February 12th 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

Someone told me this week about a study that explored how the taste buds of Canadians and Americans differed, and how health experts were taking that into consideration when they explored food labels and other regulations. Americans, apparently, love their sugar. But for Canadians, we can’t get enough salt. Certainly, salt is as central to us in winter as it would have been in Jesus’s day: obviously for different reasons. Anyone who has lived by the ocean knows the power of salt water to heal a cut, or take the sting out of a bad day. In this morning’s gospel we have two popular metaphors for describing the followers of Jesus: salt and light, and both of them help us see our role in relationship to God. Salt is a favourite metaphor in the gospels. In Mark, we are told, “have salt in yourselves and be at peace with one another” – as if the word might be a stand-in for “faith.” In Luke, salt shows up as a metaphor for obedient discipleship – and that those with a shortage of “salt” have carried the cross too lightly and without commitment. Jesus, of course, was a master at making the words of sacred text contemporary for regular citizens of his time, rather than serving up lofty talk to the educated masses. He knew the analogy to salt would resonate – though perhaps he didn’t suspect that it would become an idiom so many centuries later. But what does Jesus mean when he calls his followers the “salt of the earth”? It is in fact very different from calling us sheep to his shepherd – in that parable, our relationship to God is defined as those who are protected, kept safe from harm, and led out of the valley. The description of salt of the earth is, in many ways, much more powerful, and for each of us, more empowering. First of all, Jesus is declaring a high value upon his followers – as precious and essential as salt. In the time of Jesus, salt was such a costly and valued commodity that sometimes, Roman soldiers were paid a measured portion of salt in their wages. Salt was so valuable because it was essential to life: it preserved food and gave it taste. It cleansed wounds. It was used to keep things pure. But Jesus is not just being declarative with us; Jesus is being aspirational. He aspires for us to be as salt: dependable, decent, and unpretentious when it comes to our commitment to the good works of the gospel. Isn’t that what is meant when we describe someone as the salt of the earth? In these days of flamboyant celebrities and say-anything politicians, that might be seen as a backhanded compliment for boring. The whole point of so much social media and reality TV is to be clever, outside the box and bold. Not so much salty, but really, really spicy. But those are fleeting moments; salt is enduring – it preserves for the long run. We know that in truth, when everything else is washed away, we would want someone by us who is dependable, who does not change or waver with the tide. Who is decent and strives to be kind. Who is unpretentious, allowing their good works to be seen incidentally as they fulfill them. A sheep, obedient and dutiful, may, however, be all of those things, But by calling us salt, and urging us not to lose our taste – our spice – Jesus was adding free will into the mix, for us to be not only followers but also leaders. Salt is an active ingredient – it changes what it touches. For what is salt without taste? It’s good for nothing, Jesus concludes, but to trample under one’s feet. It preserves nothing and adds flavour to nothing. And so, by naming us this way, Jesus is also challenging us – to see our role as adding individual flavor to the world. The person, in fact, who strives to be decent and kind, cannot help but be at least a little spicy: for there are always times when being decent means speaking up, and being dependable means not backing down. But that is a challenge: how we can we be salt – dependable, decent, and unpretentious – but just spicy enough while also shining our light upon everyone, as Jesus urges us. Being sheep would be so much easier. In the end, it distills down, so to speak, to one thing: the motive behind our actions. If thinking of ourselves as sheep brings us into God’s embrace, then being called salt sends us out again – to change whatever we touch and whomever we meet. But Jesus’s word in our gospel is caution as well: if we are not paying attention, if we are trying to justify our own choices, if we are studying only to make our parents happy, or stepping in for our own glorification, we will almost sprinkle too much or too little salt on the situation, and either spoil it, or make no difference at all. If our motivation is to be the salt that heals someone else, or thaws a difficult situation, it cannot be about us – who have already been found to be of priceless value. This is why, Jesus, I suspect, draws in the light metaphor, as he encourages us to be salty. We are warned that as we carry out the gospel – as we try to be good and decent people – we let all the rest shine on its own. We are not to be a flashlight pointing a single stream of light, trying to get someone’s attention. We are called to be the lamp that naturally casts a sweeping light, indiscriminately. For in the end, this is the definition of the good life, the gospel-led life: to be the salt that preserves and nourishes and protects, and in doing so, we become preserved, nourished, and protected. To be a light that shines widely, and in doing so, we see God more brightly. Amen

