Lectionary Commentaries for August 30, 2026
Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

What a difference a week makes. It was exactly one week ago today that our reading included Peter’s amazing and prophetic confession while answering Jesus’s poignant question, “Who do you [my disciples] say that I am?” Simon Peter declared confidently the messianic identity of Jesus by saying, “Thou art the Christ, Son of the living God.” Immediately, Christ affirms his Messiahship and, depending on your tradition, may commend Peter as the head of the church or give him the keys to the kingdom. Then, in an even more interesting gesture, Jesus sternly commands them not to tell anyone that he is the Messiah. 

I was not there; however, I imagine that the scene was emotionally charged. Can’t you see? Most of the disciples were not surprised at all by the boldness of Peter’s confession. After all, all of them knew that Peter was audacious and spirited, almost to the point of being reckless. They are also unlikely to have been taken aback by what Peter said, as they had probably discussed the possibility of Jesus being the Messiah on a routine basis. 

But for Jesus to affirm the confession and finally admit that what they had seen, the lessons they had learned, and the very person whom they had followed and were with was the very fulfillment of prophecy—Jesus was the Messiah? That was a lot. This is where the emotion and excitement creep in, maybe only allowing them to half-heartedly hear Jesus warning them not to tell anyone. 

However, that was last week, and although our passage this week is a continuation of the same chapter, it begins a new pericope and undergoes a powerful shift in tone. Jesus, armed with Peter’s confession, begins from that point, the text says, to predict his own death. Jesus, who had just asked, “Who do people say that I am?,” is now sharing that it is necessary for him to go to Jerusalem and suffer at the hands of the elders, the leading priests, and the religious leaders. He tells them that he will be killed, but on the third day he will be raised from the dead. 

Talk about being a killjoy or a Debbie Downer. This is in no way what they expected. I mean, he had just admitted to being the Messiah, the Christ. They knew the prophecy. The Messiah was to come and rescue them from oppression. They had learned about Jewish history in school and were familiar with former messiah-like figures. They knew the story of the Maccabean Resistance, initiated by Matthias, against Antiochus IV, as well as the movements of both Judas the Galilean and Zadok the Pharisee. They were looking for someone to lead them in the fight, not someone who was ready to die. 

Have you ever been there? In a situation or circumstance in which you have an expectation of what God will and should do and be in your life, and the Lord decides, in an act of divine sovereignty, to do something totally different? You are primed to celebrate God’s expected next move in your life, yet it plays out differently than you anticipated. Peter confessed the messianic identity of Jesus. Jesus confirmed Peter’s confession. The disciples must have been anticipating and forecasting how their status would change for the better, being connected to the one and only Christ, but now Jesus is talking about dying. The tension and disappointment in the text, as well as in our own lives, is enough to make you want to go contrary to what God has said. 

In fact, Peter, as Peter always does, speaks up and renounces the idea of the impending death of Christ. In fact, Peter becomes indignant at the thought and tells Jesus that it would never happen as long as he was around. Jesus’s response is one of the most recognized, powerful, profound, and confusing lines in the Bible. Jesus looks at Peter after hearing his thoughts of protecting him and says, “Get behind me, Satan, for you are not setting your mind on the things of God but on human things.” This rebuke has baffled many because of the starkness of what Jesus said and to whom he said it. 

If we demystify the word “Satan,” it was not to insinuate that Peter dressed in red, had horns, or sported a pointy tail. However, in this context, it means being an adversary to God’s will. Jesus had just proclaimed God’s will and purpose for his life, and Peter’s interjection went against that, so Jesus rebuked him starkly. Still, the fact that it was Peter who received such pointed words is very interesting. For it was Peter who, because of his confession, was given the keys to the kingdom. 

Perhaps this speaks to Christ’s depth of commitment to God’s will, as well as to the high cost of being Christ’s disciple. I’ve heard it said that salvation is free, but it will cost you everything. Jesus alludes to this in the following verses. Jesus shares that to be his disciple, one must deny oneself. Western Christianity—which is built in many cases on the pillars of capitalism, white supremacy, patriarchy, and heteronormativity—has a difficult task in grasping the idea of self-denial, especially when Jesus says, “If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it, but if you give it to us, you will gain it.” That simple truth of what discipleship truly is, in many ways, acts as a mirror that reveals the grotesque anti-Christian image of what the church has become. But Christ doesn’t let up; he asks with power and profundity, “What do you gain if you have the whole world but lose your soul?” 

