September 20 ~ Be slower to anger Less eager to judge More open to compassionate curiosity

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/3ef8bd_36cbb0c7f9ee40b68cb2362a2908ac1b/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Jonah 3:10—4:11

Psalm 145:1-8

Philippians 1:21-30

Matthew 20:1-16

As a society, we are increasingly learning the extend of the harm from political polarization. What threatens communities is often not disagreement itself. Communities can survive disagreement. What they struggle to survive is moral judgement. The moment we stop thinking, "That person is mistaken," and begin thinking, "That person is a bad person," trust begins to collapse. Cooperation becomes harder. Neighbours become opponents. Fellow citizens become enemies.

Researchers call this affective polarization. It is not that we disagree with one another. It is that we begin to dislike one another. We stop arguing about ideas and start judging people. When people perceive society as deeply polarized, other research finds, our trust in fellow citizens declines. We become less willing to believe others are acting in good faith, less willing to cooperate, and less likely to work together for common goals.

In other words, judgement does not merely harm the person being judged. It harms the judge as well. It shrinks the community, and erodes trust and distracts us from the work we are meant to be doing.

Which all makes Jonah—arguably the most human prophet in the entire Bible—feel remarkably modern. Nineveh was one of the great cities of the ancient world. It was the capital of the Assyrian Empire, located near present-day Mosul, Iraq. For the ancient Israelites, Nineveh was not just a foreign city. It was the capital of a powerful empire that had conquered, oppressed, and terrorized many neighbouring peoples, including the northern Kingdom of Israel. When people first heard the Book of Jonah, they would have immediately understood Nineveh as the enemy.

And it’s to this very city that God sends Jonah. Jonah does not want to go. But it’s not because he’s afraid, or because he doubts God. He says it himself: "I knew that you are a gracious and merciful God, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love." That is Jonah’s argument: God is too merciful and loving. And Jonah wants Ninevah punished. He wants judgement. So even when Nineveh repents, and God forgives them, Jonah throws what can only be described as a theological tantrum. He sulks outside the city. He refuses to enter and hopes for its destruction. He sulks there long enough for a plant to grow and offer shade from the hot sun. The next day, a worm eats the plant, and he rants and raves about it. God puts this question to him: Jonah, you are so angry about that little worm, which acted outside your control; yet I am thinking about the people of Ninevah who you could help? In other words, stewing in judgement had soured Jonah as well: he’d chosen to suffer in the sun and rant at a worm, rather than offer to help thousands of human beings who had asked for it. Was this worth it? Had judgement made the most of Jonah’s ability? Had it made his life better or more meaningful? Or had it been a dumb and senseless waste of time?

And are we so different? Don’t we waste the same energy and time judging people we barely know. I hear it all the time: judgement for those who vote differently, or parent differently, or make different life choices, or have a different background than us. We know so little about them – their fears and goals, their nightmares that haunt them, the hopes that inspire them. And yet in judging them, we decide we know exactly who they are. And they aren’t the only ones we judge: we also make judgements about the people who we do know, who make mistakes. We assume that what see in front of us, is the full story.

For what is judgement, but assuming the negative. The TV show Ted Lasso had this one memorable scene that still makes the rounds on social media. It endures because the lesson is so powerful that people seem to want to be reminded of it. In the scene, Ted has challenged the show’s antagonist to a game of darts and made a risky bet. That player pulls out his fancy dart set, and the game begins. It comes down to Ted needing to get a bulls eye and he pauses to tell a story: he’s noticed he says, that people forget to be curious about each other. If the antagonist had asked, he might have learned that Ted had played darts every afternoon with his father since he was a little boy, until the year his father died when he was 16. And Ted, of course, hits the bullseye. The lesson, suggests Ted, is always be curious.

That’s a good way to see judgement: as a lack of curiosity in the one we are judging. The same curiosity, it’s worth pointing out, that we would hope others would have in ourselves before leaping to judgement. But this is why judgement is a leap: we leap over the questions we should be asking, and the context we might consider. We miss the chance to become allies through understanding. When we leap to judgment we become more outraged, more hostile, less empathetic. Suddenly, we are just like Jonah: sulking in the hot sun, suffering, while the good and worthy work that makes the world and our communities better is neglected.

