Ground Rush

Parachutists have a phrase they call “ground rush.” Now I have never jumped out of a plane, so I can’t vouch for this personally, but apparently, when you first make the jump and you are falling through the sky, but have yet to open up your parachute, you have this feeling as if you are falling - dropping towards the ground at a completely reasonable speed. You have time to take in the scenery, and while it’s exhilarating, your sense of time slows down completely - the ground, after all, seems very far away. But once you fall a certain distance, your perception shifts - and it’s not the falling that you’re aware of - it is instead the ground rushing quickly towards you. In that instant, one might imagine that Time speeds up rather quickly. And you are probably awfully keen to pull your parachute cord. It has been suggested that this might make a good analogy for the way we experience life - the first half of which we might spend enjoying the feeling of time travelling slowly, and the second half, suddenly realizing that time is ticking down. Of course, time is always ticking down. It is only our perception that changes.

Lent, of course, is meant to be one of those perception-changing seasons of the church. Forty days to contemplate the passage of time, both to slow it down, like the parachutist first emerging from the plane, but with a sense of its passing quickly, like the second half of the descent. These are the two postures of Lent: slowing things down, then speeding up, or focusing on what is important. It is a difficult one for us to master, since we most naturally fall into the opposite pattern: that is, speeding up, or focusing on, all the things that are the least important. Much is of this is a matter of perception: from what angle do we see the world? Where is the countdown clock in our lives? Do we lament our lack of time with our kids, only to spend precious moments with them on our iPhones? Do we wish for a better marriage while devoting the best of ourselves to work? Do we write an ending for our lives without seeing the journey we have to take?

This morning’s gospel features a wordy debate between a Pharisee and Jesus. The Pharisee - Nicodemus - is trying to pin Jesus down, to get some specifics on heaven and the spirit. But Jesus dodges the questions: he leaves his answers open-ended. Clearly, this frustrates poor Nicodemus, who wants it clearly mapped out. To use our parachutist analogy, he wanted to know that when he jumps out of a plane, he will fall for exactly so many seconds, pull his chute at this time directly, and land in this place precisely. But Jesus denies him this kind of answer. “The wind blows where it chooses and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.”

Jesus speaks of us in two parts - flesh and spirit. The first, we understand better: it is the most animal part of it - hunger, thirst - even those baser human emotions such as anger. Love for our families and spouses we might add to the flesh side of our lives since they come naturally. But the spirit, as Jesus would say, works more mysteriously - it is that human quality that is harder to understand, the one that makes less sense in a Darwinian world, the acts of charity and kindness toward strangers, sacrifices we make not for ourselves, but for others. It is the feeling of euphoria when time does not seem to matter, when the wind is blowing us, but we don’t know where and are prepared to be led by it. Part of Jesus’s frustration with the law-oriented society into which he was born was just that: so focused on rules, they were not prepared to be led the way the wind blew them. They wanted to know the destination before they took the next step.

That’s hardly how life works, in any event, so it’s an attitude that holds us back from the real decisions we must make.

Certainly, this week, witnessing the horror of the migrant tragedy off Italy’s southern coast, we have seen people moved by the spirit. I think of the rescue crews who worked tirelessly trying to find survivors. Expressions of grief from around the world. And the demands for action that were split between the imperative of humanitarian treatment and a crackdown on traffickers. Sometimes it takes a tragic story to move our spirit. That is the unquantifiable element of humanity - the part that brings us closer to God - the part we cannot explain. It is not complicated to understand our definition of heroes and martyrs - they are the people that choose the spirit over flesh. They are the people that choose faith over law.

Let us return to that airplane, with us about to leap out of it. An analogy for life, but also for every day. And certainly, one that works for Lent. What Jesus wants for us is to experience, every chance we can, these two seeming contradictions of life - the ability to see the big picture, and the capability to respond in small and significant ways to improve that picture. Jesus wants to us feel both time moving slowly, and time passing by. This is also the discipline of Lent - both contemplation and action, which in partnership require an awareness of life at its largest, and an ability to distill it down to specifics. If we stay too long in the first, we forget to pull our parachute cord.

And I like the parachute analogy for one other important reason: who is our parachute, after all? Our gospel gives us this answer: For God so loved the world that God gave Jesus so that everyone who believes may not perish but may have eternal life. And just in case we didn’t get it the first time, we have this clarification: Jesus didn’t come to judge us or condemn us. Jesus came to save us - that is, to guide and comfort us. That is the parachute that helps us see life large, and act upon it. It is the spirit that moves our flesh into faith, that carries us forward to sacrifice for others, that inspires heroes. Don’t be like Nicodemus arguing semantics with Jesus. Listen for the wind, savour the view, and pull your parachute cord.Amen

