Feb. 1 ~ The World Does Not Change Around Us; It Changes Because of Us

Micah 6:1-8

Psalm 15

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

Matthew 5:1-12  

Sermon by Joel Crouse

In 1999, I was two years into my first parish at Zion Lutheran Church, Pembroke. Reading that sentence again now makes me realize just how long ago that was. That was the year the first Matrix movie came out. I imagine many of you know that movie – it went on to become a big hit. I was a huge fan. And I believe that popular culture can be a powerful tool to shape our values, to build a sense of who we are, and to guide us toward the gospel.

And so, one Sunday, I preached a sermon about the religious symbolism in the movie – the way that Neo was cast as the Christ figure, and Morpheus as his John the Baptist, the power of belief and faith and love to restore their humanity. I was even interviewed by MacLean’s magazine. So of course, the quilters group at Zion decided to organize an outing to see The Matrix, without mentioning it to me. They all went to the movie, expecting to see a religious film. If you have seen The Matrix, you can imagine the interesting conversation I had with some of them when they returned.

This is perhaps a long-winded way to set up my sermon today. But we have another phenomenally popular culture moment happening right now – a story about love and kindness that Canada has delivered to the world, just when we could argue the world needs it most. I suspect many of you will know right away that I am talking about the television show Heated Rivalry. I am certainly hearing lines like “I’m coming to the cottage” and “stupid Canada wolf bird” from a huge fan in my house. Last weekend, I sat down and watched the show with Erin, and now I understand why it has become, as one relationship therapist put it, “like cuddling a soft teddy bear during these difficult times.”

But having learned my lesson from 1999, for those of you who have not seen it, I am attaching a warning: this is a show about two superstar hockey players who secretly fall in love, and it is very explicit. We can ponder whether it is really more explicit than the violent PG-13 action movies we watch with our teenagers, the movies that get PG-13 ratings, but that’s a different conversation. This is only to say, that Heated Rivalry beautifully explores themes central to our gospel this morning. But – just like The Matrix in 1999 – it comes with an ‘R’ rating.

And yet, this unexpected story offers, in a different context, the same eloquent blessings we find in our gospel today. Jesus makes a wide list of those who find themselves in need of help: the poor, the meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the peacemakers, those who are persecuted. And to all of those, Jesus promises comfort and fulfillment and understanding and mercy and love.

In other words, Jesus says, in our times of trial, we will receive a blessing. Jesus does not say how that blessing will come to us, only that God will help us get through whatever we face. Perhaps someone in our midst will come to our aid. Maybe we will find the strength in ourselves to do what is right. Maybe the world will shift, and the sun will shine where it hasn’t before.

A prominent relationship therapist, Esther Perel, suggests that the reason why people are watching and re-watching Heated Rivalry is because it is a “corrective experience” – a counter message to all the harm and hate we see in the world right now. I didn’t quite understand what she meant until I watched it myself: in every episode, because this is TV, and also because this is how shows about the LGBTQ community usually go, you expect something bad to happen. These young lovers will get found out, and their careers will be over. The Canadian hockey player, Shane Hollander, will come out to his parents and be shamed by them. Ilya, the Russian hiding just as much of himself, will suffer more abuse at the hands of his terrible family.

But each time you expect something bad to happen, it doesn’t. As Ms. Perel herself noted, one character gets confused at a press conference, and he is rescued with a quick answer from someone else; another character drops a plate while serving at a fancy event, and isn’t fired; friends who might have abandoned them offer them support and understanding; when Shane finally does come out to his parents, they respond by asking for his forgiveness; when risks are taken, consent is carefully sought; when tears fall, comfort is offered; when love is confessed, it is effusively returned.

It is a show where every time you think someone will act badly, human beings step up to be their best selves, over and over again. And it is clear why people want to live in that kind of aspirational world; because, of course, it is how we all want to be treated in those same moments when we are meek, or poor in spirit, or feeling persecuted, or seeking justice. Watching that show made me feel proud to be a Canadian, to be a citizen of the country that created this show, at this time in the world’s history when the worst of humanity dominates the headlines.