February 5th 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

Someone told me this week about a study that explored how the taste buds of Canadians and Americans differed, and how health experts were taking that into consideration when they explored food labels and other regulations. Americans, apparently, love their sugar. But for Canadians, we can’t get enough salt. Certainly, salt is as central to us in winter as it would have been in Jesus’s day: obviously for different reasons. Anyone who has lived by the ocean knows the power of salt water to heal a cut, or take the sting out of a bad day. In this morning’s gospel we have two popular metaphors for describing the followers of Jesus: salt and light, and both of them help us see our role in relationship to God. Salt is a favourite metaphor in the gospels. In Mark, we are told, “have salt in yourselves and be at peace with one another” – as if the word might be a stand-in for “faith.” In Luke, salt shows up as a metaphor for obedient discipleship – and that those with a shortage of “salt” have carried the cross too lightly and without commitment. Jesus, of course, was a master at making the words of sacred text contemporary for regular citizens of his time, rather than serving up lofty talk to the educated masses. He knew the analogy to salt would resonate – though perhaps he didn’t suspect that it would become an idiom so many centuries later. But what does Jesus mean when he calls his followers the “salt of the earth”? It is in fact very different from calling us sheep to his shepherd – in that parable, our relationship to God is defined as those who are protected, kept safe from harm, and led out of the valley. The description of salt of the earth is, in many ways, much more powerful, and for each of us, more empowering. First of all, Jesus is declaring a high value upon his followers – as precious and essential as salt. In the time of Jesus, salt was such a costly and valued commodity that sometimes, Roman soldiers were paid a measured portion of salt in their wages. Salt was so valuable because it was essential to life: it preserved food and gave it taste. It cleansed wounds. It was used to keep things pure. But Jesus is not just being declarative with us; Jesus is being aspirational. He aspires for us to be as salt: dependable, decent, and unpretentious when it comes to our commitment to the good works of the gospel. Isn’t that what is meant when we describe someone as the salt of the earth? In these days of flamboyant celebrities and say-anything politicians, that might be seen as a backhanded compliment for boring. The whole point of so much social media and reality TV is to be clever, outside the box and bold. Not so much salty, but really, really spicy. But those are fleeting moments; salt is enduring – it preserves for the long run. We know that in truth, when everything else is washed away, we would want someone by us who is dependable, who does not change or waver with the tide. Who is decent and strives to be kind. Who is unpretentious, allowing their good works to be seen incidentally as they fulfill them. A sheep, obedient and dutiful, may, however, be all of those things, But by calling us salt, and urging us not to lose our taste – our spice – Jesus was adding free will into the mix, for us to be not only followers but also leaders. Salt is an active ingredient – it changes what it touches. For what is salt without taste? It’s good for nothing, Jesus concludes, but to trample under one’s feet. It preserves nothing and adds flavour to nothing. And so, by naming us this way, Jesus is also challenging us – to see our role as adding individual flavor to the world. The person, in fact, who strives to be decent and kind, cannot help but be at least a little spicy: for there are always times when being decent means speaking up, and being dependable means not backing down. But that is a challenge: how we can we be salt – dependable, decent, and unpretentious – but just spicy enough while also shining our light upon everyone, as Jesus urges us. Being sheep would be so much easier. In the end, it distills down, so to speak, to one thing: the motive behind our actions. If thinking of ourselves as sheep brings us into God’s embrace, then being called salt sends us out again – to change whatever we touch and whomever we meet. But Jesus’s word in our gospel is caution as well: if we are not paying attention, if we are trying to justify our own choices, if we are studying only to make our parents happy, or stepping in for our own glorification, we will almost sprinkle too much or too little salt on the situation, and either spoil it, or make no difference at all. If our motivation is to be the salt that heals someone else, or thaws a difficult situation, it cannot be about us – who have already been found to be of priceless value. This is why, Jesus, I suspect, draws in the light metaphor, as he encourages us to be salty. We are warned that as we carry out the gospel – as we try to be good and decent people – we let all the rest shine on its own. We are not to be a flashlight pointing a single stream of light, trying to get someone’s attention. We are called to be the lamp that naturally casts a sweeping light, indiscriminately. For in the end, this is the definition of the good life, the gospel-led life: to be the salt that preserves and nourishes and protects, and in doing so, we become preserved, nourished, and protected. To be a light that shines widely, and in doing so, we see God more brightly. Amen