February 26th, 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

This war of words between Jesus and the devil is one of the most interesting exchanges in the gospel. It is written as dialogue, a clear back-and-forth, a test of wits known as the temptation of Jesus. The devil – or the tempter – appears to Jesus when he is alone, when he is the most susceptible to other voices, and tries three times to steer him off his path. Many of us might draw comparisons to what happens to us sometimes when we wake up at 3 am, tossing and turning to worries that feel larger than what we are able to handle. Often at that time of night, lying alone in the dark, people describe that all their problems seem bigger, and all the solutions that come forward in a sleepy mind feel more desperate. The more they ruminate on those problems – money, family, health – the larger and more intractable they seem. In the light of day, however, all that worry often feels nonsensical and overblown. Jesus has a clear advantage over us. In our story, he is confronted by the tempter, by the devil, who reveals himself. First, he asks Jesus to prove himself – to turn stones into bread. Isn’t that something that Jesus Christ could do easily? But Jesus deflects smoothly: “Why would I bother?” he tells the devil. You can’t live by bread alone. And every word for God should be spent wisely. The devil moves to his next question, this time asking Jesus to prove God’s love for him: “Throw yourself off this mountain,” the devil taunts, “and see how God will save you.” But Jesus parries easily: “Don’t put God to the test,” he says. God stands by us, and guides us, through plenty of tests of our own inadvertent making. And the devil’s final question is for Jesus to walk away from his difficult path and his austere life, and trade it all in for riches. Now that is a temptation we can truly understand. And at this, the contempt that Jesus feels boils over: “Away with you, Satan,” he says. “I won’t lose myself for a pot of gold. I serve God and the gospel alone.” This is the true sign of a rich life. The devil having lost, he goes away. And the better angels of God appear to keep Jesus company. This story is intended to be a guide for us, a reminder of the ways that we are also tempted. We don’t see the devil, but the voice of temptation whispers to us throughout our lives. Sometimes, it is easier to see – when we are tempted to break rules, or to break our moral code for material success, to lie for personal gain. We see it often so clearly among our leaders and our politicians who protect their power with the price of ourselves. But let’s not kid ourselves: we face similar temptations, and we sometimes fall short – when we choose money over family, or prestige over good works, or when we make self-serving choices that hurt those around us. The hardest temptations are those that come to us more subtly, that feel right and fair at the time. Why shouldn’t we show off our success, or reveal our talents if we have them? Doesn’t God want us to be successful, to know our own strength? God does, indeed. But not for others - for ourselves. When we do good, when we are good, it should be enough, for that goodness is a valuable asset in its own right. We don’t need to be seen changing stone to bread. And indeed, feeling that way only taints our motives and takes the goodness out of our actions. This one is trickier still. Perhaps we are ill or grieving, we have suffered a loss, and we choose to blame God. We stand at the top of the metaphorical mountain and toss ourselves over and wait for God to come through and save us. Yet nowhere in the gospel does it say life is easy; nowhere does it say that faith makes life perfect. In fact, the gospel is one big guidebook for how to help ourselves - how to hear God when life is a mess. We don’t need to test God’s love, because God is not at the bottom of the mountaintop waiting to catch us. God is already standing at the top with us. What is the advice that we are given by the Gospel for those 3 a.m. wake-ups? Now that is also interesting. The advice often given is for us to change the conversation: to tell ourselves that the night has magnified our worries. That we will fall back asleep and rise to greet what the day brings. That we will manage to get through what troubles us. But it is interesting to me that the self-help approach is to shift the conversation – for what is that but praying in the end? In the middle of the night, we can go to God about our troubles, and seek the wisdom of the gospel. We can work things out. Let’s take a minute to talk about the conversation that Eve has with the serpent in the Garden of Eden, one that has been used throughout history as an excuse to treat women as less than men and perpetuated great harm on society because of it. To say nothing of costing us the wisdom of half the population through all these many years. It is true that Eve, based on that story in Genesis, broke the rule that God had sent, and listened to the serpent who told her the key to wisdom was hers to find in the Tree of Life. (There is nothing to say, by the way, that Adam also didn’t know what he was eating: that Eve didn’t tell him what it was, or that he was fully aware of it, before he himself had it.) So, what happens? The two of them eat the fruit, and they do not die. They go out into the world to face the trials and joys that it holds. One imagines that God, having created humanity in God’s image, understood our thirst for wisdom would not be satisfied by a life without challenge, without striving. But when Eve and Adam become aware of themselves -- of who they are, when they acquire free will, God doesn’t abandon them. God joins them in the real world. What does that story teach us? Perhaps first of all, that we, imperfect, could not perpetually exist in perfection. But perhaps most of all: when we give into temptation – as we do, as we will – God doesn’t discard us. Sacred text teaches us over and over again that God tries to guide us back to the gospel again and again. This is an important lesson for us to remember; yes, Jesus tells us the answers to give when we are tempted. We just won’t always use them. And when we give in to temptation, we are not condemned. We are forgiven. This is the gift of faith, given by God, to humanity. Amen.

