Matthew tells us that Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness. It is a sweeping sentence, almost like a refrain. This is what Jesus does. He teaches, proclaims and heals.
But then Matthew slows down. Jesus sees the crowds. And when he sees them, he has compassion for them, because they are harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. That phrase may sound gentle to us, almost pastoral in the sentimental sense: sheep in a green field, a shepherd with a staff, perhaps a stained-glass window. But Matthew means something more urgent. Sheep without a shepherd are exposed and vulnerable. They are easy prey. They do not know where to find pasture or safety. And in the biblical imagination, shepherds are not only religious figures; they are leaders. Kings, priests, authorities, anyone entrusted with the care of the people.
So, when Jesus sees the crowds as sheep without a shepherd, he is not simply saying, “Poor things.” He is saying that something has gone wrong. Those with power have not used their power to heal, gather, protect, and feed. The people are worn down. They are pushed around. They are tired.
And Jesus is moved in his gut. That is what compassion means here. Not a passing feeling or pity from a safe distance. Not the kind of concern that says, “Isn’t it terrible?” and then moves on. Jesus’ compassion becomes motion. He moves toward pain. He touches what is untouchable. He restores people to community. He proclaims that the kingdom of heaven has come near, and then he makes that nearness visible in bodies, households, neighborhoods, and lives.
Then Jesus says something astonishing: “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.” Notice what he does not say. He does not say, “The harvest is over.” He does not say, “There used to be a harvest, back when people came to synagogue more faithfully, back when families stayed in one place, back when religious institutions had more cultural authority.” He does not say, “The harvest is scarce.” He says, “The harvest is plentiful.”
That may be hard for the church to hear right now. Many congregations look around and see empty spaces where people once sat. We count pledges, volunteers, average Sunday attendance, deferred maintenance, and the cost of heating old buildings through long Maine winters. We remember when Sunday School classrooms were full, when committees had waiting lists, when the church felt more central to public life. We may be tempted to say, “The harvest is scarce.” But Jesus says otherwise.
The harvest is not the number of people in the pews. The harvest is the abundance of human need and human longing into which God sends us. The harvest is the loneliness of elders in our towns, some of whom live in beautiful houses and some of whom do not, but many of whom are afraid of becoming invisible. The harvest is the young family trying to afford rent in a coastal community shaped by tourism and rising property values. The harvest is the working person driving from job to job, serving tables, cleaning houses, caring for others, but still unable to get ahead. The harvest is the immigrant and asylum seeker struggling to survival in a world that seems to only want to see him dead. The harvest is the LGBTQ+ youth hearing the daily news and wondering if there is any place in the world for them. The harvest is the neighbor quietly navigating addiction, grief, depression, dementia, estrangement, or fear. The harvest is the newcomer wondering whether there is any community where they can be fully known and still welcomed. The harvest is the ache beneath our political arguments: the longing for mercy, justice, truth, belonging, and peace. The harvest is plentiful. The question is not whether there is still need. The question is whether there are laborers willing to go.
And here Matthew’s Gospel becomes even more challenging. Jesus does not simply ask the disciples to pray for laborers and then allow them to remain spectators. He tells them to pray, and then he makes them the answer to their own prayer. He summons the twelve and gives them authority.
But it is not the kind of authority the world recognizes. Jesus gives them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to cure every disease and every sickness. Then he sends them out with instructions that strip away almost every ordinary sign of power: “Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff.” No wealth. No extra supplies. No institutional security. No control over how they will be received. No promise that everyone will like them. In fact, Jesus is quite clear that they will face rejection, conflict, and danger. “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves.” This is the authority of the vulnerable.
The disciples are given real authority, but not authority rooted in status, property, respectability, education, wealth, or success. Their authority comes from participating in the ministry of Jesus. They are authorized to do what he does: proclaim good news, heal, cleanse, liberate, restore, bless, and bear peace.
