October 12th ~ Giving Thanks:Shallow Ritual, or Call To Action?

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2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c

Psalm 111

2 Timothy 2:8-15

Luke 17:11-19

Sermon by Pastor Joel

How many times a day do we say thank you? To the barista, the driver who lets us merge, the friend who passes the salt. We say it automatically, as a kind of social oil to keep things running smoothly. But how often do we really think about those words — their meaning, their power to connect, to heal, to change us?

In the Gospel story today, ten people with leprosy are healed by Jesus. They are outcasts — physically ill, socially excluded, spiritually branded as unclean. Jesus sends them off to show themselves to the priests, and as they go, they are made clean. But only one comes back — a Samaritan — to give thanks. He falls at Jesus’ feet, praising God with a loud voice. And Jesus asks, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine — where are they?” Then to the one, he says: “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

Notice that word — well. Not just healed, not just clean — well. It’s as if Jesus is saying that gratitude completes the healing. The returning leper doesn’t just receive the gift; he enters into relationship with the giver. His gratitude turns his healing into community, his restoration into connection.

The Gospel points us beyond individual healing toward mutual aid — the web of care that binds people together. Mutual aid is not charity; it’s a shared recognition that my wellbeing is tied to yours. It’s what happens when we feed the hungry and they, in turn, remind us of our abundance. It’s what happens when we check on a neighbour, when we offer help and receive help in return, when we realize we are not whole until all are made whole.

The ten lepers in this story form a small community of the suffering. But once they are healed, nine go off — perhaps back to their lives, their families, their plans. Only one returns, crossing the boundary again, not because he owes a debt, but because he recognizes something deeper: gratitude is not complete until it moves outward, until it becomes an act of relationship and solidarity.

In this way, thanksgiving becomes an act of mutual aid. To give thanks is to recognize that we belong to one another — that the gift of life is shared, not purchased. Gratitude makes us part of something larger than ourselves.

The Globe and Mail had a piece this weekend on the importance of Mutual Aid—this idea that community is better than isolation. Modern research has consistently confirmed that the single most scientifically supported secret to happiness is social ties. The article suggested that real change doesn’t need to be a massive project. The Bible says where 2 or 3 are gathered God will be there. It can start with making sandwiches, or cleaning a park, or welding a railing.

When we treat thanksgiving as a holiday rather than a habit, it becomes empty. When gratitude has no movement toward action and social connection, it loses its strength. The one leper who returned didn’t just say thank you; he moved his body toward relationship. His thanksgiving was mutual — it restored connection between himself and God, between the healed and the healer.

True thanksgiving always spills over. It changes how we live. When we give thanks in word and deed, we build up the kind of community where everyone can flourish — where mutual aid becomes a natural expression of gratitude.

Think of the mutual aid we are a part of as a church: the volunteers at the food bank who share their time and compassion, the neighbour who quietly brings soup to someone who’s unwell, the friend who offers a listening ear. In every act of shared care, thanksgiving is made visible. It’s no longer a polite word but a living practice.

The people who are most generous — in spirit and in resources — are often those who see gratitude not as a feeling but as a way of life. They know what it is to depend on others and to be depended upon. They live out mutual aid not as a duty but as a joy.

Let’s be honest: gratitude can feel impossible when life is painful — when the diagnosis comes, when the job is lost, when grief is raw. But even then, thanksgiving has power. It reminds us that we are not alone, that we are still part of a network of care. Mutual aid — the simple acts of being there for one another — keeps the light from going out. And sometimes, that’s enough.

I’ve sat with people in their more painful moments, and I’ve seen this truth over and over: those who manage to find something, even a small thing, to be thankful for — a kind word, a shared meal, a memory of love — are often the ones who are the most resilient. They are the ones who, like the Samaritan, return again and again to the source of hope.

So this Thanksgiving, let’s not only count our blessings; let’s share them. Let’s see gratitude not as a ritual, but as a movement toward one another — a kind of sacred mutual aid. Let’s give thanks not just with words, but with acts of kindness that ripple out into a world hungry for connection.

The one who returned shows us that gratitude is not a moment, but a way of being. It heals us by turning us outward. It builds community where there was isolation. It makes us — all of us — well.

And so, let us rise, as Jesus said, and go on our way — thankful, generous, connected — our faith making us whole.

