September 28th ~ Caring Counts in God's Economy

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Amos 6:1a, 4-7

Psalm 146

1 Timothy 6:6-19

Luke 16:19-31 

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Here’s a question for you: Who cooked Jesus’ dinner? Who got the food, prepared it, washed the dishes, tidied the place where they stayed? We hear in the Gospels that Jesus and the disciples traveled a lot, that they ate, that they lodged in people’s homes. But the people who made those meals, who cleaned up, who helped host—those laborers are almost invisible. Martha appears sometimes; more often though, those servants are characters in parables, not in our everyday mental pictures of how the gospel got done. Perhaps you’ve never thought much about them—those doing the unseen, essential work.

This morning’s story: Lazarus lay by the city gate, sores and abandonment, while a rich man passed by every day. The man lived in comfort. Lazarus was ignored. And after death, our gospel says their fates were reversed. Abraham’s rhetorical question to the rich man is piercing: how could you not see? How could you not respond? God’s economy is not the same as ours. Our worldly metrics—wealth, comfort, status—don’t map directly onto what God values.

Look at what’s happening here in Canada right now: unpaid caregivers in Canada are at a breaking point. Many are providing more than 20 hours of care per week, taking on major responsibilities—feeding, bathing, managing medications, driving to appointments—all in addition to whatever jobs or family obligations they already have. During the pandemic, we saw how personal care workers – the most poorly paid in our official caregiving system – were also needed to do, at their own risk, the heavy lifting that kept many our loved ones alive in long term care homes. The burden of caregiving came home to all of us during the pandemic – whether we were caring, or cared for, and seeing the pain and grief in the eyes of the nurses and doctors holding our hospital system together. And we also learned, very clearly, the solace that comes from holding a hand, the power of human presence, the comfort of just being noticed. Framed against the memory of the pandemic, how much more clearly can we understand the plight of Lazarus? And yet, how often are we still the rich man, who walks on past, who pretends not to see the human being suffering within sight – who avoids their own caregiving responsibilities? How often do we draw a line between who we care for and who we don’t? And how often do we fail to acknowledge – or properly value - the care we receive ourselves?

Think for a moment: who in your circle is doing that kind of work? Maybe a parent caring for an elderly relative. Maybe someone who takes days off to care for a disabled child. Or someone who does shifts, comes home exhausted, but still prepares meals, keeps the house clean, keeps relationships going. Their love and labor are sustaining us—our communities, our neighbors—every day. Yet too often we fail to see that.

The story of Lazarus and the rich man calls us to see what we often overlook. Lazarus represents those who are invisible—people outside the systems of power; people without status; people whose needs are ignored. The rich man represents those who live in plenty but fail to see their neighbor’s need. In God’s economy, ignoring someone in need is not just neglect—it reveals blindness of the heart.

These Canadian caregivers are like Lazarus in many respects: overlooked, under-valued, carrying burdens that many of us don’t see. The Gospel challenges us: whose Lazarus are we walking past? Whose labor are we benefiting from but ignoring? Whose struggle are we dismissing?

As a progressive Lutheran community, we believe that all people bear the image of God, and that love and justice are central to our calling. Invisible labor—especially caregiving—is sacred work. It is part of God’s creation to care, not only for the strong and the well, but for all, especially the vulnerable.

We also believe that our faith has policy implications. It’s not enough to think benevolently—we must act. How many caregivers are still slipping through the cracks? How many are working so many unpaid hours that they lose jobs, lose mental health, lose relational connection?

In our gospel, when the rich man learns of his blindness of heart, he is immediately remorseful; Lazarus is in heaven and he is not. And yet, what is his first response? It is to care for someone else. He thinks immediately of his brothers, making the same mistake as he did, and panicked asks for them to be told to fix their ways. And so we learn, quite clearly, that this rich man is capable of caring, capable of empathy. His heart was not completely blind. He was just too short-sighted in his vision.

How might he have done differently? How might we do differently today?

For starters, as always we must see the Lazarus in our midst, and ask them what they need, rather than assume we already know. But we can also build that caregiving muscle we all possess but looking more closely at those already doing the unsung and undervalued labour of care in our midst, the work that is so often the least valued in our market economy, and yet the most valuable to our human condition. Why is it valued the least? The rich man can grow a harvest, sell it and fill his coffers. The caregiver grows a harvest quietly and invisible, and the currency is banked in love and hope, which aren’t measured on the stock market or in a country’s GDP.

But we can change that; it’s only our culture, with our permission that has decided it is this way. We can honour unsung caregivers in our congregation and community. Speak their names. Pray for them. Give thanks for their work. Make sure our church acknowledges, in worship and pastoral care, those whose undervalued labor holds our families, our communities and our country together.

We can expand our vision. If we are relying on people to do invisible work, how can that labour be more equitably organized. Let’s ask: Who is carrying the burden? How can we share it better?

We can advocate for policy change. Support laws and programs that recognize caregivers, by offering financial assistance, leaves from work, mental health support, respite care. For example, Ottawa or provincial legislators could strengthen protections for employed caregivers—so they don’t lose their own wages or careers when they also need to offer care to their own loved ones.

And we can live daily, with a caregiving perspective. When we see someone struggling, offer help: a meal, a ride, a break. Elevate caregiving in our civic conversations. Vote for parties that recognize the care economy. Support funding for home care, for long-term care, for accessible mental health supports.

Returning to the story of Lazarus: we are challenged not just to hear, but to see. Not just to feel, but to respond. The Gospel insists that what is ignored on earth will matter in the realm of God’s justice. The ones carrying burdens unseen—the caregivers—matter deeply to God.

At the beginning of this sermon, I asked a question: who cooked Jesus dinner? It’s a question meant to force us to see the care being provided that keeps our system going. The rich man in our gospel was only able to become rich because of this care. He walked past Lazarus every day because he failed to see this care, to recognize the role it played in his own life, and to then offer it to someone else. He missed the whole point: the care we receive makes us strong, so that we can then give care ourselves.

May we be a people who see. May we be people who act. And may we build a community and a society where nobody is invisible, where care is counted, where love is seen, and where hope and justice flow as freely as grace.

Amen

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