WHAT MOTIVATES US TO LEAD?

Sermon by Rev. Joel Crouse

Fourth Sunday of Easter

April 21, 2024

Acts 4:5-12

1 John 3:16-24

John 10:11-18

For all the difficulty we seemingly have these days at incorporating the teachings of Jesus into society, Jesus as a leader is pretty hip. Forget what he said; let’s focus on what he did to get people to listen. You can go on the Internet and find out how Jesus was, in fact, the ideal CEO – among other things, you’ll learn that he remembered to say thank you. You could crack open a business book like The Leadership Wisdom of Jesus, and pore over chapters like “Cleanse Your Insides,” and “The Golden Rule and Beyond.” In Medium last year, Colin Shawger, MBA, wrote an essay with the headline: What Businessmen can learn from the Teachings of the Son of God. Those lessons include: ”Lead with Humility,” “Practice Empathy,” and “Set a Clear Vision.” In 2000, a Brigadier General in the U.S. Army penned a now famous essay on why Jesus would have been an effective military leader. There is even a complicated Venn diagram if you want to look it up. Key to the skills that Jesus had was that he trusted his team, talked to them straight, seemed like the kind of guy who enjoyed a good lunch, and got down in the trenches with the troops.

You don’t have to tell us: Jesus was one heck of a leader.

The thing is, whatever their agendas, all those writers are absolutely right. Jesus, born to a carpenter and a young mother, achieved something incredible in his 33 years on earth: in that short time, he managed to inspire people to see their society in a completely different way, and to create the foundation for a 2,000-year-old faith. That takes a special kind leadership, even if you do have the power of God behind you.

But what I would put to all those writers is the one question it often seems our leaders today forget to ask themselves: Why did Jesus want to lead in the first place?

Our gospel this morning may be our best – and our most comforting - description of how Jesus saw his role as our leader: the Good Shepherd. At this point in the gospel of John, Jesus has just healed a blind man, and he is now having to explain himself to the Pharisees, who refuse to believe that Jesus could have performed the miracle. To explain himself, Jesus uses the metaphor of the shepherd. He begins with a description of what he is not: he is not like the thief who sneaks in the back door to steal the sheep away; he is not like the stranger who is indifferent to the sheep. And he is not like the hired hand, who pretends to protect the sheep, but then abandons them when the wolves appear, or the work gets hard and his pay check doesn’t seem worth it.

“I am the good shepherd,” Jesus says. “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” The good shepherd does what is required to keep the sheep safe; he thinks not of himself, but of the best interests of the sheep. The good shepherd is motivated by love and not by greed. He becomes a shepherd to serve.

This is what Jesus tells the Pharisees, who have already proven themselves to a different kind of leader. Instead of celebrating the blind man’s lucky turn, they have driven him out of the synagogue for naming Jesus as his healer; they have turned his parents against him by interrogating them until they fearfully abandoned their son to his exile. The Pharisees – these supposed spiritual leaders – proved that what they were really worried about was their own power; they were worse than the thief who makes no bones about his motives; they are worse even than the hired hand who accepts a pay check with no plans to fulfill the job. They set themselves up as the good shepherds – but their altruism came second to their own desires.

We speak a lot these days about how our leadership, in so many areas of life, is in a deficit. We seem to live among thieves and hired hands – CEOs that will take their bonuses and run, and politicians who will do what they have to to get elected next time. And our complaints, endured in a democracy, are rather mild: consider how many nations have put their hopes on a leader who promised to free the people, only to end up with a dictator corrupted by power who enslaved them.

In this, Jesus stands apart; for all his power, which was greater than any on earth, he never lost sight of his motivation – the salvation of his sheep. So it is not the methods of Jesus that should fill books; it is his motives.

But let’s not forget the other players in this parable: the sheep. The sheep have a choice: they can rebel against the shepherd, or they can follow him; they can go to the shepherd who lured them with treats or stay with the shepherd who stands with them when it rains. We can lament our leaders; but we also created them. The parents we like to critique today are the product of families past, and of the dictates of society. The celebrities we disdain grew out of our own obsessions with beauty and wealth. The politicians we bemoan are the result of apathy or self-interest.

