Feb. 22 ~ The temptation of turning stone to bread and the temptation of easy answer

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Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7

Psalm 32

Romans 5:12-19

Matthew 4:1-11

Sermon by Joel Crouse

For this Sunday, I was given a sermon from the Eastern Synod’s Climate Justice Committee to read to you. After some thought, however, I am not going to read that sermon - not in its entirety. A copy, however, is available to anyone who wants it.

When I read and reflected on the sermon provided, it didn’t sit right with me. We live in a complicated time, and the words I speak must reflect that. We have to approach this age - when so many of our values are threatened, our sovereignty is challenged, our climate is being destroyed, our children don’t have jobs, and still in this wealthy country, we have people without homes dying on the street. In fact, in January, I buried a man who died on our city streets; no one even knew his name.

In this difficult world, Jesus gives us guidance; and I, from this place, seek to represent that guidance, to pose questions that I hope reveal something of the gospel. As your pastor, I can walk with you toward an answer. I can support you in your search. But your answer, in the end, is between you and God.

In our gospel, this morning, we hear the story of Eve’s temptation by the serpent in the Garden, and the Devil’s temptation of Jesus in the desert. I want to address both - although the Synod’s sermon touches only on the latter.

For starters, I don’t think we should ever read that story about Eve in church, without requiring the pastor to address it. Without the pastor’s comments, too many parts of the Bible have left judgement mistakenly cast on women. We all know the story: God tells Eve and Adam not to eat the apple; the serpent convinces Eve to take a bite, she shares it with Adam, and they leave the Garden of Eden forever. There are so many aspects of this story that have always made me wonder. First, why did God, knowing our human failings, understanding our desire for knowledge and our innate curiosity, place such a test upon us, dangling an apple that would separate us from God within such tantalizing reach? Also, why were we expected to live in paradise forever, when it is against our very nature - when we are a species designed to reach for the future, to grow and change?

Perhaps the lesson here is that God never intended for us to remain in the Garden of Eden forever; but to go out in the world and fail and succeed where we could. By leaving the garden, we acquired free will, the ability to choose our fate; and years later when Jesus arrived on the scene, he honoured and valued that free will by creating a gospel that was a guide and inspiration but not a cage.

In that sense, what did Eve do but hope what all mothers do for their families? That they would find their own way into the world, learn from failure, rejoice in life’s happy moments, and come to know themselves more fully. Who among us, had we been in Eve’s situation would have been able to resist that apple forever? Let us not sit in judgement. To be curious and searching is to take risks. And do we not now as a society see curiosity as the driver for wider thoughts and innovation?

In the desert, the devil presented Jesus with questions with surprisingly simple answers. I do not mean that the questions themselves were easy, only that once Jesus had heard them the answers came easily.

First, the devil tells Jesus, who has been fasting, to turn stone to bread - surely the Son of God can pull off that trick, and the human part of Jesus must be hungry. But Jesus refuses: one cannot live by bread alone. Once you have turned the stone to bread for expediency at the Devil’s request, what then?

Next the devil tries to get Jesus to leap from the top of a temple in a city: either to be saved by God and revered for his miracle or cast to his death. But Jesus refuses again: he will not seek glory - and certainly not by putting God to the test. He doesn’t need glory - which is self-serving and not gospel-serving; and he doesn’t need to test a God he already believes in.

Finally, the Devil, now desperate it seems, says to Jesus: If you just worship me, I will give you everything you desire. Jesus firmly refuses: “I worship God alone.”

Now when I say these answers were easy, I mean in the context of who is asking and who is answering. For us, they are much harder - and we face these temptations all the time, from all kinds of devils. We are tempted to take the easy way out. We are tempted to show off for the sake of our own glory. We are tempted to bend our own values for personal gain. The devil does not appear so clearly to us in the desert; our temptations are so subtle we often don’t hear the questions being asked.

What is true for humans is true for the society that humans created. And certainly, the most damaging way we have given in to all three of these temptations has been at the expense of the Garden of Eden that we have been blessed to live in and charged with its responsibility. Our easy ways out, our overconsumption for glory, our greed, have brought ruin to every corner of the world. We know we need to change our ways more than what we are doing. We know we will need to make ourselves uncomfortable, that we may have to sacrifice - and yet we struggle to do so. We have acquired free will and yet we remained trapped by our lesser selves.