Our Gospel offers this lesson from a different perspective. The first workers arrived and receive what they were promised from the landowner. But when the last workers arrive, they receive the same – and of course the first workers feel as though they were cheated. Instead of enjoying their own fair payment, they were consumed with the payment of others. They stopped thinking of the generosity they’d received. They stopped planning any good things they might do with it. They stopped feeling joy. They became miserable. Because judgement robs us of purpose.

And as with Jonah, God poses the same question: why are you so consumed with what someone else gets if you have been treated fairly? Should God not be generous?

How might those servants better spend their time? With curiosity. Why were some people late? Is it because they had children or aging parents that needed care? Did they get lost? Did they not have the skills? Were they ill? It’s amazing what might have happened had those servants expressed curiosity: for starters, they might have found solutions to help the other arrive earlier the next day, and share the burden of labour with them.

Not only does judgement make us unhappy – like Jonah sitting in the sun. Not only does it prevent community, like the people of Ninevah, in our first lesson, waiting to hear the word of God. But it also distracts us from the work of the Gospel.

It may feel good and righteous in the moment, but it produces nothing but bitterness and resentment. It prevents us from taking the time to examine our own actions. And what’s more, it raises the expectation that we too will be judged. Writing from prison, uncertain whether he will live or die, Paul does not spend his time cataloguing the failures of others. Instead, he says. “Live your live in a manner worthy of the Gospel.”

Our Psalmist this morning describes a God “who is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love." This is not only a description of God, it is also an invitation. Be slower to anger. Less eager to judge. More open to compassionate curiosity.

In this day and age, when loneliness is high, when the world is uncertain, when our country is under threat, when we are all just trying to do our best, are these not the qualities we should most aspire to? Are these not the qualities that will protect us, unite us, and save us?

The question God asks Jonah is as significant for us as it was for Jonah. Why are you spending so much energy worrying about everyone else's failures? Shouldn't you be concerned with the work I have given you to do? Amen.

September 13 ~ "Not seven times, but seventy-seven times"

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/3ef8bd_e64439f19ec8447fbc8b5b06ca9957f9/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Genesis 50:15-21

Psalm 103: 8-13

Romans 14:1-12

Matthew 18:21-35

Once again, science backs up the gospel. Practicing forgiveness leads to higher well-being over time. A study led by Harvard University researchers reported this not-that-surprising finding in January, but this study had also analyzed annual well-being data among more than 207,000 participants across 23 geographically and culturally diverse countries. In the study, researchers asked people how often they forgave people who wronged them.

Turns out the rates of forgiveness were pretty high – overall 75 per cent of participants said they often or always practice forgiveness. Those who said they forgive more often tended to report higher well-being the following year. Their scores were highest in mental health, purpose, relationship satisfaction, and hope.

Of course, even knowing that forgiveness is good for our souls, we naturally balk at Jesus’s response to Peter, who puts to him a question we have all asked at one time or another. “Lord, if my brother or sister sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” We can easily imagine that Peter was hoping Jesus would make it easy on him: give them one chance, maybe two, and then you’ve done your best.

Instead, Jesus sets the bar impossibly high; “Not seven times, but I tell you, seventy-seven times.” In other words, we are charged to forgive again and again and again, and always again.

To add to the challenge, our readings offer an example of astonishing forgiveness. Joseph was left for dead by his brothers, then sold into slavery, surviving only on his wits. Yet here are those brothers back, seeking his aid. And Joseph shows them kindness and forgives them. Would we do the same? Our second lesson cautions us that judgement is a waste of time – everyone can be judged for something. The only one we are accountable to, at the end of our days, is God. And then, finally, Jesus takes his seventy-seven times of forgiveness one step further, with the brutal story of a slave who, upon being forgiven by his debts by the king, then carries on to demand his debts from another. Found out, the king condemns him to be tortured. He was to pay it forward, as we would say, and he did not.

