April 26 ~ Amidst the Noise... Is There Still Room in Us for the Voice of the Shepherd

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Acts 2:42-47

Psalm 23

1 Peter 2:19-25

John 10:1-10

Sermon by Joel Crouse

We live in a world of noise and distraction 0—a world science shows us is shrinking our attention spans. In 2004, the average North American attention span on screen was 2.5 minutes. Not that long when you think about it. By 2012, according to research by Gloria Mark, an American informatics professor, that number had dropped to 47 seconds. Today, with Tik Tok, I imagine that is even shorter.

Our lives are full of interruptions: chirps from our phones, people making demands, the latest global news, the next thing we are told we absolutely must care about right now. More research by Dr. Mark found that it takes us an average of 23 minutes and 15 seconds to get back to a task once we are interrupted. Our culture had adapted – movies move faster, books are shorter.

Earlier this year, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck pointed out that Netflix is encouraging creators to repeat important plot points in character dialogue because they assume viewers are only half-watching while looking at their phones. That says something about the world we are living in. We are present, but only partly. We are always connected, but often barely attentive.

Despite all the ways that business and media try to capture our attention, who gets our attention is still, in the end, a choice. We choose to pay attention to our phones more than to the people around us. We choose to complain about what is wrong with the world rather than look for ways to make it right. We choose whether we are shepherds, or sheep who follow the attention bandits of consumerism, voyeurism, and polarization.

The gospel today reminds us that God is paying attention. It reminds us to invest our attention in what matters. Jesus, in telling this gospel, is putting a question to us: who gets our attention? Who do we follow?

In the gospel, Jesus uses the metaphor of the shepherd and the sheep, and not for the first time. Why is this metaphor so effective? We don’t see a lot of shepherds these days, but we can still understand the shepherd’s responsibility. Shepherds stay alert to the needs of their sheep. They protect the sheep from being stolen or injured. They hold the sheep safe in community. And they do this not only when it is a nice day to be outside. They do it through rain and snow. The shepherd, as Jesus describes himself, is a diligent, selfless guardian of the sheep.

And the sheep, Jesus says, hear the voice of the shepherd and pay attention.

That may be the hardest part for us to hear. Because attention is not just noticing something for a moment. Attention is an act of trust over time.  So, it’s not blind trust: the sheep know the shepherd’s voice because they have lived with it. They know its tone and character.  It is the voice that does not use fear to scatter them or shame to control them. It is the voice that gathers, restores, and leads. It is the voice that tells the truth about the world as it is, but refuses to let cruelty have the final word.

And because they know that voice, the sheep also know the difference between the shepherd and the thieves and bandits -- those who do not enter by the gate but climb in some other way. They are the voices that tell us we are what we own. The voices that tell us some people matter more than others. The voices that profit from our fear, our resentment, our exhaustion, and our distraction. The voices that do not love the sheep at all, but only want to use them.

“I am the gate,” Jesus says. “Whoever enters by me will be saved and will come in and go out and find pasture.”

There are many layers to unpack here. First, we are told that God enters through the gate, not sneaking into our midst. God is up front with us. The gospel is an open document.  Its truth is clear, even if living it is hard: love your neighbour, tell the truth, care for the vulnerable, forgive, share, show mercy, resist the powers that dehumanize. If we hear a whisper in our ear promising a too-good-to-be-true solution, we know that’s not God whispering. If we hear a voice urging us away from compassion, justice, and responsibility for one another, we know that is not the voice of Christ. God does not flatter our lesser selves. God calls us beyond them.

But Jesus also says: I am the gate. So now he is not just the shepherd entering among the flock; he is the gate itself, the one through whom we find safety, freedom, and life. And based on what we know about the rest of the gospel, we are not meant to imagine a narrow-hearted gatekeeper, eager to shut people out. No, this is the same Jesus who eats with outsiders, who speaks with the rejected, who heals on the wrong day, who breaks the rules of respectable religion whenever those rules get in the way of mercy. The gate is not there to keep frightened people away from God. The gate is there so that the sheep may know where life truly is.

And notice what Jesus says about that life. He says the sheep will come in and go out and find pasture. There is safety, yes, but there is also movement. There is shelter, but there is also mission. Faith is not hiding from the world. Faith is being grounded enough in the love of God that we can enter the world without being possessed by its noise. We come in to be gathered, healed, forgiven, and fed. We go out to serve, to love, to repair, to stand with those who are poor, forgotten, and lost.

What is true for us as individuals is true for us as a church.  We are not called to be a frightened pen, huddled together and suspicious of the world outside. The church is called to listen for the voice of Jesus and then to follow him into the world. Into the places of hurt. Into the work of justice. Into the mending of broken lives and broken communities. Into solidarity with the poor, the excluded, the newcomer, the one whose dignity is denied. If Jesus is the gate, then He is the way into a larger life, not a smaller one.

