September 21st ~ You cannot serve both God and Wealth

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Amos 8:4-7

Psalm 113

1 Timothy 2:1-7

Luke 16:1-13 

Sermon by Pastor Joel

As parables go, our gospel this morning is a tricky one. Usually when Jesus offers a story to the crowd, the characters are pretty clear. The landowner in the Prodigal Son is God, the forgiving parent, and the wayward child is us, always welcomed back to the fold. The farmer throwing their tiny yet sturdy mustard seed on the field is the gospel that perseveres from many small, humble beginnings to grow tall and influential. The Good Samaritan is quite literally for us, the good Samaritan.

But the parable of the dishonest manager is tricky. It opens with a rich man who has discovered his manager has been cheating him and calls him to return to be disciplined. Before the meeting, the manager goes around forgiving parts of debts to make sure he has a place to go when his rich boss casts him out. When he brings what he retrieved from the people, he is not arrested and tossed out. Instead the rich man celebrates his cunning.

Now if we were in the crowd hearing this, we might assume, out of practice, that the rich man is God, and the dishonest manager is us, and Jesus is saying, “Go out and be sneaky for the good of the gospel.” Or maybe Jesus is saying that when we’re in trouble, then we should go out and curry favour from the ones we have mistreated – which, to be honest, seems much worse.

But take a step back, slow down. Our scene has already been set for us, earlier in the gospel. Jesus has been speaking for a while to a crowd. The disciples are there, and new, curious followers. And also sitting among them are the Pharisees, waiting, as we know, to catch Jesus going too far with his teachings so they can hold their power over the people. Considering the audience, the parable begins to make more sense.

Let’s take another look at the rich man, who we can easily presume has been aware for a while that he is employing a dishonest manager. How would that manager have been able to cheat his boss – unless by also cheating the people he was collecting debts from, by charging them too much, or not paying them enough for their goods. We can then assume that as long as the rich man got his piece of the pie, he was willing to look the other way. Now that he has learned that the manager has been slicing off to his disadvantage, he is outraged. So when the manager returns with the money, the rich man is appeased – he has made back what he deserved.

The Pharisees might hear this parable and think, okay, Jesus is saying it is okay to be sneaky and dishonest if your intentions are good. After all, people tend to hear what they want. But the disciples are meant to hear it another way. This is a parable about a system that rewards cunning over good conscience, wealth over generosity, and self-serving efficiency over ethical action.

So when Jesus then says, those that are faithful in little are faithful in much, he is indirectly reminding us of the parable of the mustard seed, which is little and becomes much. And when he says whoever is dishonest in little is also dishonest in much, we should be indirectly thinking of the Good Samaritan parable, where the priest walked by as justified that he was too busy to help, and yet left a man to die. In the context of our parable today, if we accept an unethical system that exploits the vulnerable to the benefit of the powerful, can we be counted on to stand up for the gospel? Our honesty must be firm and clear in all situations, not only with what we fairly own, but also with what others own and need.

If we think of the most daunting issue currently facing humanity, this parable becomes a powerful message. For as much as we recycle and compost as individuals, if we still build oversized homes and fight densification for the sake of our own property values, are we not much like the dishonest manager, accepting environmental cost for the sake of our own interests? And if we make a show of being concerned about climate change, but are unwilling to make sacrifices as a nation, have we not contributed to a world - hot and on fire - that we will leave to the next generation? Our individual actions are important – from all of Jesus’s parables this has been made clear. In the parable of the dishonest manager, Jesus is reminding us that the society we live in and the system we support must also be challenged.

Take a moment, each of us here, and think ahead – 30 years, 50 years, to the world we want to leave to our children and their children and all the younger people we care about. I imagine a world where life in the ocean is protected, where we have supported the science to mitigate the damage done, where we have learned to be proactive against wildfires and reduced our ongoing harm to environment. Where living with a small footprint has become not a bold choice but the accepted way – just like all the other animals on the planet who are instinctively careful not to destroy their own habitats. I imagine that those with more resources have, collectively, supported those who have been, through no fault of their own, displaced from their homes because of climate change. I imagine a world where we have learned to value community over materialism, and connection over competition.