In particular this day, when thinking of our environment, our larger church wants us to think about the first temptation - to make bread into stone. Last spring, the Synod’s Climate Justice Committee, on your behalf, sponsored a “Pilgrimage for the Planet.” A group of Lutherans, some from this congregation, bicycled from Montreal to Parliament Hill in Ottawa to pressure the Canadian government to sign on to the Fossil Fuel Non-Proliferation Treaty. While we drew some attention, our hopes to have conversations with leaders were pre-empted by politicians leaving Parliament Hill to prepare for an election. So now, the committee’s effort is to encourage as many people as possible to call the Minister of the Environment during Lent and express the urgent concern to dramatically reduce subsidizing the extraction and production of petroleum products.

I suppose this endeavour; reminding our leaders what we want for our society is important, even if it does not lead right away to policy change. But as your pastor, I know that for some of you making this call, at this time, might be controversial. Our country is facing many threats; the world has many challenges. Our government is focused on making us less reliant on the United States and expanding our trade with other countries; we are an energy rich country; this is one of our most valuable resources. Can we risk not turning this stone into bread - just this one last time?

Of course, we know the danger: there will always be a next time. A new temptation to use what the earth gives us. But I want to suggest that two things can be true at once; we can recognize the need to protect our sovereignty - and agree as a nation that our dependency on oil needs to stop. We can ask our government to prioritize trade that is environmentally-friendly, to link our country’s future independence to modern green-energy, to focus on skills that will shape a new economy and mitigate climate change. When our government talks about expanding our AI industry, we can ask what energy will be used to run all that machine learning. And we can ask how our trade deals are encouraging other countries reduce their own independence on oil.

In the desert, the questions Jesus faced were about him: would he turn the stone, would he jump from the temple, would he switch sides for gold? We also face those individual questions each day, when it comes to our choices: will we buy Canadian? Will we use up all those leftovers? Will we reduce our consumption? Will we vote for politicians who support environmental policies? Will we set an example with our beliefs? As we see with both Eve and Jesus, those individual choices almost always have larger consequences, however they seep into the world.

So, while societal change may seem farther way - that call to the politician fruitless - society is composed of individuals, and enough individuals can change it.

The Committee mentions one example of hope that we heard about from Sophie Gebreyes a couple of weeks ago: in the recent Friends of Creation project around Lake Chad. Many congregations have been offering funds to support reforestation and sustainable agriculture in a region devastated by climate change. We are trying to fix a problem we largely created. But it should drive home the point that we must also work harder to prevent the problem at its source.

The Climate Justice Committee also rightly points out that our success lies in relationship. Let us all call the Environment Minister and express our desire to eliminate Canada’s dependency on oil - this is an essential goal. But let us also find ways to elevate solutions, to build up shared values, to give up a little so those without can have something.

Make the call to the cabinet minister, but do not stop there - for isn’t stopping there the same easy way out of responsibility? Educate yourself. Have conversations with your friends. Do not be tempted to adopt an easy answer; the solution lies in complexity. We must be curious like Eve to find it; and moral like Jesus to follow through on it. Always with our eye on the Garden of Eden, as our aspiration for the world.

Amen

Feb. 18 ~ Ash Wednesday

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Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

Psalm 51:1-17

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21  

Sermon by Joel Crouse

Ash Wednesday always arrives with a strange honesty. It doesn’t argue with us. It doesn’t flatter us. It doesn’t negotiate. It simply says: Here you are. You are dust. You are breath. You are loved. And you are not in control nearly as much as you pretend to be.

So, we come tonight with our foreheads open—ready to be marked, not because we enjoy being somber, or because we think God prefers gloom, but because truth-telling is a kind of mercy. The ashes don’t say, “Try harder,” or “Prove yourself,” or “Look how spiritual you are.” Ashes say, “You are human.” And then, quietly, “I love you no matter what”

And it’s striking that on a day like this, the Gospel doesn’t give us a hardened theological lecture. Instead, Jesus speaks about something very practical: what we do—our giving, our praying, our fasting—and why we do it.

“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them.”

That line feels more current than ever. We live in an age where being seen is almost a form of currency. We track attention. We measure impact. We curate ourselves. And in fairness, some of that visibility can serve real good. Public witness matters. Naming injustice matters. Solidarity matters. If you show up at a vigil in B.C. or march in Minneapolis or speak up and out—good. We need people willing to be counted.

But Jesus is not warning against public justice. He’s warning against performance that replaces the heart, a spirituality that becomes branding, and about doing “holy things” in a way that quietly turns the self into the center of the story.

