Ordinary Time 2026: Year A — Matthew 7:3-5 — We Do the Hard Things First (Series: Virtues, Values, and Everything In Between: Becoming Holy People Again, Week 2)

(The following was first preached at the 8th Street Church in Oklahoma City, USA).

I was at the gym this week thinking about this sermon when a strange realization hit me: I couldn’t think of a single thing in life that is truly worthwhile that isn’t hard.

Raising children is hard.

Growing up is hard.

Studying is hard.

Playing sports is hard.

Friendships are hard.

Dating is hard.

Marriage is hard.

Getting in shape is hard.

Staying in shape is hard.

Growing old is hard.

Grieving is hard.

Starting over is hard.

Following Jesus is hard.

Some time ago, we bought into a lie that faith is supposed to be some sort of endeavor that makes our lives easier. Not only is it an incredibly foolish notion, it is also unbiblical.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that difficulty is not a sign that something has gone wrong. More often than not, difficulty is a sign that something deeply valuable is taking shape.

That has certainly been true of this church.

When we planted 8th Street, we knew it would be hard. We left familiar places and secure positions. We took risks that made very little sense on paper. We had dreams much bigger than our resources and questions much larger than our answers. So somewhere along the way, we adopted a simple conviction: we do the hard things first.

And over the years, I have realized that this value has shaped us far more than we have shaped it.

In those early days, we had no money to speak of. We had no salaries. We had no permanent home. We had children but no children's pastor. We had musicians but no worship pastor to help us imagine what music, liturgy, and beauty could do in the life of a congregation. We had to build systems for everything, often discovering problems we never even knew existed.

For six months, we didn't even receive an offering.

Not because we didn't need one.

Not because people weren't generous.

But because we honestly didn't know what to do with the money. Who would count it? Who would record it? Who would make the deposit? Who would safeguard it? Trustworthy systems don't appear by magic. They are built slowly, carefully, and often through awkward conversations.

Every week seemed to present another impossible task.

And yet, looking back now, those weren't the hardest things.

The hardest thing we ever asked people to do was talk to each other.

I know that sounds ridiculous.

We could renovate a building. We could survive budget shortfalls. We could organize volunteers. We could write bylaws and start ministries. But ask two strangers to turn toward one another for two minutes, and suddenly people began wondering if they had wandered into some kind of spiritual endurance competition.

Smitty joked last week that the Good Neighbor Practice is the worst part of the service.

And I understand exactly what he means.

Because introducing yourself to another human being can be surprisingly difficult.

I've lived in Oklahoma for twenty years, and one of the things I genuinely love about this place is its kindness. People show up when disaster strikes. They serve one another. They volunteer. They rebuild homes after storms. The generosity is remarkable.

But I've also learned something else.

An Okie is an Okie.

Families run deep. Relationships stretch back generations. Everyone seems connected to someone who knows someone who knows someone. Newcomers are welcomed warmly but not always invited to dinner.

So we decided to practice something different.

For two minutes every Sunday, we would intentionally cross the aisle, shake a hand, ask a question, remember a name, and slowly retrain ourselves in the lost art of neighborliness.

At first, many people hated it.

Then something unexpected happened.

Many of those same people began telling us how much it had changed them.

Our friend Veronica Jones once told me that she and C.J. had lived on their cul-de-sac for nearly thirty years without really knowing the people around them. Thirty years. They waved politely, pulled into the driveway, and lived side by side without becoming neighbors.

Then she came here.

Week after week, she found herself practicing conversations with people she didn't know very well. It felt awkward. It stretched her. But eventually she realized something: maybe what she was practicing on Sunday mornings wasn't just for Sunday mornings.

So she went home and did the hard thing.

She started introducing herself to neighbors. She learned names. She asked questions. She listened to stories.

Today, if someone in that neighborhood needs to know something or needs help connecting with someone else, Veronica is often the first person they call.

She didn't just meet her neighbors.

She became one.

And that's exactly what Jesus is after in Matthew chapter 7.

He asks a question that is almost humorous.

"Why do you see the speck in your neighbor's eye but fail to notice the log in your own?"