January 29th 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

Would you consider yourself a lucky person? Several years ago, an American psychologist conducted a series of unusual experiments. He divided participants into two groups: those who defined themselves as lucky, and those who said they were not lucky. And then he gave each one a newspaper and asked them to count all the pictures in it. According to his results, the lucky people took seconds, on average, to finish the task. The unlucky people were more likely to take minutes. The catch was that on the second page of the newspaper there was a note in big letters filling up half the space. It said, “don’t read any further. There are 45 pictures in this newspaper.” As the researcher theorized, the lucky people saw it and stopped right there. The unlucky people, intent on their task, missed what was right in front of them, and kept going. So he tried again. This time, he sent his participants to a coffee shop. At the entrance, he had dropped a $5 bill. What happened? The lucky people, in his experiment, almost always found the bill. Some of them even shared it with a stranger they met inside and enjoyed a conversation. Those participants returned saying how great the outing had been. The unlucky people more likely walked over the money, got their coffee, and spoke to no one. When asked how their trip had gone, they were more likely to say, “Nothing exciting happened.” Now, the sample sizes were small, so I am not sure how “scientific” these experiments really were. But the idea they were capturing was “the openness” that the so-called lucky people had to the world around them—their willingness to pay attention to their surroundings and to invest in the people they encountered. There was nothing quantitatively luckier about them than those who declared themselves unlucky – but their posture in the world meant that fortune found them. Today our gospel would appear to be about some pretty unlucky people. Jesus opens his Sermon on the Mount by promising “blessings” to those who are poor in spirit, who mourn, who are meek. He goes on to speak about those who look for knowledge, those who are pure in heart, those who take risks for what is right and face persecution. He pretty much covers the whole gambit. And we can all find ourselves on the list somewhere. I imagine we find the Beatitudes speak to us in different ways depending on our stage of life. Jesus is speaking about a promise of the luck of God falling upon both the lucky and the unlucky: the term “beatitude” originates, in fact, from the Latin word beātitūdō which means "happy," "fortunate," or "blissful.” That is, lucky. It’s an elegant speech – and a deeply reassuring one for us – which is why it is so often quoted and referenced. It is a promise from Jesus that things will work out when we are most in despair, that we will be carried through the valleys of life by our faith in God. It is also, I would say, a recognition from Jesus that it is often when we are most troubled that we feel closest to God, and that we lean most heavily upon our faith. But a few lines down, Jesus makes a telling shift. The first three examples are passive: people who are low in spirit, who mourn, who are meek. The next six are much more active. It takes, after all, self-control and intention to be pure of heart, even when it comes easy. To thirst for righteousness implies that we are looking for it in the first place. To be a peacemaker requires an intentional act of forgiveness or compassion – if not the active settling of the dispute. And the last two are truly bold – so central to the gospel that Jesus references them twice: those who face persecution in the act of doing something right, Jesus says, “shall rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven.” There’s another more modern experiment to test our concept of luck. A teacher asks a diverse group of students to stand in a line. He tells them that they are to run a race to a set finish line and the first person to cross it will win $100. But first he asks the group to take two steps forward if his statements apply to them, and not to move if they don’t. Are their parents still married? he asks. Two-thirds of the group steps forward. Did they have access to tutors for school? More steps forward, a slightly smaller group this time. Did they never have to worry about the family bills being covered? A picture emerges - it is mostly the same students stepping forward each time, and the same group standing still on the original starting line. You get the idea: the teacher is pointing out that some people are lucky, not because of any personal accomplishment or ability, but because of their family’s economic status. The students at the back will have to run much faster to cross the finish line first. And so that’s an important context to add to the original experiment - and to how we read the Beatitudes. It is easiest to be open and generous when we feel lucky, but often our luck is not a quality we create in ourselves, but the result of a life lottery we happen to win. We should never judge the people still racing through that newspaper - perhaps working twice as hard to keep up means you miss things. And we should never judge those who fail to see the $5 - they might have things on their mind, like worrying about the bills. To be victims of poverty, injustice, and trauma - as the first group in the beatitudes - is a burden of mind and spirit, that the lucky do not carry. So the Beatitudes are a collection of gifts and challenges. When we need it, God carries us. And when we have the strength, we carry the gospel. In this way, Jesus upends out notion of fortune. It is not the accumulation of material goods, or the recognition of human achievement. It is not a life free from grief and tribulations. It is a posture – the act of paying attention, of seeking, of listening. Ultimately the Beatitudes are a description of the human condition: at times in our lives we are brave; at other times we are meek. Sometimes, we feel rich; at other times, we feel poor. There are many ways to describe those qualities: material, emotional, and spiritual. But at all times we are blessed. In the world the Gospel envisions, we receive God’s comfort when we need it, and God’s call when we are able to follow it. We all have our part to play in that. Maybe we split the $5 dollars with our neighbors who missed it. Maybe we show them the riddle in the newspaper so they can catch a break. Maybe we wait in the race so that those left unfairly behind can catch up. Maybe we don’t race at all. Maybe we walk together. That would be a lucky world indeed. Amen