Maybe this is what needs to be asked in the halls of power in all nations. In places where oligarchical mindsets and missions are unfairly pillaging the world’s economies, closely aligned with those who claim Christ as Lord—not the self-sacrificing Christ who predicts his death, but a John Wayne or John Wick Christ that shoots his way to sovereignty. No, Jesus offers the challenge of true discipleship. It seems Bonhoeffer was onto something when he said, “When Christ calls you, he bids you to come and die.” Amen and Ase’.

Jeremiah’s lament reveals that prophetic ministry is both a difficult task and a divine gift—the burden of bearing God’s word and the blessing of proclaiming God’s redemption. Jeremiah 15:15–18 describes the agony of prophetic life and tasks. Jeremiah 15:19–21 also describes a special bliss in consolation with God. 

Historical context

Imagine yourself as a farmer in the countryside. For most rural farmers, imperial politics mattered little; yet in Jerusalem, the priests, prophets, and scribes lived under Babylonian scrutiny. However, the perspective of the biblical texts privileges the urban elite of the priests, prophets, and scribes. Jerusalem’s priests and prophets lived under the scrutiny of the Babylonian imperial forces. Jeremiah 15:10–21 springs from the Babylonian threat to Jerusalem in the early sixth century BCE. 

Genre and literary structure

Jeremiah 15:10–21 weaves two literary forms into a single prophetic dialogue. First is personal lament (verses 15–18). The second genre is the divine speech that responds to the petition of lament (verses 19–21). The so-called confessions of Jeremiah (Jeremiah 11:18–20; 12:1–6; 15:10–21; 17:14–18; 18:18–23; 20:7–13) demonstrate the literary characteristics of lament. Psalm parallels include Psalm 40, and divine retribution occurs in laments (Psalms 44:23; 69:8, 20). 

The announcement of salvation in prophetic genres in Jeremiah 15:15–21 functions as the response to the lament of Jeremiah 15:18. The two genres become one lament using the announcement of salvation. The pattern of two more dialogues of prophetic lament and divine reply occurs in Jeremiah 15:15–21 but also in Jeremiah 11:18–12:6.

Close reading

The passage has two sections (verses 15–18 and verses 19–21). It begins with Jeremiah’s threefold petition: “Remember me, visit me, and bring down retribution on my persecutors.” His suffering “on your [God’s] account” signals both faithfulness and divine burden. Jeremiah’s confession that he “ate” God’s words parallels Ezekiel’s prophetic meal (Ezekiel 2:8–3:3), symbolizing internalization of the message. Yet the same word that delights also isolates him. 

God’s act of redemption of the prophet means a problem for the persecutors of Jeremiah. The verb “know” occurs again, providing a nice bookend with verse 15a. Jeremiah 15:15a also includes an indictment of God: “Know that on your account I suffer insult” (Jeremiah 15:15). The task of prophecy for Jeremiah includes suffering for God.  

Jeremiah’s “crime” is being captured by the words of God. Jeremiah’s confession locates the indictment in the beguiling nature of God’s word. Jeremiah found the words of God and he ate them. Ezekiel ate the scroll of God, and it tasted sweet (Ezekiel 2:8–3:3). The joy created in the eating of words is reminiscent of the delight mentioned in the Psalms (1:2; 112:1). The joy and delight in the word of God shapes Jeremiah’s identity. The love of God’s word by Jeremiah means that he is called (“for I am called by your name”). The reference to God as the God of Hosts is part of Jeremiah’s message. The reference to the God of battle fits well with the themes of retribution. 

The tone changes with a statement of innocence in verse 17. The prophet is like the righteous person in Psalm 1 who avoids inappropriate interpersonal relationships (see Psalm 1:1), the wicked, sinners, and scoffers. By saying, “I did not sit in the company of merrymakers,” Jeremiah claims to stay in the right mood (Jeremiah 15:17a). He does not rejoice. The statement of innocence asserts that Jeremiah experiences two things that fit well together: Under the weight of your hand I sat alone, for you had filled me with indignation (15:17b). The God that brought delight also isolated the prophet under the weight of the hand of God.