Of course, Jesus offers us parables. We are not meant to count our attempts at forgiveness, but to understand that the count is irrelevant; we must try to forgive as often as we can without a register of accounts. And did the slave in the parable not inflict his own torture? Selfishness does not lead to happiness, his greed cost him his community. Clearly he was too broken inside to extend mercy, whether he had cause to be generous or not. How different then was Joseph, who despite possessing the power to make his brothers pay for their crime against him, chose the high road of forgiving them, and then helping them for the rest of their lives.

So altogether what do we have: forgiveness, support, our well being. Our forgiveness should be unlimited. Don’t judge lest ye be judged. We are to pay forward the forgiveness we receive from God, and from those around us – by forgiving others. And we are, absolutely, not to use the power we possess to seek vengeance rather than forgiveness.

But our lessons also appear to allow for different forms of forgiveness. Joseph’s is the most transformative; he forgives in full and brothers are restored to his life. But we also know that he had every advantage over his brothers. Forgiving them did not put him under their thumbs again – so forgiveness was a gift he could offer, rightfully, but also from a place of safety.

When we are told not to judge another, that is a call to seek to understand them and to then forgive them; but forgiveness does not require a relationship be restored to its original state. In fact, I would argue that forgiveness forever alters that relationship. To forgive is to open your eyes to reality and to come to terms with it. That process cannot buy your connection. What’s more, in my experience forgiveness requires a certain level of care to be sustained; that comes with boundaries. As pure the act of forgiving may be, it only asks change from us – not the other person. It is entirely a choice we make. Even if we seek clarity or closure, that is not essential to forgiveness. Forgiveness is the choice we make for ourselves – and the reason we must do it seventy-seven times, is because it can sometimes crack and tear if we are not careful to sustain it. Perhaps we must wake up every day and decide to forgive the same person for the same wrong; that is forgiveness as much as the slights we forgive and never think of again. Indeed, I would say, it is hardest of all.

But ultimately, I want to return to the finding in the research: that the people who forgave the most often reported the higher well-being, and in particular hope. And I can see that this idea of hope may be understood as hope that people will change, or hope that things can get better. And that is part of it; people who are forgiving are likely optimists. But the hope born out of forgiveness is hope in ourselves, and hope in God—In ourselves that we are strong and just enough to practice forgiveness—and in God that our act of forgiveness has value, the power to change ourselves and all the relationships around us. For ultimately, we call forgiveness a practice because it takes practice. But luckily, God does not expect perfection. Our task to hold on to hope – mostly in ourselves – and our ability to do what is right. What sets fair boundaries. What serves our larger communities. We may be on the seventy-seventh time and still working at it. But we are working on it, and that is the definition of hope. Amen.

September 6 ~ the light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overtake it

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/3ef8bd_e4731e8d8a744aa39305b1dad5db8895/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Genesis 1:1—2:4a

Psalm 148

Acts 17:22a, 24-28

John 1:1-5

This summer, a friend in Nova Scotia observed that living near the ocean meant you understood the large consequences of small climate changes better than many people. I thought that was a generalization – I know there are many of you sitting here today who are painfully aware of the human toll on Creation and working actively to mitigate those large consequences.

But it’s also true that the ocean constantly seems to be warning us of the path we are on, and all that we will lose the longer we wait to change direction. In my hometown, on every clear night, the sun sets in an array of orange and reds and purples, and on every clear morning, it rises from the edge of the sea, with the same kaleidoscope of colours – just as Genesis describes. But that sea continues to warm, changing the life that lives beneath it. Even the slightest higher tide does more and more damage to the shore both for humans and for nature. Around the world, every human who lives by or works on the sea, knows the small changes have very large consequences – especially for the most vulnerable people.

Wendell Berry, the famous Christian environmentalist, once said, "It is impossible to care for each other more or differently than we care for the earth.” Mr. Berry believed that God had intended humans to be benevolent stewards of the earth – not the selfish, superior tyrants that our species became.