Perhaps this is what you imagine as well, or, I hope, at least a version of it. It is certainly the kind of world that Robel and his family of 5 strive to preserve by saving every drip of water out a leaky tap and producing half the garbage that I do currently living on my own. It’s the kind of world we saw at the Draw the Line demonstration yesterday where legions of people pushed for a just system for people, peace, and the planet.

Achieving this future world is not easy. It will take hard individual choices but also collective action. We need to ask ourselves how we are complicit in a system that allows us to be dishonest managers. Cunning is not justice if it allows us to slip through loopholes and hide behind justifications.

Perhaps, we can begin with this strategic exercise. Are our individual choices steps backwards or forwards toward our vision of the future? When our government, because of complications such as tariffs and war, must change tack, has it done so wisely, without closing the door to that future? What happens when the consequences are clear – as with climate change? Will we choose what is convenient and easy, or will we act with integrity?

In the final part of the gospel, Jesus says, “You cannot serve both God and wealth.” By ending this way, Jesus shows that he didn’t mean we could be sly and dishonest with money when it suits. Those are not the actions of a just person. Wealth facilitates justice and meaningful life; it is not the path that leads to it. These days it is especially important for us to consider what we strive for, the material goods we value, and how they change our footprint in the world. May we think of that world we want to leave to the next generation, and move strategically forward with God’s grace and guidance to achieve it. Amen

September 14th ~ What Brings Us Back... When We Are Lost Sheep?

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Exodus 32:7-14

Psalm 51:1-10

1 Timothy 1:12-17

Luke 15:1-10  

Sermon by Pastor Joel

I was travelling to a visit in Perth on Wednesday when I learned that Charlie Kirk had died from a gunshot while speaking at a university in Utah. Mr. Kirk, as most of you will know, was a right-wing conservative activist and close ally of Donald Trump. He also identified loudly as a devout Christian, although his version of Christianity was decidedly not mine. For instance, Mr. Kirk once said that he thought empathy was a “new-age, made-up term” by which, based on his political views, he most certainly meant we were showing too much of it. Although the ancient, old-school gospel he purported to follow – including our reading this morning – has empathy woven through nearly every word.

That all said, one of the emotions I felt first when I heard the news was exactly that: empathy. Not some fluffy new-age kind. But the real and deep hurt you feel for a wife now left without a husband, and two children without a father. For the university students who witnessed first-hand such terrible violence – again – in their country. For Americans who are living in a time where political leaders are murdered and rhetoric is hateful. And for all us, watching helplessly as it happens.

But many things can be true at once. We can grieve for Mr. Kirk’s death and for his family, but also loathe the judging, nasty version of the world he stood for. We can condemn the violence that silenced his voice, while feeling repulsed that he so often cited Jesus to make his case, using the gospel as a tool to criticize and divide. We can feel anger remembering that assassinations of Democratic leader and Minnesota state Rep. Melissa Hortman and her husband earlier this year did not prompt a similar outpouring of outrage from the President of the United States. And we can feel outrage that Charlie Kirk will receive the highest civilian honour in his country, despite his having so dishonourably used his prominent podium to once suggest that accomplished Black female leaders such as Michelle Obama did not, quote, “have the brain-processing power to be taken seriously.” Despite his calling Dr. Martin Luther King Jr an “awful” person. Despite creating a watchlist of Black and queer professors and activists, and by doing so encouraged death threats and harassment designed to silence their voices while his freedom of speech remains sacrosanct.

We can feel all these things, and still understand that no one should die this way. These are not simple times. Our response to them need not—and should not—be simple.