Finally, the gospel reinforces our covenant with God. Live a gospel-led life, we are told, and we will find the pasture we seek. Not a life free from conflict or pain, but a life rooted deeply enough in grace that we are not ruled by fear. A life where we remember that we belong to God, and therefore to one another.

And to do that, we must choose to pay attention.

That doesn’t mean we never get to watch the cute puppy video, or vent about the latest presidential post, or play video games.  Jesus is not calling us out of life, but more fully into it. He is asking whether beneath all the noise there is still room in us for the voice of the shepherd. Room for prayer, compassion, courage. Room for our neighbour. Room for the quiet, steady call of grace.

Our attention spans may be short on social media. But may they be long and faithful when it comes to the things of God. May we learn again to hear the shepherd’s voice above all the others. And hearing it, may we follow — not only into comfort, but into love, justice, mercy, and abundant life.

Amen

April 19 ~ 40 years of Resurrection Witness in Orleans

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Acts 2:14a, 36-41

Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19

1 Peter 1:17-23

Luke 24:13-35

Sermon by Joel Crouse

A few weeks ago, my Facebook feed turned up a video; it was about a clip another person had posted: he was venting about the fact that when he was hiking up a mountain; he would pass a woman on her own and she wouldn’t make eye contact or say hello. “I am not dangerous,” he said. “Would a hello hurt you?” Some of you in the pews probably have some thoughts about that: first, who was this guy to dictate how someone else should respond to his hello? Could he really not understand why a woman walking alone might not speak to a stranger? And why was he so upset about it, anyway?

It’s fair to say that, for all kinds of reasons, we have become a society where saying hello to strangers is a declining trend. For our mothers, sister, wives, and daughters, listening to the rhetoric of the time, it is reasonable to be questioning; as a large man, I can’t relate to the constant surveillance that my wife, Erin, for instance, naturally does at night while walking alone.

Yet, we are an urban nation, people who live among strangers. So, what, then, is our responsibility to the stranger we encounter? Certainly, at the basic level, it is to respect another’s space and right to privacy; to not police their reaction to our hello, to not make them feel threatened or cornered, to be polite. If most of us did that – if most of us made clear that we would step in on a stranger’s behalf – the sense of unease among those most vulnerable would decrease. The consideration we show to strangers, even more than the kindness we show to friends, sets the tone for society; how we view strangers is one of the most significant factors when it comes to shaping societal trust and well-being.

The small moments of connection are a recognition of our common humanity, our shared journey through the world. Instead, we put on our headphones and look at our phones and pretend not to see one another.

Were the disciples also so blind, walking with their heads down, focused on their own problems, that they failed to recognize Jesus? They meet this man on the road and they are shocked to hear that he has not heard the news from Jerusalem. They debate the news, but still fail to see the man before them. They almost miss Jesus entirely, the very best person to assist them – just as we so often miss the presence of the gospel in our own lives by not seeing the person right in front of us. That opening scene on the road to Emmaus reminds us of an important lesson: don’t dwell so deeply on your own problems and thoughts that you miss the solution right in front of you.

But then, the disciples recover. Because where they do not fail is in their hospitality. As they walk with this stranger, the day grows late, the road falls into shadow. A lot can happen at night alone on a road. They invite the stranger to join them, to stay with them. Let’s have dinner together, they say. And their act of kindness leads to revelation: Jesus reveals himself and they finally realize whom they have been walking with.

What if they had just let the man carry on into the night? What if they had not invited him to dinner when they had dinner to share? They would never have broken bread with Jesus. They would have missed out entirely.

So much of Easter is a challenge for us to see the world as it is, to be open to what is precious and wondrous all around us. Once the tomb is open, the encounters Jesus has with the disciples are fairly low-key. Shocking to them, to be sure, but accompanied by fireworks and choreography. He talks to them, he walks with them, he eats with them. He comes to them in ordinary ways, as if to say to them, and to us – it is, here, in the ordinary passing of the day, that the gospel can be found.

We know this, of course – how contentment and joy can be experienced by watching grandchildren play, by reading a storybook to our children, sharing a warm coffee with a good friend, cuddling with our partner in front of the TV. Just like a helpful stranger, do we see those moments for the gifts they are? Do we reflect on what made those moments special and seek to have more of them? And if we did, would we not feel more at peace, and closer to the gospel?