He died, at the age of 92, on August 31st, 2026 – so he missed the official announcement that the world’s warming will now exceed the 1.5 celsius limit because of the burning of oil, gas and coal – the same limit agreed upon in the 2015 Paris accord. And yet, we are left with Mr. Berry’s enduring challenge: “The care of the Earth is our most ancient and most worthy task, and after all our most pleasing responsibility. To cherish what remains of it and to foster its renewal is our only hope."

How can the Creation story in Genesis have anything to offer us in this modern dilemma? It was written down so long ago, before we understood more about evolution and geology, before the climate science of today. It’s a pretty story – these seven metaphorical days of God’s work – but we are living in ugly, chaotic times.

As it happens, the story in Genesis aligns with what science tell us today in a few places. The universe had a beginning – on this both scripture and science agree, a big bang one way or another. The earth was complete chaos, Genesis says, and on this science also agrees, envisioning a world of molten rock and asteroid strikes, unable to sustain life. But life did come to be, science says, not all at once – but in stages, just as Genesis describes, although not in days as we understand them today. (But then, what is a day to God?) What Genesis calls a dome in the sky, we would call the atmosphere. And humans arrived at the end, we know from science – just as Genesis puts humans as the final accomplishment of Creation. But where things go astray is on the order – how was there light, we might wonder, on the first day, but the sun was only created on the 4th? How did God create plants before that same sun they needed to live? We can point to scientific holes in Genesis all day – but to what end. We know the Creation story was put down on paper by ancient humans who did not have the benefit of the Hubble Space Telescope or trips around the moon.

In fact, when you read Genesis, you can see the mistake that weaves through it; it is written from the perspective of someone looking out at the sky from earth, searching to understand God and the meaning of life; and not from the universe looking back.

And yet, hidden in this pretty story is so much depth. Every step of the way, as God created life, we hear these words: “And God saw that it was good.” It was good and worthy when it was just sky, and when it was only plants and trees. It was good before we came, when it was young and lush and teaming with new life. The earth, Genesis says, does not need humanity to be good. Nature does not need us – although we need nature.

We hear of the creation of humans on the same day as land animals – perhaps Genesis is more in step with evolution than first appearances suggest. Humanity is not set apart from the earth, but deeply embedded within nature. The humans of Genesis require sustenance from the same earth to survive as all the other living creatures in the Creation story. Just as each day progresses to the next, and we are reminded that life on this planet is interconnected. What happens to one, happens to all of us.

And so, we are placed within a good and interconnected world, thriving with all we need to survive – and then God says, in Genesis, go and subdue the world, and have dominion over the animals. And so many of us got big heads and decided that meant we could do whatever we wanted to – not just over the plants and animals, which become ours to consume, but also any other human we considered beneath us.

But of course that makes no sense at all; one does not create something only to encourage its destruction; we misunderstood the gift and the charge; we were to have dominion with, not over—we were to be stewards not dictators of a good and self-sustaining world.

And then we have the seventh day, and the lesson modern society has forgotten. On the seventh day, God paused, and rested and took in all that had been created. The earth was enough. And that day of rest – now lost to us – is a reminder that there must be a place to stop, to say we have enough, we have done enough, and just allow the world to be a place of beauty. To keep producing, to keep creating more and more, to keep consuming, would throw balance into chaos – as we know all too well today.

And so, in this Creation Story, we learn the lessons society has forgotten. The world is good and worthy, before and without humans. Everything is connected; our care for the world is linked to our care for each other. As Wendell Berry said; the harm we do to the planet, we do to ourselves. And we were never set above it, but placed within it, charged to be a force for good, in a world that was already good. We know how that has gone.

Perhaps, we must find our resolve here, in this unscientific fairy tale about the creation of the world. If the world is connected, than our actions and choices can also make a change for the better. If the world was good before we did our damage, it may be good again, with care. We were charged to be stewards – stewards we can yet be. That is the hope in the Creation story.

As the seventh day came to a close, it was not an ending. Nor a new beginning. But a choice. Pause, on this seventh day, to survey all that we have destroyed, and see the work ahead of us. And then take in all that has been created, all the resilience and strength of the world, and find hope. And when the sun rises on the eighth day, may we choose wisely and humbly to repair the gift we have been given. Amen.