By his own words, we might assume that Charlie Kirk would likely not have supported the message in our gospel reading this morning. We are reminded of the shepherd who, despite having 99 safe sheep, still goes out into the wilderness to find and care for the single one that has been lost. Charlie Kirk, by comparison, once argued that gun deaths in America were an acceptable price for free and unfettered gun law. Unfortunate, he said, but acceptable. He didn’t say how many were acceptable. Were five dead people okay? Or ten? Or the more than 500 young students killed in school shootings over the last two decades in the US.

I raise these questions and details this morning, because we must stand guard against this kind of thinking seeping into our country, our own families, the social media that our children digest. Mr. Kirk’s message got attention because it was appealing. It said: “I am one of the righteous sheep; why don’t I deserve more than that other one?”

Yet we are reminded, in our gospel, that every sheep has value, no matter what they look like, where they came from, who they love, whether they were born lucky or not, whether they have privilege or not, whether they have succeeded by the world’s measure, or stumbled. One sheep that is lost and returns to the flock is worthy of celebration, the gospel says, even beyond all the righteous ones who remained. This entire thinking runs contrary to the way our world is heading – in our world, the comfortable sheep often matter most. And perhaps, if you are honest, when you read this, you thought, even just a little: shouldn’t the righteous ones at least be celebrated more than the sheep that messed up?

But this parable is actually a riddle. And the answer to this riddle is not, in fact, that there is one flock of perfect sheep and a few miscreant sheep who go missing and need help getting back. The answer is that we are all miscreant sheep who wander away from the shepherd, over and over again, and need help returning. We all mess up. And we all count.

The parable is actually a lesson in self-compassion and forgiveness. If we can accept that we are imperfect followers of the gospel, that we wander repeatedly away from it, and yet are forgiven and still highly valued, then Jesus is also telling us to forgive ourselves. To turn our compassion – indeed, our empathy – inward, and accept that we are flawed, careless, selfish, foolish. We are all those things because we are human. And yet Jesus, the shepherd, will search for us no matter what – so that returned to the flock we may, in turn, search for others.

This is the part so often missing from right-wing Christian rhetoric, and the message we need both to resist and to fight against. There is a reason that the gospel spends so much time reminding us that we are flawed and yet forgiven. Self-compassion is arguably the most important step to becoming that shepherd who sees the value of every single sheep. If our flaws make us human, then everyone who is flawed is also human. If we stop judging ourselves so harshly, we stop judging others. Empathy for our own mistakes inspires empathy for others.

What might also be overlooked in our short parable is how that lost sheep journeys back to the flock. The shepherd goes looking and finds the lost one. But what brings the sheep back? The shepherd is the presence of God and the justice and kindness of the gospel; are we not called to be that presence for others? If so, what brings the sheep back is not judgement and condemnation, but support and community. We know this. Because when we are that lost sheep what brings us back? Not hate. But love.

What can we do in times like these, we sometimes ask helplessly? We can do so very much. We can feel true empathy for the pain that others feel – the kind of empathy that puts us in someone else’s shoes and helps us support them on their path. We can practice compassion – for ourselves first and then extend it to others. We can value the lost sheep, knowing that we are often lost. In the midst of chaos, when the world seems consumed with a fog of hate, we can light the way and go searching for those who need us. Amen

September 7th ~ To Persist out of Love

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Deuteronomy 30:15-20  

Psalm 1  

Philemon 1-21  

Luke 14:25-33  

Sermon by Pastor Joel

A few months ago, The Globe and Mail ran a story about six-year-old Brienne Glasgow, who was trying in a single day to learn to ride a bike without training wheels. Maybe you remember this experience yourself. Or perhaps as a parent. Brienne Glasgow, like so many Canadian kids before her, arrives at the park with cat-shaped sunglasses, a white bike helmet, and her first official two-wheeler. She takes a go, but with the training wheels off, she wobbles and falls. Even with a helping push and an adult holding the seat, she is too tippy to get far. Around her, kids are getting frustrated or collapsing in tears. Brienne gets up and tries again. Soon, she can travel a bit on her own, but she can’t start without help. It is getting dark, and yet Brienne keeps trying. Finally, on her own, she puts her foot on the pedal and pushes; the bike flies off and she is free. No one is – or even can – hold the seat anymore to prevent a fall, and Brienne – like all of us in that same moment – would not want anyone to do so. The pedals are hers to control. The path forward is hers to choose.