The statement of innocence in verse 17 is emphasized by the questions of verse 18. The personal lament uses questions as accusation. The writer uses repetition for emphasis and tempo rhythm. The first question is, “Why is my pain unceasing, my wound incurable, refusing to be healed?” (15:18a). “Why” sets up the word pair “my pain” and “my wound.” These terms are close in meaning to one another but give space for a wide depth of response from an audience. Parallelism between wound and pain invites the reader or listener to slow down. 

The second section of the passage begins in verse 19 with the formula “Therefore thus says the LORD” (15:19a), which introduces a divine and human commitment. The passage describes two contingencies. “If you [Jeremiah] turn back, I [God] will take you back” (15:19b). The theme of repentance occurs elsewhere in Jeremiah (3:1–4:2). The concrete reality of taking the prophet and the community back allows them to stand before God. The metaphor “stand before” indicates relational interaction with God. 

In the second contingent clause, “If you utter what is precious and not what is worthless, you shall serve as my mouth” (15:19b), “precious” refers to accurate and “worthless” implies false. The accurate conveyance by the prophet will serve as the mouth of God, a main prophetic task. The “turning “of the prophet to God prompts the turning of the people (“they”) to the prophet without the prophet turning to satisfy the crowd, the people. The “turning” acts as bookends (verses 19a and 19c) to accent its centrality to the message.

The contingent language of verse 19 ends as the first-person divine promise of verse 20 takes center stage. The prophet will become a fortified wall of bronze to “this” people by divine action. Their identity does not spark human acceptance. On the contrary, “this people” will fight against the prophet. Divine support makes human resistance futile. The promise from God reminds the reader of Jeremiah’s initial call (Jeremiah 1:18–19). The passage that begins with a formula ends with another formula: “says the LORD.” 

The postscript is a final divine word of assurance that emphasizes the forward-driving purpose of the message: “I will deliver you out of the hand of the wicked and redeem you from the grasp of the ruthless” (15:21).

Pastoral implications for preachers

1. The word of God both consoles and isolates the faithful messenger.
2. Prophetic laments emphasize God’s sovereignty over human will.
3. These texts invite readers to locate themselves among the figures of prophet, community, and empire—asking, “Who are we when we encounter God’s word in conflict?”

The narratives that open the book of Exodus are trying to sort out, among other topics, questions of identity. By the end of Genesis, Jacob’s son Joseph had found prosperity and power in Egypt, but then a new king of Egypt arose “who did not know Joseph” (Exodus 1:8). Thus, the book starts with the implicit question, “Who is this Joseph?” The “who is” questions continue, both directly and indirectly: Who is this Moses, that he should go to Pharaoh to demand the Hebrews’ freedom? Who is this God, apparently silent for so long, who now hears the cry of his people in bondage?¹ Who is this Pharaoh, that he should aspire to the power of the God of Israel?

The “who is” formulation, which appears in our passage in Exodus 3:11, carries some of the same implications in Hebrew that it does in English. “Who am I” can indicate basic forgetfulness or an existential reckoning, but it can also mean “What authority do I have to do this task? What standing do I have for this job? What is it about me that makes me the one needed in this moment?” When Moses says, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (Exodus 3:11), he wonders what qualifies—or dooms—him for such a quest.

Notably, God does not answer Moses’s question. Or perhaps we could say that God does answer the question, but not with the kind of answer we or Moses would expect: “[God] said, ‘I will be with you; and this shall be the sign for you that it is I who sent you: when you have brought the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God on this mountain’” (Exodus 3:12).

“Who am I?” asks Moses. “I am with you,” answers God. Moses’s identity, authority, and existence all come from the persistence of God’s presence with him. Earlier in Exodus, Moses’s bona fides had been established through narrative details that emphasize his Hebrew lineage on the one hand, and the access he has to Egyptian power on the other. He is the son of two Levites (Exodus 2:1–2). He is born during Pharaoh’s genocide of the Hebrew boys, but he is saved by the actions of both Hebrew and Egyptian women: his mother and sister, and Pharaoh’s daughter (Exodus 2:3–10). He exhibits loyalty to his fellow Hebrews (Exodus 2:11–15) but is mistaken for an Egyptian when he first meets Reuel’s daughters at the well (Exodus 2:19).

“Who is Moses” appears to require a complicated answer. Here at the burning bush, though, Moses’s identity and qualifications are distilled down to the only thing that ultimately matters: God is with him.