But I wonder if we often miss this part in the Beatitudes, and even in the narrative of Heated Rivalry. We hear those blessings from Jesus, and we see ourselves as the ones needing them. We see parts of ourselves in Shane and Ilya. But take care: because we are also the friends, and the parents and the players around all the Shanes and Ilyas. And we are also called to be blessings for all those named by Jesus in our gospel.

Heated Rivalry reminds us that the world can be so much better than it is right now. But only, if we ourselves are better. And Jesus is promising blessings to those in need at the same time that the gospel is showing us how to be those blessings. The world does not change around us; it changes because of us. And if a show like Heated Rivalry can so unite us across cultures – where in China they are pirating it, and in Russia they are risking huge fines to watch it – then aren’t we also defining the world as we wish it to be?

The beatitudes are God’s promise of Grace. They tell us that things are never hopeless. But they also remind us that we are not helpless. How we walk in the world matters. Who we stand beside in the world matters. How we respond to those in need matters. Indeed, it matters, more than ever. And the more ways we are inspired to be people of the gospel, the better our chances.

In the end, we can return for clarity to that wonderful line in Micah, this line that speaks to the path of every hero and guides us in how to serve the vulnerable, and encapsulates the blessings that Jesus teaches us to offer to others.

“What does the Lord require of you, but to do justice and to love kindness

  and to walk humbly with your God?”

Do justice. Love Kindness. Walk Humbly with God.

Amen

Jan 25 ~ What Are the Faces We Put On Because They Seem Safer Than Honesty?

Isaiah 9:1-4

Psalm 27:1, 4-9

1 Corinthians 1:10-18

Matthew 4:12-23  

Sermon by Joel Crouse

At some point, in our lives—because it’s responsible to do so, because living in this world should demand deep thinking—we have to stop and ask where we are being called. Where do we fit? What is our place? Where are we meant to contribute? We start our kids early, trying to teach them that choices matter. We worry about them falling into a job they don’t like, or a relationship where they aren’t loved, or a life that slowly closes in on them until they can’t remember they ever had options. We try to guide them, with lectures, and with love.

And then—quietly—we stop asking those questions for ourselves. We keep going. We assume the time for hearing a call is past. We tell ourselves, I’ve already chosen. I’m already set. I’m already committed. We treat a calling like it’s something for teenagers, or twenty-somethings, or people who still believe the world is wide open.

But this week, listening to our Prime Minister speak at the World Economic Forum, I heard a very adult kind of language about calling—about the moment when you realize the old story you were living by doesn’t work anymore. He didn’t describe the world as gently shifting. He used sharper words: a “rupture,” not a transition—an end to a comfortable fiction, and the beginning of a harsher reality.

And what struck me was the insistence that in a moment like this, the temptation is always the same: to “go along to get along,” to comply, to keep the peace, to avoid trouble—and to hope that playing the part will keep you safe. And then he said, plainly: it won’t.

To make the point, he reached back to Václav Havel’s image of the greengrocer—putting a sign in the window he doesn’t believe, because it’s easier than risking the cost of telling the truth. Havel called it “living within a lie.” And the line in the speech that stuck with me most—was this: it’s time to take the signs down.

Now, whatever you think about Davos, or world leaders, or global speeches, here’s the spiritual question underneath that image: What signs do we keep in our own windows? Not political slogans. Not literal signs. I mean the small performances we keep up because they seem safer than honesty.

The sign that says, I’m fine, when we are not. The sign that says, I don’t need anyone, when we are lonely. The sign that says, I’m done trying, when the truth is we’re afraid of being hurt again. The sign that says, I’ll forgive when they apologize, when the apology may never come. The sign that says, I’ll stay polite, when what we really mean is, I’ll stay distant. We do it to avoid trouble. To get along. To keep the peace. And it works—until it doesn’t.