Why is it that we can spot someone else's impatience but remain blind to our own?

Why can we identify another person's arrogance while excusing ours?

Why do we see everyone else's shortcomings in high definition while viewing our own through a foggy window?

I think I know the answer.

Because judging other people is easy.

Self-examination is hard.

Assuming motives is easy.

Listening is hard.

Winning an argument is easy.

Understanding another person is hard.

Posting an opinion is easy.

Changing ourselves is hard.

And Jesus seems to suggest that holiness begins not with mastering everyone else's faults but by honestly confronting our own.

That's difficult work.

It requires humility.

It requires patience.

It requires the willingness to say, "Perhaps I don't know the whole story."

A friend of mine, Dee Kelley, once said something that has stayed with me for years. He asked,

"What if, instead of arguing until someone wins, we took a posture of listening until someone feels heard?"

I think that might be one of the hardest sentences I've ever heard.

Because everything in us wants to correct before we comprehend.

We want to persuade before we understand.

We want to diagnose before we draw near.

Jesus says: remove the plank first.

Do the hard work first.

Only then will you see clearly.

Some time ago, a pastor friend was planting a church in Lawrence, Kansas. Like many church planters, he spent weeks walking neighborhoods and knocking on doors, introducing himself and inviting people to worship.

Most people never answered.

Some politely declined.

But one man named Muhammad invited him inside for tea.

Muhammad was a devout Muslim.

My friend was a Christian pastor trying to start a church.

They sat together and shared stories.

They talked about their families.

Their hopes.

Their disappointments.

Their experience of trying to find belonging in a place that often felt lonely.

And as they listened, both realized something surprising.

They weren't nearly as different as they had imagined.

Later my friend confessed that getting the church started had been exhausting. Week after week there were chairs to move, equipment to unload, tables to arrange. He desperately needed help setting everything up before worship.

But many of the people he expected to help never showed up.

So he called Muhammad.

And every week, that devout Muslim friend faithfully helped the Christian pastor prepare the space for worship.

That story has stayed with me because it reminds me that friendship often waits on the other side of courage.

The hard thing was not moving chairs.

The hard thing was accepting an invitation for tea.

The hard thing was listening long enough for assumptions to crumble.

The hard thing was discovering that another human being is not an issue to debate, but a story to receive.

That's the way of Jesus.

It also explains so much of what we try to practice here.

When we've marched alongside neighbors crying out for justice...

When we've spoken uncomfortable truths...

When we've chosen generosity even when budgets felt tight...

When we've directed offerings toward grieving families...

When we've paused to hear stories unlike our own...

None of those decisions have been easy.

But they have been holy.

Because holiness has never simply meant avoiding bad behavior.

Holiness is learning to love in difficult directions.

It is choosing curiosity over caricature.

It is replacing suspicion with hospitality.

It is refusing to let convenience become the measure of faithfulness.

Every Sunday, these practices are simply rehearsals.

The Good Neighbor Practice.

Communion.

Serving together.

Confession.

Prayer.

Listening.

They are all little training grounds preparing us for ordinary Tuesdays when no one is watching.

This week, you will have opportunities to choose the easy way.

You can scroll instead of calling.

Assume instead of asking.

Judge instead of listening.

Stay comfortable instead of reaching across the room.

Or you can do the hard thing first.

Call the friend you've been meaning to call.

Invite someone to coffee.

Learn your neighbor's name.

Ask someone how they're really doing—and then stop talking long enough to hear the answer.

You may discover that what felt awkward at first becomes the very place where grace meets you.

Because that's often how the Spirit works.

Not always through grand miracles or dramatic revelations.

Sometimes through coffee.

Sometimes through a two-minute conversation.

Sometimes through tea with someone you assumed you had nothing in common with.

And sometimes through the painful, honest work of letting God remove the plank from your own eye before pointing out the speck in someone else's.

As it turns out, doing the hard things first isn't just one of our church values.

It's one of the ways Jesus makes ordinary people holy.

So may we become the kind of people who choose the harder path of love, the slower path of listening, the humbler path of self-examination, and the braver path of neighborliness.

For on the other side of those hard things is often the Kingdom of God itself.

Amen.