That is a searching word for a congregation like ours. We have inherited beautiful things: prayer books and music, theology and liturgy, old wood and stone and stained glass, habits of decency and public service, buildings that hold generations of memory. These things matter. A historic church building can be an act of faith across time. It can shelter beauty, silence, sacraments, recovery meetings, food ministries, concerts, funerals, baptisms, and the holy work of ordinary friendship. Caring for such a building can be an offering of love. But Matthew presses the question: What is the building for?
Jesus does not gather the twelve and say, “Maintain this religious center.” He does not say, “Preserve the institution at all costs.” He does not say, “Keep everything alive exactly as it has been.” He sends them out.
The church is not less than a building, a budget, a vestry, a choir, a pulpit, an altar guild, an endowment, and a calendar. Those things can serve the Gospel beautifully. But the church is more than all of them. The church is a sent people. The church is what happens when Jesus’ compassion takes flesh in a community. The church is a body that receives mercy here so that it may become mercy out there.
At the end of the Eucharist, we do not hear, “Stay where you are.” We hear, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” The dismissal is not a polite ending. It is a commissioning. Every Sunday, we are sent.
That does not mean we must do everything. Jesus’ instructions include limits. If a house or town will not receive the disciples’ peace, they are to move on. That too is mercy. There is a faithful way to give without pretending to be God. There is a faithful way to serve without allowing the church to be consumed by anxiety, resentment, or endless obligation. We are laborers in the harvest; we are not the Lord of the harvest.
That distinction may be especially important for a congregation worried about decline. Anxiety tells us that everything depends on us: if we find the right program, the right strategy, the right younger families, the right grant, the right priest, the right marketing plan, then we will be saved.
But Jesus does not send anxious managers. He sends vulnerable witnesses. He sends people who have received freely and therefore give freely. “You received without payment; give without payment.” That is the economy of the kingdom. Not transaction. Not calculation. Not, “Will this bring in new members?” Not, “Will this solve our building problem?” Not even, “Will this guarantee our future?” But rather, “Where is Christ already moved with compassion, and how may we join him there?”
Perhaps younger people are not first looking for a church to join. Perhaps they are looking for a community that looks like Jesus. A community that tells the truth, practices mercy, welcomes the lonely, shares its resources, stands with the vulnerable, and does not confuse institutional survival with the kingdom of heaven. Perhaps the most evangelical thing a church can do is not to appear impressive, but to be visibly compassionate.
And perhaps that is good news for an older congregation. The authority Jesus gives does not depend on being young, fashionable, or large. It does not depend on having abundant energy or endless volunteers. Some of the deepest authority in Christian life belongs to those who know vulnerability from the inside: those who have lost friends, buried spouses, endured illness, watched the world change, and learned that control is an illusion. There is an authority that comes from tenderness. There is an authority that comes from prayer. There is an authority that comes from having lived long enough to know that grace is real.
Jesus sends his disciples as sheep among wolves, wise as serpents and innocent as doves. That is not naïveté. It is courage without cruelty. It is clarity without cynicism. It is vulnerability without despair.
So today, perhaps the invitation is not to stop caring about the church. It is to care about the church rightly. To love this place not as a museum of what once was, but as a base camp for mercy. To tend this building not as an end in itself, but as a vessel for healing and connection. To look at our neighbors not as potential members who might help us survive, but as beloved sheep for whom Christ has compassion.
The harvest is plentiful. It is outside these doors, and sometimes it is inside these pews. It is in the grief we carry, the friendships we need, the justice we seek, the wounds we hide, and the hope we almost dare not name. The laborers are few. But they have always been few. Twelve was not a large number. They were not especially qualified. They were not impressive. One was a tax collector. One would betray him. Several misunderstood him repeatedly. And still Jesus called them, gave them authority, and sent them out.
And perhaps he can send us too. Not because we are strong, but because his compassion is strong. Not because we have all the answers, but because the Spirit will speak when we do not know what to say. Not because we can save the church, but because Christ is already saving the world, and graciously, astonishingly, he invites us to take part. The kingdom of heaven has come near. Heal what you can. Bless whom you meet. Travel light. Receive hospitality. Offer peace. Tell the truth. Practice mercy. Do not be afraid of vulnerability, for that is where the authority of Jesus so often begins.