At the same time, God is known through God’s relationship with Israel. God first introduces himself to Moses by saying, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob” (Exodus 3:6). Then, after God has responded to Moses’s “who am I” question, Moses has a “who are you” question: “If I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?” (Exodus 6:13).

God again gives a perplexing answer—“I am who I am” (Exodus 6:14)—that nonetheless echoes the idea of enduring presence established in verse 11. But then God continues: “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, ‘The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you’” (Exodus 6:15). In the exodus narrative, God’s identity is continually rooted in God’s ongoing covenant relationship with Israel.

As for Pharaoh? His name is never known, only his title. He is another tyrant, representative of all, replaceable with any other. He will have his own questions: “Who is the LORD, that I should listen to him and let Israel go? I do not know the LORD, and I will not let Israel go” (Exodus 5:2). The rest of the exodus account will be introducing Pharaoh to YHWH. When all is said and done, Pharaoh will know the God of Israel through God’s exercises of power in the plagues and, ultimately, in the drowning of Pharaoh’s army in the sea.

The flashy part of this week’s reading is, of course, the burning bush. But the burning bush is neither the heart nor the point of this text. Instead, just like God’s answer to Moses’s “who am I” question, the burning bush calls Moses’s attention—and ours—to the revelation of the God of Israel, who remains the center of this narrative.

Who is this Moses? The one whom God accompanies to accomplish God’s purposes. Who is this Pharaoh? A demagogue and tyrant whose power will never match that of the living God of Israel. And who is this God? The God of our ancestors in the faith; the one who was, is, and shall be; the one who is always with us.

Notes

1. I use pronouns for God in this essay for smoother prose, and I choose masculine ones to better reflect the original Hebrew. However, the depiction of God in the exodus story is just one testimony—reliable but incomplete—for the character of God and does not convey the totality of all God is, gendered or otherwise.

I teach at a college that emphasizes the integration of faith and learning.¹ We strive for students to realize that their knowledge and their beliefs should not—and ultimately cannot—be kept in separate compartments of their lives.

Even more than this realization, however, is our desire that they actually experience this integration. Psalm 26 is a prayer for something very similar—namely, that the aspects of the poet’s life have integrity; indeed, the psalm is an eloquent and forceful declaration that the poet has experienced this integrity inside and out.

Preachers, teachers, and worship leaders using Psalm 26 for this Sunday will find some historical, literary, and theological hurdles to clear on their way to integrating the message of the psalm into their sermons, lessons, and liturgies.

First, in terms of the psalm’s historical setting, numerous proposals pretty much fall into one of two types: a ritual setting (for priests or pilgrims at the temple), or some kind of personal crisis, such as being falsely accused.² For reasons I’ll discuss below, I lean more toward the ritual setting, but that doesn’t mean a poet wasn’t also drawing on personal experiences.

A second and related problem is pinning down the literary form of the psalm. Most scholars have moved beyond Gunkel’s “lament” category to talk about entrance liturgies, pilgrim psalms, or protestations of innocence. But each proposal struggles to explain every element in the psalm.

Closely tied to literary genre is a third issue: literary structure. Twenty-five years ago, Paul Mosca consulted at least two dozen commentaries and articles to reveal almost no scholarly agreement on structure of the psalm,³ and the situation hasn’t really improved. Finally, on top of these critical issues is the matter of theological interpretation: How do we incorporate in Christian worship a psalm that seems to proclaim self-righteousness?

Although we could view it mainly as a prophecy of Jesus’s righteous presence in the temple, the way forward is not by leaping to the New Testament or retreating behind our sincerely held doctrines. To the contrary, we discover the theological underpinnings of the psalm by embracing its own rhetorical shape and features.

On this particular Sunday, the lectionary limits the passage to the psalm’s first eight verses.⁴ This choice is almost certainly for thematic reasons, since the whole psalm clearly has a literary unity by virtue of its reference to “walking in integrity” (verses 1, 11) and repetitions that link verses 1–8 to verses 9–12, such as “hands” (verses 6, 10). Psalm 26 relates to other readings for this Sunday, which touch on matters of integrity (Jeremiah 15), awareness of God’s holiness (Exodus 3), self-denial (Matthew 16) and transformation (Romans 12).

