“My wife’s enemies are now my enemies too.” That was the headline of an article I came across some years ago by writer Josh Gondelman. And honestly, it’s hard to ignore a headline like that – specially when you’re sitting in a waiting room with nothing else to do. The subtitle was even better: “No one tells you about the other in-laws you acquire when you get married.”
Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the 20th Sunday in Ordinary Time — August 16, 2026. I’m always grateful for those who return each week, and especially for those who share these reflections with friends, family members, and others through social media. If something here speaks to you, I’d be grateful if you would pass it along to someone who might need to hear it as well.
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Your comments, messages, encouragement, and continued support mean more than you know. Thank you for being part of this ministry and for helping these homilies reach far beyond the place where they are first preached.. Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim
Gondelman explained that before meeting his wife, he pretty much got along with everybody. Or at least he avoided conflict well enough that he didn’t really have enemies. But marriage changed that. Because when two people become one, you don’t just inherit each other’s families, traditions, favorite restaurants, vacation spots, and weird little habits. Apparently, you inherit enemies too.
He jokingly called them “enemies-in-law” as he gave examples like: the childhood bully, the former best friend, the irritating cousin, the professional rival, the celebrity your spouse cannot stand, maybe even the neighborhood dog that has been holding a grudge for years. Most of the article was pretty funny.
But the reason I remembered it was because it underscored something pretty recognizable. Underneath that humor is a lot of truth and it’s something human beings do. We inherit each other’s enemies.
Someone hurts somebody we love, and almost automatically we decide: Well, then I don’t like them either. Someone tells us, “You know what she did to me?” and before long, we’ve taken up a grievance over something that never even happened to us. Families do it. Friend groups do it.
Political movements do it. Nations do it. Even religious communities can do it. We inherit resentments, suspicions, labels, prejudices—sometimes without ever stopping to ask where they came from.
That’s one of the things that makes today’s Gospel incredibly challenging. Jesus travels into the region of Tyre and Sidon, outside familiar Jewish territory, and a Canaanite woman comes running toward Him. Matthew deliberately calls her a Canaanite. That word carries history: She comes from a people Israel had regarded as enemies for generations. She is a foreigner. An outsider. Someone the disciples would instinctively have regarded with suspicion.
So here she is crying out: “Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David! My daughter is tormented by a demon.” And very quickly the disciples have had enough. “Send her away.” In other words: Jesus, make her stop.
Very quickly the Gospel feels awkward. As we hear Jesus allowing the assumptions and divisions everyone is carrying to come right out into the open. He speaks about being sent to the lost sheep of Israel. Then comes that line that still jars us: It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs.”
But the woman doesn’t storm away. She doesn’t retaliate. She doesn’t allow centuries of hostility between her people and theirs to determine what happens next. She says:
“Please, Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the table of their masters.”
And Jesus responds: “O woman, great is your faith!” And suddenly everything turns. The person the disciples wanted dismissed becomes the person Jesus praises. The outsider becomes the example of faith. The woman they wanted Jesus to send away becomes one of the few people in the Gospel whom Jesus explicitly describes as having great faith.
That is exactly why the first reading from the prophet Isaiah matters so much and is coupled with this Gospel reading this weekend: Isaiah speaks about foreigners who join themselves to the Lord, who love His name, who worship Him. And God says: “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.” As Christians, we know that prophecy finds its fulfillment not in a piece of real estate in the ancient city of Jerusalem, but ultimately in Jesus Christ Himself.
That distinction matters. Because from time to time – especially as of late – you hear Christian Zionist preachers speak almost breathlessly about rebuilding the Temple in Jerusalem, as if Christians are waiting for the Old Testament sacrificial system to be restored – as if rebuilding that structure would somehow move God’s plan forward.
But the New Testament points us in exactly the opposite direction.
Jesus Himself quotes Isaiah’s words – “My house shall be called a house of prayer” – when He cleanses the Temple. And then Jesus says something even more radical: “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.” St. John immediately explains that Jesus “was speaking about the temple of his body.”
That changes everything. Jesus is not one more figure pointing us back toward the Temple. Jesus is the Temple. He is where humanity encounters God. He is where the definitive sacrifice is offered. He IS THE SACRIFICE – He is the High Priest and the Lamb.
And through His death and Resurrection, access to God is no longer defined by whether you were born Jewish or Gentile, whether you live near Jerusalem or a thousand miles away. That is what Isaiah was looking toward when he said: “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.”
St. Paul says the same thing in another way today. He is wrestling with the division between Jews and Gentiles, but he refuses to conclude that God has abandoned anyone. “The gifts and the call of God are irrevocable.” And then Paul says that God has permitted all to experience disobedience “that he might have mercy upon all.”
In short, Isaiah speaks about all peoples. St. Paul speaks about God having mercy upon all.
And Jesus holds up as an example of great faith the very woman His disciples wanted Him to send away.
Do you see what God keeps doing?
We keep drawing circles. God keeps making them bigger. We decide who belongs and who doesn’t. Who is close to God and who isn’t. Who deserves compassion and who doesn’t. Who is on our side and who is the enemy. And sometimes we inherit those judgments without even realizing it.
Maybe someone hurt your parents twenty years ago, and somehow they became your enemy too.
Maybe there is someone in your family whose name cannot be mentioned without everybody rolling their eyes.
Maybe you’ve inherited a political hatred, a prejudice, a resentment toward a particular group of people.
Maybe somebody you love had a terrible experience with someone, and now you have an opinion about a person you’ve never even met.
Or maybe the enemy isn’t inherited.
Maybe somebody really did hurt you.
Really betrayed you.
Really lied about you.
Really wounded you.
The Gospel doesn’t ask us to pretend that evil isn’t evil. Forgiveness doesn’t mean immediately restoring trust. Christian love doesn’t mean abandoning healthy boundaries or pretending every relationship is safe. But Jesus does demand something much harder: We are never permitted to decide that another human being is beneath the mercy of God.
And that’s where this Gospel becomes an examination of conscience.
Who have I reduced to a category? Who is “one of those people” to me? Who have I decided I already understand because of their politics, religion, nationality, race, background, past mistakes, or reputation? Who do I secretly enjoy disliking? Who do I want my friends to dislike because they hurt me? Whose enemies have I inherited?
Because we’re very good at finding people who will validate our anger. We tell them the story and they say, “You’re absolutely right.” So we tell it again. We send the screenshot. We forward the text. We replay what happened. And before long we’ve created a little community held together not by love, but by a common enemy.
The world already knows how to do that. It knows how to divide people into camps. It knows how to label. It knows how to demonize. It knows how to tell us whom we’re supposed to hate.
Jesus Christ came to do something different. That’s why maybe one of the most dangerous prayers we could pray after hearing this Gospel is: “Jesus, let me see the person I struggle with the way You see them.” Because He might.
And He may show me that this person I have labeled, dismissed, or inherited as an enemy is still someone created by His Father. Someone for whom He shed His blood. Someone He hasn’t given up on. And therefore someone I don’t have the right to give up on either.
That article joked that when you marry someone, you inherit their enemies. But when we belong to Christ, we’re supposed to inherit something else:
His heart.
And the more His heart becomes ours, the harder it becomes for us to look at anyone and say: “Send them away.”