Amen

October 5th ~ Have The Faith To Say "Hello"

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Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4

Psalm 37:1-9

2 Timothy 1:1-14

Luke 17:5-10 

Sermon by Pastor Joel

The thing about coming back to the city from the country is you notice right away how little people talk to one another. When you live in a small town, you rarely pass anyone by without saying hello. Even if you don’t know them, someone you know knows them. Drivers around Lunenburg, where I am from, have perfected the wave where your hand never leaves the steering wheel but the driver coming from the other direction still knows you waved. I know it's often said like a joke, but I can tell you it’s true: you simply cannot rush through the grocery line because someone in front of you is going to have news for the cashier. 

The sad thing is that when I go down from Ontario and the rush of city life, this is all kind of annoying. You just want to get where you are going. You just want to grab the milk and exit. It takes a few weeks, and then you start to remember how nice it is that the guy at the gas station asks how your day is going and waits to hear the answer. Or the clerk at the grocery story calls you dear, as if she’s an aunt you didn’t know you had. Don’t get me wrong: my corner in Nova Scotia is nice but not perfect. It can be insular and intolerant and resistant to change. But anyone from a small town can take a win in this way: we have all perfected what researchers call the micro-conversation.

There’s been a lot written about these lately. In case you haven’t heard, micro-conversations are good for our mental health and build social capital in our community. You might not think chatting with your mechanic about his kid matters, but it does. The time you chatted with the older stranger on the bus about the colour of the leaves in fall might have seemed like a five-minute blip, but you were both smiling when you got off the bus. Let’s not overstate things: these small-dose interactions are not, on their own, going to remedy the big problems of our time. But how will we ever remedy them if we never put down our phones and see our neighbor beside us, and, hopefully, say hi often enough that we come to realize they’re decent people. Small acts of faith. That’s not a bad place to start.

Apparently, according to our gospel, Jesus agrees. As we hear, the apostles are apparently stewing about not being faithful enough. And instead of taking care of this themselves – or asking how they are measuring what is “faithful enough” in the first place -  they go to Jesus and demand, “Increase our faith!” This all seems pretty brash on the face of it. What exactly do they think Jesus has been trying to do? But, of course, Jesus uses their foolishness to teach a lesson. 

“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

The mustard seed is a tiny seed, so I imagine the apostles were even more confused. But it’s clear that Jesus was making a point, one a lot like that micro-conversation research. Faith is not measured by the length of the prayer, or by the volume of the singing, or even by the worth of the faithful. Faith is by definition strong enough to withstand the storm and the wind; it has the power to change cultures and repair institutions and heal humanity. You  need only a little of it, properly nourished, to have influence in the world. 

But before the disciples go away feeling puffed up at the thought of bossing around a mulberry bush, Jesus puts them in their place. Because ultimately, if the disciples are worrying about the size of their faith, Jesus knows, they are not thinking about the value of their service, or their mission to others. Their very question is based on comparison: “Isn’t our faith worth more than that of the other guy?” Maybe they even meant it as a trick question: “Increase our faith!” they’d say to Jesus. And Jesus was supposed to say back: “Your faith is already as great as it can be.” (Although this was, of course, what he did say, if they were paying attention.)

Instead, Jesus offered a metaphor about the servant who comes in after plowing or tending the sheep. Do you say, “Come and sit at my table?” (One imagines much nodding, yes, from the disciples, realizing that they are the servant in this tale.) No, Jesus says, you do not. Instead, you would say, “Go and fix dinner for me.” And then do you thank the slave? No, you do not. For they have done only what is expected of them.

You have to feel a little bad for the disciples. But they are helpful as a lesson for us.  Jesus reminds us, yet again, that we are not in competition with one another.  And we are reminded yet again, that we do good because it is the right thing to do and not to curry favour. We have, by desiring to be people of faith, already received the job description; we know what is expected of us. We are to be that mustard seed of faith in the world. 

Jesus could not have given us better advice for this time, when I know many of you are feeling overwhelmed by bad news, by a sense of instability, by these massive challenges we face. 

But we don’t need a big plan to begin. We don’t need to face down the mulberry tree. If we want to build a society willing to move in a better direction, it is clear that we can begin today. On your way home, say hello to the cashier who serves you and really see her. On the bus, put down your phone and speak to the other human being beside you. Never pass by someone on the street without saying hello. We cannot work together if we don’t first see ourselves as part of the same community, the same species, residents of the same planet. 

Be that tiny mustard seed of faith, strong enough to order the mulberry tree to stand down, yet compassionate enough to reach out to a lonely person, and brave and curious enough to be the first one to say hello in a world that has gotten out of practice. This way, at the end of the day, we won’t look for praise. We will rest easy, knowing we have done, to the best of our ability, what we ought to have done.

Amen

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