Moreover, verses 1–8 express a coherent argument at their core, with a list of seven or eight expressions about things that the psalmist has either avoided or embraced (verses 4–7). It is therefore possible to engage this section of the psalm homiletically and liturgically if one keeps in mind its immediate literary context. Here are three possible ways to relate the psalm to Christian experience.

First, for all of the benefits that go with creating a warm and welcoming environment for our Lord’s Day gatherings, Christian worship remains an encounter with the Triune God, our creator, redeemer, and sustainer. Psalm 26, by virtue of its significant parallels with Psalms 15 and 24, is likely best understood as presenting a sobering statement of the requirements for priestly entrance into God’s holy presence.⁵

In an Israelite context, serving in the temple and “going around your altar” (verse 6) created a dangerous encounter for priests (compare Leviticus 10:1–3), who represented Israel to God.⁶ As Peter Craigie puts it, the psalm warned about “a casual approach to worship, from which hypocritical and superficial attitudes could easily emerge.”⁷

There is, of course, not a perfect correspondence between this aspect of Israelite religion and our Christian context. But there is nothing in our theology of union with Christ that eliminates the need for entering our worship services with a joyful (note verse 7), yet sincere, mindfulness that the business of worship truly draws us into the presence of God. As Brother Lawrence implores, “Let it be your business to keep your mind in the presence of the LORD.”⁸

Second, in spite of the problems that arise if we simply transport into our own setting the abundance of language about avoiding the “worthless,” “hypocrites,” and “evildoers” (verses 4–5; see also verses 9–10), there is still a point to be made about the church’s cultural context. As much as we are called to participate in society, it does no good to deny the existence of evil within society.

So, on one level, this psalm challenges the church to avoid conformity with the world (see also Romans 12:1–2), even as it submits to God instead of to idols of our own making. “There is,” as Clinton McCann writes, “a legitimate form of separatism.”⁹

But on another level, awareness of the evil “out there” should prompt us toward a renewed look within ourselves. Psalm 26 is not an invitation to engage in a culture war with the enemies of God; instead, it bids us to seek that integrity within ourselves that lends legitimacy to our witness for Christ in a troubled world.

Third, and building on both of the above points, Psalm 26 is a far cry from the apparent works-righteousness that a simplistic reading might first indicate. To be sure, the poet’s claim of innocence and the daring request that God test him (verses 1–2) seem striking and out of place coming on the heels of Psalm 25’s pleadings for mercy and forgiveness.¹⁰ But we have to keep reading through verse 3, because there we come to understand that the key to the psalmist’s confidence is trust in God’s “steadfast love,” the Hebrew concept of hesed.¹¹

A Christian reading of Psalm 26 recognizes the gospel of grace in that word, for God’s steadfast love is manifested in the person and work of Jesus Christ. Any hope for our personal integrity will find its fulfillment in him.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for August 31, 2014.
2. W. H. Bellinger, “Psalm XXVI: A Test of Method,” VT 43 (1993): 455–456.
3. Paul G. Mosca, “Psalm 26: Poetic Structure and the Form-Critical Task,” CBQ 47 (1985): 218.
4. The entire psalm is read for Proper 22, Year B.
5. Craig C. Broyles, Psalms (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1999), 138.
6. Richard J. Clifford, Psalms 1–72 (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2002), 142–143.
7. Peter C. Craigie, Psalms 1–50 (Waco: Word Books Publisher, 1983), 227.
8. From letter 8, “The Practice of the Presence of God” (Grand Rapids: Christian Classics Ethereal Library), accessed April 14, 2014, http://www.ccel.org/ccel/lawrence/practice.pdf.
9. J. Clinton McCann Jr., “The Book of Psalms,” in New Interpreter’s Bible (Nashville: Abingdon, 1996), 783.
10. Geoffrey W. Grogan, Psalms (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 78.
11. Grogan, 79.

Following the encouragement in Romans 12:1–8 to present ourselves as a living sacrifice to God, to choose to be transformed, to discern or test what is the will of God, and to exercise the gifts given for the ministry of Jesus Christ, Paul comes to a long list of “to do’s.” In many worship traditions, this litany is considered a “charge”—a charge to the congregation to go out from worship and do the works of God’s love and mercy: rejoice, be patient, contribute, be hospitable, bless, live in harmony, and more. While we may not enjoy every one of these dimensions of faithful living, we can make sense of them according to the gospel logic of love.  