Perhaps you remember a similar moment – that breaking free from one of the strings of childhood. The first time riding a bike. The first time on the school bus. The first time driving the car alone. The day you said goodbye to your parents at residence. None of those experiences were possible without support, without lessons. And they were hard. We scraped knees. We were nervous. We had to take responsibility for someone else’s safety. We had to work. But in that moment, when they happened, our lives truly belonged to us. The path forward was our choice.

Now Jesus sounds awfully harsh for the first official week back at school and with the last chill vibes of summer holidays drifting away. Here’s Jesus, speaking to the crowd – to potential followers, like us, and telling them that to be a disciple they have to hate their parents, their siblings, even their own children and give up all their possessions. Never mind that in the first lesson we have the added confusion of reminding of us the Ten Commandments, which include the ones about honouring your mother and father, and remaining faithful to your partner.

But of course, Jesus is not telling us to hate anyone; he is making the point that to find our own understanding of the gospel, our own purpose, we must stand apart from those who, out of love, would limit our independence, or out of fear for our safety would want to keep us the same, or out of protection would not want us to risk. Because, Jesus is saying, this is what it means to follow the gospel: we must be independent, we must be open to change, and we must risk. We cannot be forces for good if we are constantly weighing the cost first. We have to hop on the bike and pedal.

Now I imagine, Jesus is making this point because the gospel makes no sense in the real world. Giving to the poor – who cannot do the same for you - is foolish if you need to preserve your own resources. Helping the sick widow will not elevate your status in the community. And yet, Jesus says, if you don’t carry the cross you cannot be my disciple. Carrying the cross makes the least sense of all. Jesus died carrying that cross even though he was an innocent; he carried that cross only for his faith and his disciples. And we are called to do the same – to pay a price for the sake of other people. Not because we are guilty. But because we must.

But should that frighten us from discipleship? Let me ask you: is it life’s being hard and challenging that truly scares you? When isn’t life challenging? It was hard for Brienne to learn to ride that bike, and yet she did it. Maybe it was hard to leave home to live with strangers; yet you did it. It is hard to get through loss and illness and change, and yet we do it every day. I don’t think the cost of discipleship that worries us is that it will be hard. It is that we can’t control what happens next. That is why that push off on the bike, that decision to put your feet on the pedals and go for it, is so monumental. You might fail. You might fall. And you might travel faster on the power of your own feet than you ever have in your entire life.

But that’s faith, isn’t it? You just have to go for it.

The part that’s cut from this speech from Jesus is actually referenced in our second lesson. Because, of course, Jesus doesn’t mean that we are to be alone and reject community in service to the gospel; rather by breaking away to find our path, we return to build better relationships and better community. What’s more, the gospel by nature is never solitary; it requires people’s working and debating and making hard decisions together.

And that’s what Paul, from prison, writes to his friend Philemon; he is sending him Onesimus, whom Paul befriended, and asking him not to keep him as a slave but to welcome him as a brother. I could command you, Paul writes, but I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love. Do the right thing, Paul is saying, not because you owe me one, but because you choose to do so with kindness and faith. And harsh as Jesus sounds, the same message is meant for us. If we release ourselves from one set of rules for the sake of the gospel – if we put justice above self-advantage, and generosity before wealth, and the stranger in need ahead of our mother who is not in need – if, in fact, we persist out of love, we cannot fail.

I don’t know what that persistence looks like today, this week, for each one of us. Maybe we don’t know yet. It might be forcing yourself to say hello. Maybe it’s writing a letter about climate change to your MP. Maybe it’s staring down a bully. Maybe it’s listening carefully to someone else. Jesus wants us to choose whatever those steps are for ourselves – and to allow others to do the same. To persist out of love. Put your feet on the pedals, trusting yourself and God, and go. Amen