June 28, 2026 Reflection

There are some passages in the Gospels that seem almost too simple.

Today’s reading is one of them.

Jesus is finishing his instructions to the disciples before sending them out into the world. He’s preparing them for a difficult journey. They won’t always be welcomed. Some people will reject them. Some will misunderstand them. Some will even oppose them.

And then, almost as if to leave them with one final image, Jesus says:
“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me… and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones… none of these will lose their reward.”
A cup of cold water.

Not a miracle. Not a great sermon. Not a grand act of generosity. Just a cup of water.

We almost miss how radical that is because we’ve heard it so many times.
In Jesus’ world, a cup of cool water wasn’t just a drink. There were no refrigerators. No taps to turn on. No convenience store down the street. In fact, the phrase “cold water” probably doesn’t mean “ice-cold” the way we hear it today.

In the Greek, Jesus says “a cup of cold water”. The word psychros means cold, cool, fresh, as opposed to warm or stagnant. It doesn’t imply refrigeration.
A cup of cool water was one of the first signs that someone had welcomed you.
Water drawn from a well, a spring, or an earthen jar was precious in a hot, dry land.

Offering it meant someone had noticed you.

Someone had interrupted their own rhythm.

Someone had chosen hospitality over indifference.

In fact, this image runs throughout Scripture.

When Abraham welcomed three strangers beneath the oaks of Mamre, one of the first things he offered was water for their feet before he prepared a meal. What seemed like ordinary hospitality became a holy encounter, for in welcoming strangers, Abraham found himself welcoming God.
And then, generations later, Jesus himself becomes the weary traveller. Sitting beside a well, he asks a Samaritan woman for a drink. What begins as a simple request for water becomes a conversation about dignity, belonging, and living water.
Throughout the Bible, water is almost never just water.

Abraham offers water to three strangers and discovers he has welcomed God.
Jesus asks a Samaritan woman for a drink, and what begins as a simple act of hospitality becomes a conversation that changes her life.

And now Jesus tells his disciples that whenever they offer even a cup of cold water, they are welcoming him.

Again and again, Scripture reminds us that some of the holiest encounters begin in the most ordinary ways.

Maybe that’s one of the great surprises of faith. We think we’re the ones offering hospitality. We think we are the ones welcoming, giving, helping, doing. And then, somewhere along the way, we realize something has quietly shifted.

God was already there. Before we arrived. Before we noticed. Before we even knew we were entering holy ground.

And suddenly the question is not only, “Who am I welcoming?” but, “Where has Christ already been waiting for me?”

And once we realize that God is often already there before we arrive, we begin to see that even the simplest acts of welcome are never really simple at all.
Jesus has this remarkable way of taking something ordinary and revealing that, in God’s hands, ordinary things become holy.

And maybe that’s exactly the point. Because the kingdom of God so often begins in ordinary moments.
We often think of welcome as something polite. Greeting someone at the door. Offering coffee. Learning someone’s name. Those things matter. They matter more than we sometimes realize.

Here at Mount Seymour, we speak words of welcome at the beginning of worship. But if they remain only words spoken from the front of the sanctuary, they aren’t enough. I have seen time and again how much those words matter.

The real welcome happens out there, in the conversations over coffee, in the phone call when someone hasn’t been here for a few weeks, in bringing a meal to someone recovering from surgery, in remembering someone’s story. And yes… in making space beside us in the pew. Or perhaps even letting someone sit in your favourite pew.
But I wonder if Jesus is inviting us into something even deeper than simply being friendly.

Notice what he says. He doesn’t say, “Whoever agrees with you welcomes me.” He doesn’t say, “Whoever becomes like you welcomes me.” He simply says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.” Welcome, in the kingdom of God, isn’t about politeness.
It is about recognizing the image of God in another human being. It is about seeing Christ already present before us. And whenever that happens, something changes, not only for the person being welcomed, but for the one doing the welcoming.

One of my favourite theologians, Barbara Brown Taylor, writes in An Altar in the World:
“The hardest spiritual work in the world is to love the neighbour as the self, to encounter another human being not as someone you can use, change, fix, help, save, enroll, convince or control, but simply as someone who can spring you from the prison of yourself, if you will allow it.”

