Speak Truth, kindly…

Matthew 10: 24–39

What a gospel for my first Sunday back… “Have no fear… nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered… what is whispered in the dark, proclaim from the housetops.”

Well… here we are.

I saw this passage was in the lectionary for today when I was beginning to wonder if I might be able to come back. When I read those words I knew it was time – because it reminds us that truth is biblical, and speaking truth is holy and sacred, and a demand from Jesus. So, a bit like Jeremiah, “within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.” So let’s dive right in.

Many of you will know I have long been obsessed with kindness. It is my favourite fruit of the Spirit, and for decades I have been on a one-woman campaign to raise the profile of kindness. In our first year together, our word of the year was kindness. It was the basis of our “where everyone is welcome” slogan, and I return to it over and over, and always will.

In the last three months I have been encouraged to revisit kindness many times. What I hadn’t previously understood was how complicated kindness becomes when fear enters the room. Maybe I had confused kindness with keeping the peace. Avoiding conflict. Absorbing the hurt. Staying silent. Sometimes silence is wise. Sometimes it is the kind thing to do. Sometimes silence helps people heal. But sometimes silence protects the very things that cause harm. And when that happens, silence is no longer kindness—it becomes complicity.

That is where today’s Gospel meets us. Jesus says, “Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.” We often hear that as a warning—something terrifying. But I am beginning to see it not as a threat, but as a promise. A beautiful, holy promise. A promise that God is always moving towards truth. Towards light. Towards healing. Because healing can only begin when truth is allowed to exist.

Truth-telling is an act of love. A deep kindness. Not because truth is always comfortable, but because reconciliation cannot grow in the shadows. What is hidden must be brought into the light so that healing, justice and peace can take root and flourish. Once again, we have so much to learn from our First Nations siblings, who continue to teach us that truth-telling is not about blame, but about healing relationships and creating a future built on honesty, justice and hope.

And yet fear makes truth difficult. Fear of conflict. Fear of consequences. Fear of upsetting people. Fear of what might happen if difficult things are spoken aloud. That is why Jesus says three times in this Gospel: “Do not be afraid.” Because fear should not determine who we become.

One of the hardest lessons I have been learning these past few months is that good people become complicit in unhealthy things not because they are cruel, but because they are afraid. I have been that person—and it hasn’t helped. We tell ourselves we are keeping the peace. We convince ourselves we are being kind. But fear does not produce the kind of community Christ calls us to be.

And then Jesus says something even more confronting:

“Do not think I have come to bring peace, but a sword.”

Jesus’ sword is not a sword of violence, but a sword of truth, and truth divides.

Not everyone welcomes the light. But the Gospel has always been about bringing things into the light, where healing can begin. It has never been about protecting darkness. The Gospel is the continuation of the story of God whose first words were: “Let there be light.” And it was good. Light has always been the goal.

This year I missed Holy Week. I missed Easter. I missed Pentecost.

And yet those seasons have been teaching me anyway.

Easter reminds us that truth cannot stay buried forever. The powers of the world tried to seal the tomb, close the story, and keep everything hidden. But the stone was rolled away. The light returned. Life returned. Hope returned. Darkness did not win.

And Pentecost reminds us that fear does not get the final word.

The Spirit pushes frightened disciples out of locked rooms and into the light.

Again and again, God moves people from fear to courage, from secrecy to truth, from darkness to light.

And that is why I have always loved that we live and worship in a place called Beaconsfield.

Because a beacon has only one purpose: to carry light. To make light visible. To help people find their way. A beacon doesn’t create light; it simply refuses to hide it. And that is the calling of the Church. To carry the light of Christ into every place where fear, silence, or harm threaten to take hold—especially the darkest places. And to do so with kindness.

A deeply radical and courageous kindness that seeks healing for all people.
A kindness that protects the vulnerable and tells the truth.
A kindness that refuses to let fear—or silence—have the final word.

Because beacons were never made for the daylight. They were made for the dark.

And we get to decide… what kind of church we will be.

May we speak truth with kindness and always be bearers of the Light. Amen.