Sigmund Freud once weighed in on the reasons why we choose the leaders that we do. Freud saw the terrible consequences of the wrong choice first hand: he lived in Vienna when the Nazis arrived and Hitler inspired the cosmopolitan citizens of that city to betray, without much resistance, their Jewish neighbors and friends. What Hitler did, Freud argued, was make it easy for people: he dictated one simple, restrictive code of behaviour, and then provided an outlet for any of the restless tension that might result: by allowing them to act any way they wished toward a second group of people. We know the result all too well.

But we are predisposed to make those bad choices over and over again, Freud proposed – that is, to seek leaders who “simplify the world to explain our suffering, then identify enemies to focus our energies.” A healthier society – and, ultimately a happier society, Freud argued, lives in the tension of argument and difference, constantly balancing wants and needs with a moral code.

And this, I think, is where Freud inadvertently provides a deeper assessment of the leadership of Jesus, than some pop psychology against micro-managing. Jesus never resolves those tensions for us. He does not make our lives easier, by pointing out an enemy for us; he points the finger back at ourselves and tells us to get over our own suffering and look to our neighbor, and to befriend our enemy. His simple code - to love one another – is the hardest one for us to follow. He is the good shepherd: he sets the example by loving the sheep before himself. But what he asks of the sheep, in turn, is to do the very same thing.

Remember this parable, wherever you are a leader – at home, in the community, at work, at church. You can read a book on how to delegate. You can take a course on how to give a witty speech. But what Jesus hoped to teach the Pharisees that day, and what he hopes to instill in each of us, is that none of the style matters, if your motivation is not to serve others; when our own desires get in the way, our leadership falters. We risk becoming shepherds merely so the sheep will fawn all over us. Lead to Serve. And Serve with Love. That’s the most important lesson on leadership from Jesus, the Good Shepherd.

Amen.

saying sorry allows us to begin again

Sermon by Rev. Joel Crouse

Third Sunday of Easter

April 14, 2024

Acts 3:12-19

1 John 3:1-7

Luke 24:36b-48

Chances are, like me, you did something this week you should apologize for. (Hopefully, you already have.) The longer you live and the older you get, the more you realize that truly saying sorry takes a particular, deliberate approach – much more than the quick “Say you’re sorry,” that we teach our kids when they are little. There’s an art to the fulsome apology. Maybe you’ve seen the list online: never use the word “but,” listen to the person you have wronged, allow space and time for forgiveness, and move forward together in healing.

“If only he would say he was sorry, it would fix everything.” How many times has someone said this to me in the midst of a broken relationship? Just this week, I sat with a man I know whose longtime friendship has ended – or at least been interrupted – because one party to the conflict will not own up to their wrongdoing. But the one who feels harm is never looking for only two words: “I’m sorry.” What they really want is to be heard and seen, to know that the harm has been truly acknowledged, that the regret is real, that this reflection has brought learning.

That is not easy. To begin with, to apologize to someone you have wronged and travel along that path, takes vulnerability, self-awareness, and courage, especially since the ending isn’t clear. How tragic it is that saying sorry, which requires such strength, is so often seen as weakness.

This is one of those sin-heavy Sundays, a word, as most of you know, I tend to avoid. That’s because it usually gets used to point fingers, and to level blame, or to shut the doors of the church to one kind of person or another.

But our three readings this morning take us on a journey of sorts about our wrongdoings, how to process them, how to repent them and move on.

In the first reading, we hear Peter reminding the people what happened to Jesus and telling them that they have been offered forgiveness. But they have to take a step in that healing process: they have to acknowledge their mistake, and admit what they did wrong. “Repent, therefore, and turn to God so that your sins may be wiped out,” Peter says.

In the second lesson, we are asked to consider what constitutes a sin, and what constitutes a righteous act. “Everyone who commits sin is guilty of lawlessness; sin is lawlessness.” And then we are cautioned: 7Little children, let no one deceive you. Everyone who does what is right is righteous, just as He is righteous.”

And when we come to the third step in this morning’s reading, having been told about our failings and impossible responsibilities, we receive the comforting embrace at the end of the road: Jesus comes to the disciples, eats with them, and reassures them. What’s more, he urges them forward yet again, telling them to spread the news of the gospel, a message of repentance and forgiveness.

