May 29th, 2022

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

Jesus prays: “I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, 21that they may all be one.” What can it mean for us all to be one? When this week, we watched with horror as an 18-year-old gunman armed with a semi-automatic weapon stormed into an elementary school and killed 19 children and two teachers? When parents waited for word their sons and daughter had survived a place where they should have been safe? When doctors at University Hospital in San Antonia prepared for the young patients they hoped would not come, and then when all was too quiet, for the young patients they desperately wanted to come to them, so that they might save them? When we watched politicians say that he acted alone, when of course, we all know that behind that gunman is a gun lobby and gun companies and other political leaders in the pockets of both? What word of God on earth can ease the pain of those parents, and in our own hearts? What unity might we find against a cause that is so heartless and seems so hopeless? And can we rest so easy across the border? Can we say that our society is more united than in the past – as we also approach the first-year anniversary of a Sunday evening when a 20-year-old drive his pick-up truck into an innocent family waiting at a crosswalk, because of the God they prayed to? When in Nova Scotia, an inquiry continues into a rampage that killed 22 people in the small town of Portapique, an anniversary just passed? What word of God can ease the pain of those who remember them this week? What unity might give them comfort? I do not know. On this week, it is not so much the words that Jesus says in the gospel that sit with me. But the words he spoke while dying, murdered, and innocent, on the cross: Forgive them, God; they know not what they do. But do we not know? What part have we all played in our world today? Are we truly just innocent attendants at the graveside, weeping for tragedy of that other problem, over there? I guess that is a question only we can answer. A question and an answer between us and God. Every morning this week, my Twitter feed was full of the faces of the children in Texas, who went to school and never came home. I didn’t want to see them; I wanted to click away, to watch the trailer for Top Gun, to avoid seeing. But they kept coming back, demanding to be seen. And so, I scrolled through their faces, all precious, all full of potential. What word of God can ease my pain? Shall I accept forgiveness for my humanness, requested by Jesus on my behalf as he died at human hands? Shall I accept responsibility for being a member of a species that inflicts such careless atrocities on one another – not just in the actual act of pulling a trigger, but in the long path strewn with greed and power for their own sakes that gets us there? How can the gospel rise up against such tragedy - small acts of kindness like a butterfly’s wings flapping against a great storm? Sometimes it is hard to find the words of God that can bring comfort and ease. Because sometimes the responsibility to bring comfort lies with our human actions, in the same way that the pain we cause lies with human hands. “Thoughts and prayers,” we say. And for what? As cover, not as call to action. Thinking and praying, while the world divides and little children die, and families of a faith are not safe crossing the street? So let us turn, once again, to the prayer that Jesus makes on our behalf in the gospel? God, Jesus says, may they hear the word of God – the grace of the gospel – so that they may all be one. The glory you have given me, I give to them, so that they may be one. As you have loved me, I have loved them, that they will love one another. What is the gospel if not a hope for a united world? Not in the name we give ourselves, or in the faiths we choose, but in the mission we follow, the call we hear. Where we grieve every lost child as our own; where we reach out to embrace every wayward soul; where we make space for every stranger. So Jesus, in his prayer, returns each time to this theme: let them hear the gospel and be as one. Let them see the glory of God – the wonder and mystery of the world – and be as one. Let them love, as one. What will we do – in our homes, at work, in our communities, on the bus, at the grocery story, at school, while visiting a friend, or caring for family? God hears the prayer of Jesus on our behalf. But how will we, in our humanness, answer? Amen.

May 22nd, 2022

Sermon by Rev. Joel Crouse

To begin, let’s all take some deep breaths. Perhaps you are in the pew, your face behind a mask, and could use a moment just to breathe intentionally. Or maybe you are at home on Zoom, distracted, or less focused, and not paying attention to your breathing. Please do so now: breathe in deeply, breathe out deeply. Feel calmed. Feel the presence of God.

This is the power of our breath. To center us. To ease our troubled heart, as Jesus tells us. When we are afraid, our breath can steady us. When we are anxious, our breath can calm us. Just paying attention to our breath can transport us away from what is worrying us.

To breathe easily, we take in, and we must give back.

This week, on Facebook, I read a post from Hassan Masri, an ICU doctor in Saskatchewan, who has been working on the front lines of the pandemic. In the post was a loosely-translated Arabic saying that he had happened upon, and that had resonated with him.

In his post was the following: “A wise man said that the simple act of breathing has taught us that to live happily, you need to take some air in and give some air back.”

In other words, he said, “To live a life that is not suffocating, you must take some in, but you must always give back.”

To breathe easily, we must take, and we must give.

I thought of this post when considering our readings for this week. In our first lesson, we get a too-short introduction to Lydia, a woman from the city of Thyatira, and a dealer in purple cloth. And yet she is so much more than that.

Lydia was an extremely prosperous businesswoman. In her time, purple cloth was the very finest to purchase. To get to where she was in life, in the society of the time, Lydia would have had to overcome great odds. We don’t know a lot about her – Did she build her business from scratch? Did she inherit it and continue to build it up? But no matter: she had prevailed as a powerful woman in a world run by men, and despite rules designed to keep her in her place. No wonder, then, that she is given special mention in our first reading this morning from the Book of Acts.

On the Sabbath Day, we hear, Lydia goes down to a place along the river that has been set aside by the authorities for prayer and worship. There she meets Paul and Silas, newly arrived, and takes time to listen to their words. Despite what must have been the pressing business of her day, she pauses to expand her mind. Rather than bury herself in work, she keeps herself open to new ideas. She is ready to breathe in the word of God.

