September 28th ~ Caring Counts in God's Economy

Click above to listen to a recording of Sunday's Sermon

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