That is where today’s gospel lands with surprising force. Jesus does not go to children. He goes to adults. People with jobs, and responsibilities, and routines. People who are already committed to a way of life. Fishermen with nets in their hands. People who can say, quite reasonably, This is what I do. This is who I am. This is how I pay the bills. This is what I know.

And Jesus says, “Follow me.” Not as an abstract idea. But as a reorientation of life: “I will make you fish for people.” It’s such a familiar story that we can forget how disruptive it is. It’s not simply about leaving a job. It’s about leaving a way of seeing the world. It’s about turning outward. It’s about relationship.

We sometimes imagine the disciples “immediately” dropped everything as though it was reckless. But it’s more likely that a relationship had been forming—that something had been stirring for a while—until the moment came when the decision became clear. And that’s often how calling works for most of us. Not lightning. More like a slow insistence. A holy pressure. A truth you can’t un-know.

So when Jesus calls them, it’s not just, Come learn new information. It’s, Come live differently. Come take the sign down. Come stop performing the life you’ve settled for, and step into a life shaped by compassion, courage, and community.

Because “fishing for people” is not a recruiting campaign. It’s not about tallying numbers. It’s about moving toward others with your hands open. It’s about healing what is sick. Comforting what is grieving. Making room for those the world overlooks. It is about relationship—with all the messiness that relationship always brings.

And it is risky. It would have been easier to stay fishing. They knew the lake. They knew the work. They knew the rules. Following Jesus meant walking into uncertainty—into other people’s pain, other people’s anger, other people’s need. So why do it? Because the call from God keeps insisting that life is bigger than self-protection.

Our PM used a phrase that belongs in the realm of faith: we can’t keep pretending the old order will magically come back. “Nostalgia is not a strategy.” And spiritually, that’s true as well. Nostalgia isn’t a strategy for relationships either. You can’t build a life by clinging to the version of the past where you didn’t get hurt. You can’t build community by wishing people were simpler. You can’t build peace by keeping your heart locked. You can’t follow Jesus while gripping your nets like they’re the only thing keeping you afloat.

Jesus calls ordinary people—labourers, workers, friends—and the extraordinary thing about them isn’t that they were perfect. It’s that they were willing to move toward others. They didn’t wait to be served; they served. They didn’t hold out for love; they held love out.

That is still the call. Not necessarily to leave our job or abandon our life. But to leave behind the inward-facing posture that makes us smaller. To take down the signs we’ve been hanging in the window because they seemed safer than truth. To stop “going along to get along” in the places where it costs us our integrity, our compassion, our courage.

God will hold our hand while we stand on the shore, guarded and cautious. But at some point, the voice of Christ comes with a bold offer: Come. Follow. Turn outward. Risk love.

It’s a hinge point to be sure, and it will bring unsettling change at the beginning. And then—if we let it—it will bring a life of joy, and value, and purpose. Amen

Jan 18 ~ Faith is the Courage to Stay Human when the World Pressures Us Not to

Isaiah 49:1-7  

Psalm 40:1-11

1 Corinthians 1:1-9  

John 1:29-42  

Sermon by Joel Crouse

What are we looking for?

That is the question Jesus asks the two disciples who begin to follow him. It is a question that feels almost too heavy this week — because we do know what we are looking AT in the world right now: deep fear, deep division, and the creeping sense that something powerful and unaccountable has been unleashed.

We know a 37-year-old woman, Renee Nicole Good, was tragically shot and killed by an ICE agent. A video captured what happened, and yet the story told by those in power defies what our own eyes can see. The stories have continued – people being hauled out of cars, guns pointed at protestors, threats of invasions, and actual invasions of sovereign nations as if they were part of a map on a Risk gameboard. We see the resistance to this increasing random violence, the blasting whistles, and the crowds on the streets, and we wonder if it will be enough or if it is already too late. Watching from across the border, we weep for our neighbors, ourselves, and the world.