We know from our lesson that she goes home and shares her faith with her household, and they, too, are baptized. And then she invites Paul and Silas into her home, to be her guests. Indeed, she prevails upon them – we are told, and we might imagine just how forceful Lydia can be when she wants something to happen. Having breathed in the Word, she released back generosity and hospitality.

Lydia finds a balance between giving and taking. Basically, the Arabic saying being cited by the good doctor is a reminder to all of us to find that balance. Yet, we all know takers, who suck the air from everyone else for their own purpose. And we all know givers, who are gasping for respite, because they never take any air for themselves. The trick in life is to take in when we are in need – whether that’s when we need wisdom, when we need rest, when we need comfort and care; and to give back the same – wisdom, rest, comfort, and care – in equal measure. We breathe in; we breathe out.

To do otherwise is to suffocate.

This week, perhaps we may all pay attention to our breathing. When are you holding it all inside? What are you doing when you breathe most easily? But also, look around: who are the people who take all the air from others? And who especially are those who give away too much of their own air. Just as we must find balance in our lives, we must step with care to be a loving presence that brings balance to the lives of others. Who might we stop enabling? Who might we help?

Jesus says to us: “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you. I do not give as the world gives.” Indeed, he does not: Jesus does not give so that we might only be takers; so we might only breathe in. Jesus gives to us the gospel; and takes only what we can offer of ourselves, and yet inspires us into giving. Amen

Amen.

May 15th, 2022

Anyone who has a teenager – and all of us who were teenagers – know all about pushing and pulling against rules. There are the parental rules: What time is a fair curfew? The arbitrary societal rules: Why can I drive at 16, but not vote until 18?” As adults, during this pandemic, we have also pushed back against rules that felt arbitrary – lockdowns and masks, vaccine mandates. In many ways, this has led to a healthy debate about when rules ae necessary to limit individual choice for the greater good. In Ukraine, we see a terrible war caused by a country that broke the rules of good world order – invading a peaceful nation for selfish ends - and the rest of the world has wrestled with how to respond. Even in our own politics we see the fraying of rules when misinformation and conspiracy theories are knowingly spread as truth.

Of course, rules are complicated. For many centuries, the rule was that certain people – because of gender and race – had no say at all in making the rules. Rules were used to allow violence and sexual assault and murder, to take children from their loving parents, to erase cultures.

And so rules change and adapt and are discarded – people push back against them, and, hopefully, make better rules. And always the people making the rules must ask themselves: whom does the rule serve?

So it is quite remarkable that the rules offered to us in the Ten Commandments remain relevant and purposeful today. Don’t kill, don’t steal, don’t covet, don’t cheat on the people you love. Don’t be carefree with our own faith and beliefs. Be nice to your parents. Take a day off to think about God and your larger role in the world. These are good rules. They are woven deeply through our culture and our institutions.

But following them to the letter is not so easy. What is our duty to abusive parents? If a person kills to protect another, to defend his family, has he broken a commandment? If we divorce and remarry, do we commit adultery? But then along comes Jesus to give us this new commandment: the top of the pyramid, from which all the others flow: Love one another.

Jesus says: Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples.

And suddenly, the other Ten Commandments are reframed; they become a supporting foundation for the ultimate goal: that we put love first.

Does that make life less complicated? It does not, unfortunately. But it does give us a firmer place to stand as we try to assess rules, and even the other commandments. Because behind love come other qualities: hope, kindness, forgiveness, patience, openness. And from there we can add nuance to the Ten Commandments.

How does love factor into the commandment around adultery? If it was meant to protect the weaker of the partners, to foster respect and consideration – how can that be a guide as couples go through a breakup? When someone steal or kills, what are the circumstances behind it – and how might we respond with love? Is stealing a loaf of bread the same as stealing money from the poor? Is killing in a war to protect your homeland, the same as murder for selfish gain? Viewed through love, those commandments don’t crumble away; they become more powerful, because they force us to consider the rules we make and the judgements we take to reinforce them. Are we acting from a place of hope, kindness, understanding? Are we acting with love?

One of my kids’ favourite books growing up was called The Lion in the Library. Some of you might know it. It is about a Lion who comes to listen to story time in the library, where the rule is that you have to be quiet. Not everyone loves having the lion there, but he becomes close to one of the librarians. One day she falls and breaks her arm, and the lion roars for help. He is kicked out of the library for breaking the rules. But everyone misses him, and they seek him out and bring him back. And, of course, the moral of the story is its last line: “Sometimes it’s okay to break the rules. Even in the library.”

By giving us this ultimate, endgame commandment, Jesus gave us this very important lesson: Sometimes it’s okay to break the rules: if we are acting, truly and faithfully, from a place of love. Now real-life rules are often more complicated than calling for help in a quiet place because a friend has fallen. But, how often, in fact, do we become rule-sticklers even when someone clearly needs our help, when that rule is causing harm? Too many times, as we well know, past and present.

What Jesus offers us with this commandment to love first, above all else, is both simplicity and complexity. The gospel requires that we challenge ourselves to see each individual situation on its own, to understand motivations and circumstances, to learn context and to be comfortable with nuance – that is what is complex; that is the intellectual journey of faith. But what is simple – what is divine - is the question to which we must always return: Am I responding with love? Amen.