Our prayers are meant to wake us up

Sermon by Pastor Joel Crouse

Third Sunday after Epiphany

January 21, 2024

Jonah 3:1-5, 10

1 Corinthians 7:29-31

Mark 1:14-20

Years ago, when the boys were younger, they brought home George Orwell’s book Animal Farm as part of their English class. I remember reading it in high school, as imagine many of you may have done as well. Just to refresh your memories: the book tells the story of an uprising of animals who seize the farm from their human masters and set out to run it cooperatively. Instead, the pigs slyly take power. In one telling scene, the sheep constantly bleat the slogan: “four legs good, two legs bad” -which sounds animal-empowering but in the end serves only to drown out dissent. Threats are made, both subtle and overt. Anything but blind obedience is punished with exile, or worse. In the end, the followers having freed themselves of one set of tyrants, fall victim to another. Indeed, they become the slaves to new, even more cruel masters.

The book, of course, is Orwell’s criticism of communism and political systems that squash freedom. But it is also about the risk of following a belief system – or falling into a belief system - without critical thought. The animals did not challenge the pigs when they saw things going wrong, and soon it was too late. We have seen that story time and again. Charismatic leaders who called “follow me” and then led those that answered down a dark path not imagined.

How often do we hear that belief in Jesus is a type of sheep-like complacency, that those who hear the call of faith are indeed foolish sheep blinded to reality and reason. We don’t need to look far to find ways that faith can lead people astray, to violence or terrorism or hatred of the other. Just look at the Middle East. But it doesn’t have to be God we’re following: the second anniversary of January 6th in Washington, D.C. shows what can happen when certain leaders are followed; the internet is full of trails of misinformation enticing us to be sheep.

And yet, what does our Shepherd truly ask of us?

Today in the gospel, we hear a famous call story. Just as he saw Nathaniel sitting under the fig tree, Jesus comes upon Andrew and Simon fishing and James and John mending nets.

“Follow me,” he calls, “and I will make you fishers of people.”

Follow me.

Is there a more powerful call? It is reassuring to those lost in the dark. It is comforting for those who are sitting at a crossroad wondering where to go. It is bold for those who want to make a change in their lives. Follow me, the call says, and I will give your life purpose. And in the end, isn’t that what we all want?

The foundation of our faith is that we answer those two words from Jesus – that, yes, we accept Jesus as our Shepherd. That we become sheep, and that Jesus leads us. And yet, our relationship as sheep and Shepherd is so much more complex than simply leading and simply following.

The last thing the gospel wants us to be is like the sheep in Animal Farm, bleating witlessly. Our prayers are meant to wake us up, not put us to sleep. To send us forth, not keep us caged. They call us not to live outside the world, hating it, but to be a part of the world, empowered to change it.

Faith should not blind us but make us see more clearly our positives and negatives. What is real, and what is possible. Following Jesus is radical; it is extreme. It commits us to the radical service of making the world better, more tolerant, more peaceful, more loving. Throughout the gospel, Jesus faces his critics, hears out the disciples, has his mind broadened by strangers. His ministry develops by seeking out others out. It is important that his followers themselves were diverse, from different walks of life – tax collectors and fishermen and prostitutes. To be loving and open is not to be weak. It makes us protectors.

As I reflected on the gospel this week, I remembered a scene from an old movie, the name of which now escapes me. I guess I remember it because it is about a father and his sons, and it uses the metaphor of sheep. The father is meant to be teaching his sons about the ways of the world. The world, he says, is made up of three kinds of people: sheep (that is, responsible citizens, who needs protecting); wolves (who are the predators); and sheepdogs (who defend the sheep against the wolves). He wants to raise his sons, obviously, to be the defenders of the sheep from the wolves.

But to me this metaphor always felt insufficient. It is missing the Shepherd. The Shepherd is not the responsible, docile sheep, or the ferocious wolf, or even the courageous sheepdog. The Shepherd is the Thinker. The Shepherd is agile enough to guide the sheep to where they will be safest and most productive, and smart enough to keep the wolves at bay, and perhaps even tame their fighting instincts. The Shepherd is the best hope for making the sheepdog unnecessary. If the Shepherd leads – and is followed – the sheepdog gets to be a dog and live peacefully.

Our relationship with Jesus tempers our wolflike tendencies and urges us, when needed, to be the sheepdog for others. But we are reminded that we are the protected and valued. And then we are sent out to be thinkers and doers in the world – just like Andrew, Simon, James, and John who answered the call that day and left their nets behind.

“Follow me,” Jesus says to them, “and I will make you fishers of people.” Follow me, and I will empower you to go out into the world.

So do we hear God calling?