On the road the Emmaus, the disciples invited a stranger to walk with them. They debated the events of the day, and, for all we can see, respected one another’s points of view – certainly enough that they were happy to keep talking. They offered, but did not demand, the safety of company. And they were rewarded, just as we so often are, by learning something new about the humanity around us. That man on the hike had it all wrong; never say hello to a stranger with expectation – say hello because it is right to do so. Respect what happens next. Give them space. Allow them a voice. On the road to Emmaus, the disciples did this very thing. And if they had been able to post to Tik Tok, their version of the results would not have been resentful or bitter, but joyful. They would have created an opportunity for the gospel to come into their lives with openness and generosity. May we do the same.

Amen

April 12 ~ Doubt Pushes Us to Make a Leap of Faith

Acts 2:14a, 22-32

Psalm 16

1 Peter 1:3-9

John 20:19-31

Sermon by Joel Crouse

“Often wrong, never in doubt.” I am not sure exactly who coined this phrase.  The credit, depending on who you ask, goes to a lot of different people in many walks of life -- politics, business, science and philosophy. But then that’s probably because we all know someone who leans hard on that tendency. People who offer opinions as if they are facts, or who cite facts you know to be wrong, and won’t back down. People who are so certain of their own perspectives that they have decided this is the truth of the world, no matter what anybody else says.

Certainly, we can see how dangerous this is for all of us: to have leaders who never doubt. Leaders like this never listen to other viewpoints. They are never cautious with their own reactions. They rarely pause to consider consequences. Indeed, right now, the world is embroiled in a dangerous war involving leaders – on both sides – who are so certain in their flawed opinions that they would rather endanger all of us than be wrong.

Recently I read an online post that Christianity fears doubt, because once you start doubting it takes you to a place where belief and faith make no sense.

But the opposite is true: it is doubt that makes faith possible. If we didn’t have doubt, we would never have to make the leap to faith. If we didn’t have doubt, why would we need hope, faith’s close companion? If we never had doubt, the world would never change and improve.

It is the questioning of what was believed to be true that led to progress. People who had doubts asked why some of their neighbors were treated differently from others, why some citizens didn’t get the right to vote, why some people in love were not allowed to marry? It is why, at the end of every scientific paper, you will find a section on limitations, where the scientists identify the parts of their findings they have yet to fully understand. 

And so, if we look at doubt as something to be championed, Thomas is not the weak link of our gospel this morning – as he is so often portrayed. He is the hero; he is honest about his doubts and seeks an answer to them.  

After all, the other disciples, locked in their room, were quaking in their doubt; for what is fear but doubting that things will work out? And what assuaged their fears was seeing Jesus in person. Thomas, who wasn’t there, only voices the question the other disciples would have also been thinking: “I can’t believe, he says, until I see it for myself.”

Thomas is the representation of all our doubts. Where is God when people suffer? Where is God when I suffer? Where is God in this chaotic, violent world?

And Jesus does not shame Thomas for expressing his doubt. He appears to him. A week later, Jesus comes back—for Thomas. He meets him exactly where he is. He invites his questions. He offers his wounds again, saying: “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”  

And in that moment, we are reminded: following the gospel does not require blind faith.  It requires honest faith.

But then Jesus says: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

This statement has typically been seen as Jesus’s scolding Thomas, or as suggesting that those who believe without seeing are more faithful than he is. But the problem with this interpretation is that doubt doesn’t happen just once, it returns to us again and again.  To follow the gospel, Thomas would have had to believe without seeing many more times in his life.

Jesus, as I understand this passage, is saying there are two ways our faith is strengthened. There are things we see in the world around us – charity, kindness, the sunrise. And there are those unsettled mysteries that give us faith in something larger than ourselves. Nothing in life has a perfect and certain explanation. Every day we learn more about kindness as it appears in nature every day. We learned more about the sun when Artemis II made its lunar flyby this past week. We can never know everything – and in that unknowingness, we live with doubt. 

And to live fully in the human reality, we must accept what we do not know and have faith.  English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge called it, “the willing suspension of disbelief that constitutes poetic faith.” That is the blessing that Jesus extends in our sacred text today.  Many times, in our lives, we will have to leap - toward hope, toward joy, toward faith.  And when we do that, guided by the principles of the gospel, our doubt is what pushes us forward to a deeper understanding of the Divine. 

Faith is a recognition that the world is complicated, that thinking changes, that new discoveries are made. And that is the story of the Resurrection, as it plays out for the disciples, for Thomas, and for us.

The Resurrection we celebrate at Easter does not make the world perfect. It does not return us to some better time. It does not release the disciples from the risk-taking, courage, and hard work they will yet encounter. Jesus, in his very important conversation with Thomas, is reminding him, and all of us, that while we may get the answers clearly some of the time, we will have to go on faith most of the time. 

This is why, after all, we have the gospel to guide us forward in a nuanced world. When the path is unclear, how should we respond? We know this for sure: with compassion, with mercy, and with love. Amen