to Christ, and you are not alone.
As a congregation, we are called to reflect that same mercy. At Faith-La Fe, we know what it means to bring together people of different languages, cultures, family histories, and life experiences. We know that building community takes patience, listening, and humility.
We also know that every person who walks through these doors is looking for the same thing: the grace of Jesus Christ.
So we make room for those seeking hope. We walk alongside those who suffer. We build bridges where others build walls. We sit at the table with those others might prefer to avoid. Because that is exactly what Jesus did.
Matthew received an invitation. The woman received dignity. The little girl received life.
And in Christ, we receive all three. We are welcomed when we feel we do not belong. We are seen when we feel invisible. We are lifted up when we believe there is no hope left.
As we leave today, we do not know what this week will bring. There will be things we expect and things we do not. There will be moments of joy and moments that challenge us. There may be interruptions that change our plans completely.
Somewhere this week, God will place someone in front of us who needs mercy. It may be a neighbor, a coworker, a family member, or a stranger. It may be someone whose story makes us uncomfortable. It may be someone carrying a burden we cannot see.
The question is not whether that opportunity will come. The question is whether we will see them the way Jesus saw Matthew, the woman, and the little girl.
Remember this: our lives are not held together by our ability to control everything. Our lives are held together by the mercy of God.
Trust that God is present even when the path changes. Trust that God's mercy is enough for today and for tomorrow. And trust that wherever God places you this week, God can use even the interruptions to bring welcome, dignity, and life.
Amen.