Across social media and in conversations, people express fear — fear of unchecked power, fear of militarized law enforcement, fear that no one is accountable when someone’s life is taken. This is the lingering fear of not knowing where things are going, or whether anyone can slow them down.  This week I sat with one of our elderly members who, with seasoned fear in her eyes said, “Pastor, it’s happening again”.

So, what does the gospel have to say to this kind of fear?

One of the quiet lies we sometimes believe is that faith should make us certain. Certain about outcomes. Certain about who is right. Certain that things will work out.

But the gospel doesn’t begin with certainty. It begins with people who don’t know. John says, “I myself did not know him.” The disciples don’t truly know who they are following when they decide to follow. They don’t yet know what kind of Messiah Jesus will be. They don’t know where this road leads.

They only know that something in them says: “Pay attention.” And that matters, because fear often comes from the belief that if we don’t have answers, we have failed. The gospel tells a different story: uncertainty is not the opposite of faith. Sometimes it is the beginning of it.

Jesus does not respond to uncertainty with instructions or guarantees. He responds with presence. “Come and see,” he says. “Stay with me. Walk with me. Learn with me. Pay attention to what unfolds.”

While our fear is uncomfortable, it also tells the truth about who we are.

Of course, some of the fear we are experiencing right now is for ourselves, and what it will mean for our lives. But we are also afraid because we care about human dignity.  We recognize when power goes unchecked.  And because we know, deep down, how fragile justice and freedom can be.  This kind of Fear isn’t always something to get rid of. It is a voice to heed.

In our first lesson, Isaiah gives voice to a people who feel exhausted and ineffective.  “I have labored in vain,” the servant says. That is the voice of activists who feel unheard. Of citizens who protest and vote and still feel powerless. Of people who wonder whether kindness and restraint still matter in a world that seems to reward cruelty.  And God’s response to Isaiah is not to try harder, or to chastise him for being week. God says: You are meant to be light.  

Paul, writing to the deeply imperfect church in Corinth, does something similar. He does not start by scolding them. He starts with gratitude. “I give thanks to my God always for you,” he says. Even knowing their divisions, their egos, their conflicts. He reminds them that God is faithful—that they are not lacking in any gift needed to live out the gospel in their own complicated time.

That matters, because one of the quiet temptations in times like this is despair disguised as realism. The belief that the problems are too big, the systems too entrenched, the divisions too deep—and that our small acts of faithfulness cannot possibly matter. But the gospel never asks us to save the world. It asks us to follow and do our best.

What are you looking for?” Jesus asks.  If we are honest, many of us are looking for relief. For safety. For assurance that kindness is not foolish. For proof that hope is not naïve. The answer the gospel offers is not certainty—but presence.  And our presence in the world matters.  How can we show it when we leave this place today for an uncertain world? Surely, we do not let fear make us cruel or silent or indifferent or cynical.  Instead, we might bear one another’s burdens. When we hear stories of fear — whatever that fear is for our neighbour— we do not turn away. We stay present with them.

We seek justice with humility and courage.  Advocate for transparency, accountability, and dignity for every human being. Speak truth to power, not out of anger, but the way Jesus did: listening more than shouting,  refusing language that dehumanizes other people.  Having hard conversations, rooted in compassion. 

And we may even try to live out that baptismal promise we talked about last week. “We are called to life in community…to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.” That is not a vague ideal. It is a daily practice of compassion and courage.  It requires showing up, when the path is uncertain.

Faith does not give us control; It gives us courage to stay human when the world pressures us not to be.  The gospel today does not end with certainty. It ends with relationship: One person tells another, “Come and see.”  And in following, they call others to join.

And sometimes that is how hope starts: not with power and perfect answers, but with presence and faith.  Because we are not asked to fix the world alone. We are asked to witness — to point, as John did, especially in these fearful times, toward a way of being that chooses life, dignity, and love.  Amen