Because here’s what happens: even our best impulses can get tangled up with ego. We can give, and still be trying to purchase moral superiority. We can pray, and still be trying to manage God. We can fast, and still be trying to control our bodies, our feelings, our lives—trying to become invulnerable.

Ash Wednesday shows up and says: you can’t.

You cannot out-perform your own mortality, or curate your way out of sorrow, or hustle your way out of grief. You can’t discipline your way into being unbreakable.

So, Jesus says, with that gentle firmness he’s so good at: Don’t do your faith for applause. Don’t turn God into an audience. Don’t turn your neighbor into a mirror. “When you give… when you pray… when you fast…”—notice he assumes these practices will be part of our lives. The question isn’t whether we practice them; the question is what they are doing to us.

And then Jesus offers this repeated phrase: “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”

That’s tender language. The One who sees in secret. Not the God who scans for religious perfection, but the God who notices what no one else notices. The God who sees what we carry quietly. The God who sees the ache we don’t post. The God who sees the burden we don’t explain. The God who sees the prayers we can’t even form into sentences—just breath, just silence, just a kind of reaching.

In other words: the God who isn’t impressed by our display is deeply attentive to our truth.

So, what are these practices for? Giving, praying, fasting—these are not ways to earn God’s favour. They’re meant to help us reorient ourselves toward God.

Giving loosens our grip. It reminds us that our lives are not made safer by hoarding, and our hearts are not made larger by protecting what we have. Giving is practice in trust. It is also practice in repair—because in a world that is unjust, generosity is never just a private virtue. It is the public refusal of a system that says some people deserve abundance and others deserve scarcity.

Prayer, Jesus says, is not a speech for the crowd. It’s not a performance of certainty. It’s an honest turning—sometimes confident, sometimes angry, sometimes numb. Prayer is where we stop pretending we can save ourselves, and we let ourselves be spoken to. Prayer is where God is not used as a prop in our arguments but encountered as a steady patient presence.

And fasting—this one can be tricky. Some have been harmed by the way fasting has been preached, especially when it becomes shame or punishment. But Jesus speaks of fasting as a practice that doesn’t require theatrics. Not because it must be hidden out of embarrassment, but because it’s meant to be real. Fasting, at its best, is not self-hatred. It’s honesty about our attachments. You know, the things we use to numb ourselves and avoid feeling and quiet fear and escape loneliness. Attachments are the stuff we cling to as if it can save us.

Sometimes fasting is food or alcohol or rage. Sometimes it’s cynicism. Sometimes it’s the constant stream of news that leaves us informed but emotionally flattened. Sometimes it’s the need to be right. Sometimes it’s the habit of treating other people as problems instead of neighbors.

Ash Wednesday invites a fast that makes space—not to become impressive, but to become available. Available to God. Available to grief. Available to compassion. Available to the truth.

And then Jesus turns the corner: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… but store up treasures in heaven… for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

That word “treasure” can sound like a religious metaphor, but it’s straight- forward. Our treasure is what we protect, what we prioritize, what gets our best energy. Our treasure is what we think about in the quiet moments.

And Jesus, in his own way, is asking: “What has your heart?”

Not, “What do you claim to believe?” Not, “What would you like to be true?” But, “What actually has your heart?”

Because this is what Lent is: a season of re-orientation. A season of deciding again what matters—of letting God gently challenge the small gods we’ve made for ourselves.

We do not enter Lent to prove we are worthy. We enter Lent because we are already loved, and love calls us into freedom. We do not repent because God is eager to punish. We repent because God is eager to heal. We do not confess our sin because we are obsessed with guilt. We confess because we are done pretending, and because the truth is the doorway to grace.

And sin—let’s be honest—sin is not only the private things we regret. Sin is also the harm that becomes normalized. Sin is also the systems that grind people down. Sin is also the way we participate, knowingly or not, in economies of exploitation, in cultures of contempt, in habits of dehumanizing those we fear or misunderstand.

Ash Wednesday is personal, yes. But it is also communal. It’s the church saying: we want our lives to be different—not just individually, but together. More merciful and courageous and just. More rooted in Christ than in the frantic spirit of the age.

So, when you come forward tonight, and the ashes touch your skin, hear what they are really saying. They are saying: “You don’t have to pretend anymore—you’re not what you’ve done—you’re not what people think of you.”

They are saying: you are dust—and you are free. Beloved dust. Free to store your life in the only place it won’t rot: in the trough of God’s grace—in love that refuses to quit.