Wrestling with what’s right and what’s wrong, and when and where, and that the answers might be different depending on the timing and context of the question is the challenge of the moral life, the Christian life as followers of the gospel. We often imagine - or perhaps we just hope - that truly moral people reach a place where every deed they perform is righteous, where they always do their best, and their conscience never wavers with a doubt. Of course this is not true.

The truly moral life is one wise enough to see the constant exchange between repenting our mistakes and forgiving others. When we don’t see what we have done wrong, we become more likely to repeat our mistake; if we pass by someone in need of our help, and we never consider it again, we aren’t likely to stop for someone the next time it happens. We would, in fact, just keep walking by, on our own steady course. Instead, Jesus calls us to live life in stops and starts. We stop to repent. We move forward forgiven and forgiving. Again and again. We cannot vow to do the right thing, if we never admit when we are wrong.

This is why the gospel puts such a high value on repentance. It requires us to think, to pause, to reflect, to have a conversation with God. If you are admitting your part in an argument, you don’t just say sorry and shrug. Repentance requires an examination of what caused the fight - what was really behind it, what steps led to it, and why it escalated.

Repentance is the path to wisdom. If we see a bully - adult or child - and we do nothing, repenting, even after the fact, it’s too easy to say: I will step in the next time. Most likely, if that is as deep as you go, you will not, in fact, step in next time. Repenting is a process of thought and an examination of action: “Why didn’t I step in?” we need to ask. “What circumstances deterred me? Was it the people watching? Was it the nature of the bullying? Was I worried about myself?”

Finding those answers is what moves us forward - it makes us conscious of the things to watch out for, the pitfalls to be mindful of. It gives us the courage to do something different the next time. Perhaps we realize that the other witnesses felt the same as we did; or that the cost to ourselves was really very small; or that even if there is a cost - like detention or anger from the bully - we could handle it.

So you have repented - you have answered those questions. Why should forgiveness come next? How many times do we beat ourselves up about our own mistakes: why didn’t I do something? Why did I do that certain thing? Why didn’t I stay quiet? Why didn’t I speak up? If we have thoughtfully repented, we find it is easier to move on to forgiveness - the kind that Jesus speaks of, in which we are then motivated to try again.

The art of saying sorry is the practicing of faith. Because we are not perfect. Repentance gives us pause, prompts a state of reflection. It leads to forgiveness, for ourselves and for others. It allows us to begin again. Repentance isn’t the posture of the sinner. It is the habit of the faithful.

That is why it comes as a deliberate two-step in the gospel: Repent and Forgive. Only then do we begin to acquire the wisdom to be righteous - a journey that never reaches its destination. But surely along the way, we become more accepting of ourselves and others, more likely to learn from our mistakes, and less likely to walk on by those who are in need.

Amen.

Our beliefs are shaped by doubts, by f_lling in th_ gaps

Sermon by Rev. Joel Crouse

Easter Sunday

March 31, 2024

Acts 4:32-35

1 John 1:1 - 2:2

John 20:19-31

It seems as if we are all doubting Thomases these days. Or we live in a world of them. What really happened in Baltimore when the ship collided with the bridge? Was that really Kate Middleton breaking the news that she has cancer? Did Name a Person really say this, or was it a faked video? What is even real anymore? Unless I see it with my own eyes, can I believe anything?

But the truth is, a healthy amount of doubt is good for us, and better, perhaps for our relationships. I remember once reading a study about what makes a good therapist. The conclusion was all the usual things: empathy, warmth, listening skills. But one key component was that they were willing to exist with doubt - the doubt that they had everything figured out. They were more likely to doubt they were doing a good job, more likely to wonder whether they were helping. The doubting therapist asked more questions, was more cautious about jumping to conclusions, more patient about allowing the answers to reveal themselves. Those questions led to clearer answers. The patient opened them up to new approaches. Their clients got better more often because of it.

That’s not just the kind of person we might want as a therapist. It’s also the kind we’d want as friend, or parent. Likely, it’s who we’d like to be ourselves. By this definition, doubt sounds a lot like wisdom.