It cannot be an accident that the list of gifts given to do the work, the ministry of Jesus Christ in verses 6–8, is followed by descriptions of the disposition with which we are called to exercise these gifts.   

• Minister, tend the flock with genuine love; do not tolerate evil.  
• Teach in love with mutual affection.  
• Exhort one another with honor; in fact, seek to go above and beyond in showing honor as you exhort one another.  
• Do not lag in zeal in your generosity.  
• Be passionate in spirit as you serve the Lord.  
• In your compassion, rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.
• Prophesy without claiming to be wiser than you are.

To serve as an example, this is a random pairing of gifts for ministry with a disposition in which to do the ministry. It is not the case that there is one disposition to each gift. Rather, the list sounds like the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5. Doing God’s work of love and mercy in the spirit of Jesus Christ according to the gift and faith given to us is what will enable us to test or discern what is the will of God. In the doing, we discern whether we are manifesting God’s love as shown to us in Jesus. 

The message is clear: Present ourselves as a living sacrifice to God; choose to be transformed; discern or test what is the will of God; exercise the gifts given for the ministry of Jesus Christ.  How do we do all this? Read the Sermon on the Mount.

We accede to the gospel logic of love until we get to verses 9–20. “Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God.” If we must leave room for God’s vengeance, does that mean we allow ourselves a little vengeance? Still more, do we have a vengeful God? One would think the charge would be to not seek vengeance at all, because the Christian life is not about vengeance, and neither is our God. What are these verses doing here except to demonstrate the opposite of genuine love? And if God is the definition of love, why is vengeance mentioned at all? 

In fact, we are not allowed a little vengeance; rather, the opposite. Rather than vengeance, we are to feed our enemies and, if our enemies are thirsty, give them something to drink. In so doing, we heap burning coals upon their heads. Aha! That is the little bit of vengeance we are allowed. We get to heap burning coals upon their heads as a punishment. And yet, no. Heaping burning coals upon the heads of our enemies is not vengeance at all; rather, even this is an act of mercy. Quoting Proverbs 25:21–22 almost verbatim, Paul tells us how to treat our enemies: Feed them, give them water, and in truly ancient terms, enable their repentance.  

“Heaping burning coals upon an enemy’s head” in ancient context is not a punishment; it is to enable life. To sustain life, one must keep the hearth’s fire burning. If the fire goes out, it threatens the ability to prepare food and keep warm. If a fire did go out, one would go to a neighbor to ask for some burning coals and would typically carry them back home in a container upon their heads. So not only are we to feed our enemy and give them drink, but to enable life itself. Thus is the measure of God’s vengeance. Not to kill with kindness, but to rebut evil with good. It is a summation of what came before.

Preaching angles

What does this mean for our preaching ministry?

• Many wonder how to figure out the will of God and then how to do it. The tendency is to think the will of God is specific to the actions of everyday life; for example, whether to turn left or right at the intersection, or whether to stop for lunch on the way home, or even what school to choose, or which apartment to rent. It might well be the case that left or right, this school or that, lunch or not, one apartment or another is not the true nature of doing God’s will.
  Perhaps it is the case that no matter these choices, we can discern the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect—by exercising the gifts we are given for ministry with the disposition Jesus describes in the Sermon on the Mount. We can exercise these gifts in whatever circumstance we find ourselves in. Our preaching can alleviate anxiety that the correct specific choice in such circumstances is what God is looking for, and that if we choose wrongly for left or right, we will miss doing God’s will.
• If the preacher chose Romans 12:1–8 the previous week and focused on the active verbs—present, choose, discern, exercise—preaching from this text can go into the attitude or disposition with which to exercise these gifts.
• Unlike the early believers in Corinth, the preacher’s congregation may not be competitive about their gifts. In fact, many congregations have trouble believing they have any gifts for ministry at all. A reversal from identifying the gift for ministry to the disposition with which to exercise the gift may be helpful. Identify the disposition in the congregation that manifests the love of Jesus: love, affection, honor, rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep, perseverance in prayer. It is likely these are present, but no one thinks they are gifts for ministry. Point these toward the work the people already do in encouragement and hospitality and leading children and singing in the choir and providing meals.