In a few moments, you’ll hear the words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” If you listen closely—you’ll also hear the other words underneath: “Remember that you are Christ’s.”

Amen

Feb. 15 ~ The Transfiguration of Our Own Understanding

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Micah 6:1-8

Psalm 15

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

Matthew 5:1-12  

Sermon by Joel Crouse

Around the time that Erin and I first met, a hit movie came out called When Harry Met Sally.  For those of you who haven’t seen it, Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal are the stars, who meet when she shares the costs of a drive to their new jobs after college. They bond on the car trip and become close friends – a platonic friendship that extends for year. And then, toward the end of the movie, something changes: Harry sees Sally differently. On New Year’s Eve, in a grand romantic gesture, he races to tell her, in one of the movie’s most famous lines: “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

The friends-to-lovers story is a favourite romance trope. Jane Austen, my partner would say, did it the best. And movies have been copying her ever since. Why does this storyline reel us in so often?

Many people have argued that it’s because these relationships are built on a strong foundation.  They have history.  The people in them stand by each other through difficult times because they respect and admire each other, because they enjoy each other’s presence. The people fall in “like” first, before they make the leap to love. A 2021 study that analyzed a bunch of survey data, found that nearly 70 per cent of romantic relationships begin with friendships. 

The spark was probably always there, but at some point, along the way, one person is transfigured for another; they come to be seen in an entirely different – and happy - light. 

All this to say, it is probably why the disciples didn’t freak out when God claimed Jesus in our gospel this morning, and the teacher and friend they know is transfigured forever right in front of their eyes.

It’s as if the gospel understood we needed the foundation first. The transfiguration of Jesus happens later in the ministry of Jesus. The disciples have already chosen to leave their fishing boats and follow this man into an entirely different life. They have listened to his speeches before crowds about a new way of seeing the world. They have watched him achieve the feeding of the 5,000. They have seen him weary on a dusty road and warmed by their company. And they have just started to wrestle with his dire predictions of the future that awaits him – and realized how much they fear losing him. 

It is only then that God appears, as our gospel tells it, on the mountain, and before the disciples alone, away from the larger crowd. This is an intimate, private moment for the closest friends of Jesus. The gospel says that his face shone and his clothes became bright as light, and his divine glory was revealed. A voice from a cloud says: “This is my Son, my Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him.” 

And in that moment, Jesus is transfigured for the disciples. 

But what has changed, really? In the movie When Harry met Sally, both Harry and Sally are the same people they were before the big New Year’s Eve declaration. The only thing that was different was the way they saw each other. Their image of each other had become something else entirely.  As Harry says, Sally became not only someone he leaned on for support and kindness, but someone he needed desperately as a constant, firm, and loving presence in his life.

And isn’t that what the transfiguration is also meant to represent – not just to the disciples on the mountain that day, but also to us. Before this moment, Jesus is a leader and friend, someone they have chosen to follow.  After this moment, Jesus become something more; someone they needed to follow. Because Jesus was not, in fact, the one who was changed on that day; Jesus was always who Jesus was. What changed is the way the disciples saw Jesus. So, in fact, the disciples were the ones who were actually changed; how can you ever see the world in the same way, when God has specifically named your friend as their beloved? Even if you suspected that Jesus was different, someone special, that has now been confirmed. In that moment, for the disciples, there is no going back. They have been transfigured as much as Jesus.

And yet, this is not a burden for them. This moment is joyful. It is a relief. It is clarity. They know they have taken the right path; they have invested in the right person; they are listening to the right lessons. And so, not only is Jesus transfigured, not only are the disciples transfigured, but the gospel itself is also transfigured. 

The transfiguration does not set Jesus apart from us. In the movies, when friends fall in love, they become even closer, more important to each other, they understand each other better. And the transfiguration on the mountain top is meant to do the same: to bring us closer to God, and into a deeper understanding with the divine, into closer solidarity with Jesus and the gospel.

If you have ever fallen in love with a friend – and I know many of you have – you know that after this, everything past, present and future looks different. You see the friendship not as something constant, but as a relationship that was always growing into something larger. You see the present as a gift. And the future as full of possibility. And while life felt at a distance before, you no longer feel alone. 

Jesus the man, becomes the divine on this day. But this is only making official what always was, and was always meant to be. In the end, the light that shines on Jesus is not only for him; it draws the disciples closer, it calls to us here and now. For what else is that shining light but love? We have only to see it. 

Amen