I love the way she stacks those verbs. Use. Fix. Save. Convince. Control.
If we’re honest, we recognize ourselves in there more than we’d like to admit.
We meet someone new and almost immediately begin sorting them into categories.

What do they need? What should they change? How could they fit better?
But Jesus begins somewhere else. Before there is fixing… Before there is teaching… Before there is anything else… There is welcome. And that is exactly what Jesus is asking of the disciples.

Not to see people as projects. But as bearers of the holy. Not to ask, “How can I change this person?” But, “How might Christ meet me through this person?”

A few weeks ago I had the privilege of attending the opening of the beautiful new First United building in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, where some of the most vulnerable in our society live. I talked a bit about it last Sunday as well, but it bears repeating because it was an extraordinary day.
Elders from the host Nations offered blessings. Songs echoed through the building. Stories were shared. There was laughter, and there were tears. There was deep gratitude for everyone who had laboured for years to bring that vision into being.

The building itself is stunning. But what stayed with me wasn’t the architecture. It was the intentionality. This was not simply a building designed to be functional or even beautiful. It was a building shaped by a question: “How do we communicate dignity at every level of what we do?”
Again and again, I heard three words that had guided the entire project from the beginning: Dignity. Belonging. Justice. Those aren’t simply organizational values. They are Gospel words.

Dignity means every human being bears the image of God. Not because they’ve earned it. Not because their life is sorted out. Not because they meet certain expectations. But because they are already beloved of God.

Belonging means no one has to earn their way in. We don’t become acceptable and then belong. We belong first.

And justice means we don’t simply invite people into systems that are already broken, we work together to transform those systems so that life can flourish for everyone.

As I listened that day, I kept thinking of Jesus’ words: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.” That sounds a lot like dignity.

When we offer even something as simple as a cup of cold water, we are recognizing that Christ is already present in the person standing before us.

Hospitality is not charity from those who have to those who don’t.
It is recognition that God has already arrived before we did. And we are simply catching up. I think Jesus would have something to say about that. In fact, I think he might smile. Because this is the kind of belonging he creates.
Author and researcher Brené Brown writes in Braving the Wilderness: “True belonging doesn’t require us to change who we are. It requires us to be who we are.” There is something deeply resonant in that.

People don’t first become acceptable and then belong. They belong. And belonging has a way of transforming everyone it touches. Not just the newcomer. All of us.

That is the kind of church that we strive to be and that we continue to be. Not simply a church that says, “Everyone is welcome.”

But a church that is continually changed by the people God sends through our doors. Because every new relationship teaches us something about God we did not know before. Every story expands our understanding. Every voice broadens our compassion. Every encounter invites us to grow. That is what true hospitality does. It doesn’t simply make room. It transforms the house.
And maybe that is why Jesus ends with something so wonderfully ordinary. A cup of cold water. Throughout Scripture, God seems to have a habit of meeting people around wells, around tables, and in simple acts of hospitality.
Maybe that is still how Christ meets us today.

Because he knows that changing the world does not usually begin with extraordinary acts. It begins with ordinary people paying attention. Offering kindness. Listening deeply. Protecting someone’s dignity. Making space where someone discovers they belong. Standing alongside those seeking justice.

None of those things seem dramatic on their own. But then again, neither did a mustard seed. Or five loaves and two fish. Or a manger in Bethlehem.
The kingdom of God has always had a way of beginning with small things that quietly become something far larger than we expected.

So perhaps Jesus is reminding us that every act of welcome matters. Every conversation. Every gesture of kindness. Every cup of cold water.
Throughout Scripture, God has a habit of showing up around wells and tables, in shared meals and offered water. Perhaps this week, Christ will meet us in those same ordinary moments. Because the welcome we extend is never only ours. It is Christ’s welcome flowing through us. And often, without even realizing it, we are being welcomed as much as we are welcoming others.

May we become people who offer dignity instead of judgment. Belonging instead of barriers. Justice instead of indifference. And as we do, may we discover that Christ has been waiting for us all along, in the faces of those we welcome.

May it be so. Amen.