22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time 2026

Have you ever downloaded a new app and immediately clicked “I have read and agree to the Terms and Conditions” without reading a single word?

We all do it. For all we know, buried in the fine print is a pledge saying, “By clicking Agree, you grant us permission to name your firstborn child 'Algorithm' and use your living room as our corporate warehouse.”

Yet we click it anyway. Then, down the road, when the hidden obligations suddenly surface, we find ourselves thinking, “Wait a minute—I didn't sign up for this!”

Life has a funny way of catching us with that same unread fine print.

And then something happens that makes us stop and ask:

“Did I sign up for this?”

A teacher goes into education because she loves teaching children. Then she finds herself dealing with behavioral problems, difficult parents, paperwork, technology, and situations they never mentioned in college.

“Did I sign up for this?”

Parents bring home that beautiful little baby. They expect diapers and sleepless nights. But years later, that child may be struggling or making choices that break their hearts.

“Did I sign up for this?”

A husband and wife stand before God on their wedding day filled with hopes and dreams. Years later, one becomes seriously ill, and suddenly the other becomes a caregiver.

“Did I sign up for this?”

A son or daughter suddenly realizes that Mom or Dad can no longer live independently. The roles begin to reverse, and now the child is making decisions for the parent who once made all the decisions for them.

“Did I sign up for this?”

And priests have those moments too.

When I entered the seminary, I imagined celebrating Mass, preaching the Gospel, hearing confessions, baptizing babies, celebrating weddings, visiting the sick and burying the dead.

Then you become a pastor and discover budgets, insurance, personnel issues, leaking roofs, broken boilers, endless meetings—and somehow trying to be in three places at the same time!

There have certainly been moments over the past 25 years when I've looked toward heaven and thought:

“Lord, I don't remember this being in the seminary brochure!”

Jeremiah would understand.

Listen again to the very first words of today's first reading:

“You duped me, O LORD, and I let myself be duped.”

That's quite a thing to say to God!

Jeremiah had said yes to God. He had accepted the call to be a prophet. But now he was discovering what that yes was going to cost him.

People laughed at him. They mocked him. They rejected him.

And Jeremiah essentially says:

“Lord, I didn't sign up for this!”

Peter discovers the same thing in today's Gospel.

Remember where we left Peter last Sunday.

Jesus asked, “Who do you say that I am?”

Peter answered:

“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus praised him. He called Peter the rock upon which he would build his Church. He gave him the keys to the Kingdom of heaven.

Peter must have been feeling pretty good.

And then Jesus tells him what comes next:

Jerusalem.

Suffering.

The Cross.

Death.

And Peter says:

“God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you.”

You can almost hear Peter saying:

“Whoa! Wait a minute! This isn't what I signed up for!”

And that's when Jesus gives Peter—and all of us—the terms and conditions of discipleship:

“Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.”

There it is.

The fine print.

Except Jesus didn't hide it somewhere on page 37.

Jesus never promises that following him will mean a life without suffering or sacrifice. He tells us plainly:

Take up your cross and follow me.

So when we find ourselves saying, “I didn't sign up for this,” maybe the answer is both no and yes.

No, the parent didn't sign up for the particular struggle their child is facing.

No, the husband or wife didn't choose the illness.

No, the teacher couldn't anticipate every crisis that would walk through the classroom door.

And no, they certainly didn't teach me everything I would eventually face as a priest.

But somewhere along the way, each of us made a bigger promise.

The parent said:

“I will love this child.”

The husband and wife said:

“For better, for worse, in sickness and in health.”

The priest said:

“I will serve God's people.”

And every Christian says to Jesus:

“I will follow you.”

We didn't necessarily sign up for everything that would happen to us.

We signed up to be faithful when it does.

And that's what makes Jeremiah's story so beautiful.

Jeremiah becomes so frustrated that he decides he's done. He says:

“I will not mention him, I will speak in his name no more.”

That's it, Lord. I'm finished.

But then Jeremiah discovers that he can't walk away.

Because God's word has become:

“like fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones.”

The situation hasn't gotten easier.

The people haven't stopped mocking him.

The problems haven't disappeared.

But the fire is still there.

The call is still there.

God is still there.

Maybe that's what happens in our own vocations.

There are days when a parent is exhausted—but the love is still there.

There are days when a marriage is tested—but the promise is still there.

There are days when a teacher wonders how much more she can give—but the calling is still there.

There are days when a priest wonders, “Lord, how exactly did I end up doing this?”—but the fire is still there.

And there are days when every Christian looks at the cross in front of them and says:

“Lord, I didn't sign up for this.”

And Jesus says:

“Follow me.”

But there's one more thing we shouldn't miss.

When Jesus tells Peter what's going to happen in Jerusalem, Peter hears the suffering.

He hears the Cross.

He hears the death.

But apparently he doesn't hear the last thing Jesus says:

“and on the third day be raised.”

Peter hears the Cross.

He misses the Resurrection.

And sometimes we do too.

When we're in the middle of something we never expected, the cross can become so big that it's all we can see.

But the terms and conditions of discipleship don't end with the Cross.

They end with Resurrection.

The struggle is real.

The sacrifice is real.

The cross is real.

But so is the promise.

And so, when life brings us somewhere we never imagined we would be, maybe we can say:

“Lord, I didn't know this was where my yes would take me. But I said yes to you. And I still mean it.”

Take up your cross.

Follow me.

Lose your life for my sake—

and you will find it.

Maybe that's the fine print we need to read again.

And then, once again, we check the box:

“I agree.”

Or, as Christians have been saying for two thousand years:

Amen.