Do we hear Jesus saying: “You there, lying on the beach near Nineveh, or fishing in your boat, or standing at the bus stop, or sitting in this pew – you are worthy of my time. In you, I see both sheep and shepherd. Will you hear me? Will my voice drown out the rest? Will you answer and follow me?  Amen.

Eyes of Faith See Wondrous Things Everyday

Sermon by Pastor Joel Crouse

Second Sunday after Epiphany

January 14, 2024

1 Samuel 3:1-10

1 Corinthians 6:12-20

John 1:43-51

We don't know much about Nathanael.  Other than this story, we know only that he was privileged to see the risen Christ.  In this first encounter with Nathanael, Jesus said, "Do you believe because I told you that I saw you under the fig tree?  You will see greater things than these."

Jesus said, "Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened -- and the angels of God ascending and descending."  That might seem like strange language to us, but it would not have been strange to Nathanael.

Because way back in the beginnings of the Jewish people, God made a covenant with Abraham.  God promised to make a great nation of Abraham's descendents and to bless the whole world through him (Gen 12:1-3). Then later, God renewed that covenant through Jacob -- Abraham's grandson.  God gave Jacob a vision -- a vision of angels ascending and descending on a ladder from heaven to earth—what we have now come to know as the story of Jacob’s Ladder.

A ladder from heaven might seem strange to us, but Jacob understood it.  He knew that the ladder meant that the heavens, where God dwelled, had broken open so that God could visit earth.  Jacob named the place Bethel, which means, "dwelling place of God."

When Jesus told Nathanael that he would see angels ascending and descending, Nathanael would think immediately of Jacob's ladder.  Nathanael would know that Jesus was promising that, just as Jacob experienced God's presence, so would Nathanael.

There is an odd thing about this story.  In the original Greek when Jesus says, "You will see greater things than these," he uses "you" singular, indicating that he is talking to Nathanael.  However, when he says, "You will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending," Jesus uses "you" plural.

In other words, Jesus was talking to Nathanael, but then he begins to talk to the disciples -- perhaps to all disciples -- even to us.  It is not just Nathanael, but all of us who will see great things -- heaven opened -- angels ascending and descending.

And that is exactly what happened.  After the resurrection, the disciples gathered at Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost.  There, amidst tongues of fire and sounds of a windstorm, Peter preached and three thousand people walked down the aisle to be baptized.  It was an amazing day!  Heaven opened!  Angels of God ascending and descending!

And then a crippled beggar asked Peter for alms.  Peter said, "I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give to you; in the name of Christ, stand up and walk." And the man got up and started walking. Amazing!  Heaven opened!  Angels of God ascending and descending!

And then Saul went to Damascus to persecute Christians, but Jesus blinded him with a great light -- and dropped him to his knees -- and Saul became Paul, the great Christian missionary.  How amazing!  Heaven opened!  Angels of God ascending and descending!

You might say, that’s great, but it was two thousand years ago.  We haven't seen heaven or angels for a long time now. (put on glasses from Christmas Eve)

But we have!  Do you remember these from Christmas Eve.  It has only been a few weeks.  Have we forgotten already?  We do see angels ascending and decending.  With the eyes of faith we can see all that is good and just and right.  With the eyes of faith we can follow hope without stumbling.  With the eyes of faith we see the gift of God coming to us at Christmas, at Easter, in life, in death, in everything.

The heavens that opened when Jesus came have been open ever since.  Some people couldn't see it while Jesus was here on earth, and some still can't.  But eyes of faith see wondrous things happen all the time. Heaven opened!  Angels of God ascending and descending!

Now let’s not confuse this moment with a Romper Room Majic Mirrow.  When I look out into the world with the eyes of faith that were given to me at my baptism I see people caring for each other in times of all sorts of need.  I see people present for each other in illness, grief, and loss.  I see parents nurturing each other and their children.  I see quilts and sandwiches and used furniture and chilli gathered to help those less fortunate than ourselves.  I see justice.  I see love.  I see hope.  I see those things even in this city as we approach this week of prayer for Christian unity as Christians from every walk of life put aside their doctrinal differences for the sake of the unity we share in Christ Jesus.  I see those things through our church dollars that help in significant ways to heal the brokenness of this world. Heaven opened!  Angels ascending and descending!

God breaks through even in the most unlikely places.  We are only weeks away from our Annual Congregational meetings when we look over the past year and move into the coming year.  It is true that we are careful to listen to what God wants for the world and the direction that Jesus is calling us to.  And God blesses our community of faith because of it.  Our calling is to listen, respond and be transformed by those angelic and grace-filled moments! 