February 19th 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

How often do we meet people from our past – an old school friend, perhaps, or a work colleague, and we say to them, “You haven’t changed!” We mean it as a compliment, that the years have been easy on them, that they look the same. But of course, sometimes you only have to meet that un-changed person for coffee and hear how the years have gone, and you realize that underneath it all, they have been very much changed. This morning, we hear the story of the Transfiguration, the moment in our gospel when God put the stamp, so to speak, firmly on Jesus. Three disciples have gone with Jesus up the mountain for some time away. While they are there, they suddenly see Jesus - his face shining like the sun, his clothes dazzling. Moses and Elijah appear talking to him, a sign of his special place. And then, the story goes, they hear the voice of God, announcing: “This is my Son, my Beloved; with him I am well pleased. Listen to Him!” In that moment, the disciples are humbled, they fall to their knees, but Jesus asks them to stand. Don’t tell anyone, he says. But of course it is too late: they have seen Jesus now in a new light. In that moment, he is not just a man they are following, a special leader with unusual healing powers. He has been named by God. The timing of the transfiguration is important: only a short time later, the disciples and Jesus will make the Palm Sunday march into Jerusalem, toward the darkest of roads. Why tell the story now? It is not just a way to remind the followers of the gospel that Jesus is the Son of God, like placing a billboard of lights above his head. It is a recognition that the way he has been conducting his ministry – and the path down which he will soon go – is the right way, and the worthy one. Other people might want to announce that endorsement, in the same way that politicians jockey for the kudos of other famous names to win voters over to them. But based on that example, we can understand immediately why Jesus is so quick to tell the disciples not to say anything – to “tell no one.” Jesus does not want his message to be lost in the rush of celebrity, by people seeking him out, not for what they might accomplish in the name of the gospel, but by currying favour for what Jesus’s divine connections might do for them. All through the gospel, we have examples of Jesus telling the disciples to keep the miracles and healings quiet, not to boast about them to people who had not seen them. Jesus understood that belief was much more powerful when it originated inside a person, rather than from outside pressure to join the popular club. So that is the first lesson we learn about the transfiguration: it is for each one of us to uncover for ourselves. Yes, we can read the story now, and hear about the events on the mountain – and it is a truly powerful tale. But how we view and see the transfiguration of Christ – how he appears to us as the Son of God, as the incarnation of that voice on the mountaintop – is not for us to be told. It is for us to seek and keep seeking our entire lives. The transfiguration is not one moment of light – one instance of realization dawning upon us. Every time we see something, or someone, in “a new light,” we have experienced a form of transfiguration. That’s another lesson of this day: even when you think you know someone, even when you think you have learned enough, there is always more to find. The disciples were the closest friends Jesus had, they spent every day together, they travelled beside one another. And yet in that moment, the disciples were in awe of the Jesus that had been revealed to them. Too often, I think, we set in stone the stories we tell about ourselves and one another, we decide this is how it is, and it will always be so. But many times in my life, I have met people who I thought were one way, and as I came to know them, I realized I had been completely wrong. Sometimes, it was someone I had discounted who stood by me when others didn’t. Or someone I thought was arrogant, who was really just shy. Someone who seemed self-absorbed but whose life, in fact, was full of quiet generosity. In each case, those people were transfigured for me – they shone brighter to me. But that just didn’t happen; it came about because, like the disciples, I took the time to listen and learn, and pay attention. But in the end, what we learn from how Jesus reacted is that it is not the moment of transfiguration that matters – the instant in which you are declared a winner or named a star – it is what happens next. Jesus, as we know, came down from the mountain – despite the entreaties of the disciples to stay there – and carried on, just as he had planned before. It is not to win recognition, to receive an award or trophy, because that moment fades quickly. The danger is that we become too proud when the gospel calls us to be humble servants. Jesus didn’t need to have the title Son of God – stamped on his business card. He believed in what he was doing and the lessons he was imparting. Jesus wanted his deeds to be his best evidence. And indeed, aren’t we drawn to those humble servants, the people who even after the fact reveal something truly wonderful about themselves that nobody knew about? There is something special about doing good without asking for attention. For instance, recently I read the story of a farmer named Hodi Childress in Alabama. Every month, he brought a small wad of cash to the local drug store, and handed it over quietly, telling the pharmacists to keep it secret. It was meant to be used to cover drugs for those in dire need who couldn’t afford it. But Mr. Childress didn’t want anyone to know; and he told no one. His generosity was only discovered after he died. Word of his gift spread and now Hody Childress funds have started up in drug stores across the US. If that’s not an example of transfiguration, I don’t know what is. So ultimately, that is our lesson too: that what we do, and how we act, is our transfiguring moment. God has already shone the light upon us and given each one of us a ringing endorsement. The question now is how will we respond? Amen