Every year, around this time, I come to Thomas’s defense.  Thomas is the disciple who didn’t meet up with Jesus on the road, who is only now hearing the news of the resurrection and is skeptical about all that happened. When Jesus appears again before the disciples, Thomas wants proof that it all went down as everyone is saying. He wants to touch the wounds on Jesus’s hands. For this he gets the gears from Jesus. “Gee, Thomas,” Jesus says, “glad I won you over. Blessed are all those people who believe in me without insisting on the same proof.”

And so, the English language acquired the phrase, ‘doubting Thomas,” which refers to someone who continues to question even when the facts are laid out before them. That isn’t fair to Thomas – who, once presented with the facts, did indeed come to believe. But we might also ask: What’s wrong with being a doubting Thomas?  Shouldn’t we always leave room for questions however comprehensive the facts seem? After all, as history teaches so well, the facts are often fragile in and of themselves.

Let’s assess what Jesus is saying. He doesn’t actually condemn Thomas; he responds to his request by giving him the test Thomas asks for. And what is he really saying about those other people – who believe without the same evidence – which, I guess, would be us? Are we to presume that those people who came to believe without meeting Jesus never had doubt, never had questions? That’s not logical. Our beliefs are shaped by inquiry, by doubt, by filling in the gaps. Otherwise, they are just thoughts that have been spoon-fed to us. Jesus is acknowledging, however, that believing in an idea is harder when you didn’t experience it yourself. It requires more reflection and introspection. It asks us to look inside ourselves to see what defines us. In this respect the disciples had it easy: they knew Jesus, they had heard him speak, they could build belief on memory. They did not have to rely on someone else’s version of the events, as we do. That we might doubt is not a sin; indeed, it is a strength. Faith is not meant to be lukewarm; it is not a shrug; it is a stance we take in life. And what supports that has to be the hard work of questions.

But let’s go back to those doubting therapists. Yes, they questioned their ability to help their clients. But they didn’t give up on therapy. They used those doubts to improve their approaches, to hone their skills, and to listen more closely. And they began to feel more deeply the pain their clients were feeling, and to see more clearly what they needed. Doubt made them better.

In the same way, doubt improves our relationship with God. I meet plenty of people who want to boast about how their faith is a rock – over time, I have come to see, that too often, it is cement hardened around their feet. Those people tend to be resistant to change, to seeing a larger reality. They don’t like diversity because that makes life complicated; they would rather God was one way – their way. Many others have come to me, often in quiet, and spoken of their doubts: is there a God? Does any of it matter? Why am I here? Those people have taught me many lessons, and I have watched their journeys, carrying their doubt with them to find their truthful view of the world. I don’t think those people ever stop doubting. Doubt doesn’t have an easy answer. What I see happening is that they become more comfortable with their doubt, they even find comfort in not knowing, for certain, the answer. Some questions we ask our entire lives. Some beliefs we hold to like life rafts on an open ocean. Some truths change over time.

That’s the journey we are on with doubting Thomas. We want proof when we can have it, and the faith to go on when we can’t. Thomas went from the room a faithful disciple, and he maintained that belief even when the memory of the wounds of Jesus had faded. We can imagine, that since life is complicated, he encountered, as we do, many other times when his faith in the gospel was tested. He worked through that doubt – as we also should, as we must,

Where does that fit in the conspiracy-fueled, questioning world of today? I guess we have to decide what doubts we want to explore, which questions are worth our time. If we are distracted over here, what are we failing to see over there? I like a good pop culture story as much as anyone - there’s refuge in that. But we can’t stay there: we have to be like Thomas and wrestle with our doubt that truly matters. Be wary of when doubt becomes a tool for the kind of world we don’t want.  

In the end, the questions we have are our own work to do – ideally with God. We can discuss them in community together, we can read in the search for answers, we can pore over the gospel, but it is reflection, and internal conversation – that is prayer – that has always brought me to peace with my doubts. That’s what has taught me to see them as components of faith, not destroyers of belief.

Blind faith, after all, only leads us to stumble as soon as life throws something into our path. The questioning faith of those with eyes wide open to the world allows us to prepare for what lies ahead.

Amen.