But it is only with eyes of faith that we can see the angels and the heavens. Nathanael had been a skeptic.  When first told of Jesus, he asked, "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?"  But Philip invited him to come and see, and Nathanael came.  This time, it is Jesus who is doing the calling, not by command, but by recognizing his good character. Nathaniel is amazed that Jesus saw him under the fig tree before meeting him officially. He answers Jesus call. But Jesus chides him gently: “Do you believe because I said I saw you first?.” He tells Nathaniel: You will see greater things than this.  And Nathaniel did!

We too will see greater things.  Christ asks only that we come and see -- that we deal with Christ honestly -- that we give Christ a chance -- that we step out in faith.  If we will do that, we have no alternative but to see wondrous things. Heaven opened!  Angels ascending and descending!  And so, by the grace of God, we will. Amen.

Compassion in Response to Chaos

Sermon by Pastor Joel Crouse

Baptism of Our Lord

January 7, 2024

Genesis 1:1-5

Acts 19:1-7

Mark 1:4-11

This past week while we were in Nova Scotia, my father told me a story about an old family friend and classmate of his named David Corkum. Mr. Corkum has always had a raspy voice. He was definitely not a member of any choir. Dad described to me what had happened to David Corkum’s voice. Once, during Christmas break, when he and David and a group of other Lunenburg teenagers were fooling around on the shore by a wharf, one of them fell through the ice and couldn’t find his way back to the opening. His winter clothing began to absorb the icy water, and he started sinking into the frigid waters.. There was yelling and scrambling, but none of that was stopping what they could see happening through the ice. In the middle of the chaos, David stripped off his coat and boots, dove through the hole in the ice, and retrieved their friend Robert from the icy deep, saving his life. As a result, David Corkum became very ill for months, albeit recovering, but left with a damaged voice. He had saved a friend’s life while risking his own - certainly an act deserving of legendary heroism.

I have known Mr. Corkum my entire life but had never heard this story before. When I asked him why he had never told me about it, Mr. Corkum was reluctant to talk about it and squirmed at the title of “hero.” He reminded me that Lunenburgers have never been raised to be bystanders. He mentioned a documentary he had seen years earlier as a teacher about the “bystander effect” - which has been used to explain how dictators rise unchallenged to power and how victims of crime are not rescued - and his long-held hope that he would never be such a bystander. His actions proved his goal had been achieved. And that is why my father - rightfully proud of his friend - told his story.

What Mr. Corkum did was to bring order to chaos with an act of compassion. That is how our first lesson puts the act of God, and what God has done for us with Christmas. Into a disordered scene, God brought a person - an idea, a vision of the world - around which we can all organize. God did not do this with law and rules. Jesus is an earthly representation for us of compassion. Is there a better response to chaos?

Let’s consider for a moment what we mean by compassion, and how it is interpreted in the gospel. A word that we often use in its place is empathy. That is the ability to see and even feel how another person is feeling and what they are seeing. There have been plenty of books written about the value of emotional intelligence, which, distilled down, is also the ability to have empathy - to experience the world beyond us. But empathy has its shortfalls. It can be interpreted as a neutral act, neither good nor evil, and even both. For instance, if we consider the conversation that Jesus goes on to have with the Devil in the desert, we might certainly say that the Devil character demonstrates empathy - he sees inside Jesus, and uses those weaknesses, those gaps of faith, to tempt him. The shortfall of empathy is that it doesn’t require action. (Indeed, it even suggests that we need to have a connection first to those we help, which is obviously limiting.) Empathy is like crying at a sad movie: we feel the pain of the characters, but an hour later we go home to our own lives.

Compassion, however, requires the next step. It can be defined as the act of our seeing someone’s need and trying to help them - at a cost to ourselves. Compassion requires sight and recognition, and then action. The cost doesn’t have to be risking our life through a hole in the ice. It might mean the inconvenience of buying a coffee for a stranger on the street. It could mean a few extra dollars for a charity, or just saying hello on the elevator when you’d rather be texting.

But suddenly you can see how compassion is the ordered response to chaos. A lonely person feels supported. A poverty-stricken person receives a gift. Someone in danger - the ultimate human chaos - is saved.

The gospel that we hear every Sunday defines Jesus by the compassion he shows, and the compassion he teaches. He doesn’t just feel sympathy for the widow at the well; he goes and speaks to her. He doesn’t tell us to feel sad for the injured Samaritan; he tells us to help him. He doesn’t sympathize with the prodigal son; he urges us to welcome him.

Of course, our gospel lesson today features John the Baptist, a master of chaos, and certainly a concrete example - he precedes Jesus, stirring things up, and Jesus, who follows, soothes, and guides. John the Baptist reminds us that chaos can be healthy - the kind of chaos that challenges social norms and rejects the way things have always been. And Jesus shows us that the next step - the healing act - is compassion.

Here’s some bad news: plenty of studies have shown that the more money we have relative to society, the more power we hold, the more status we claim, the harder it is to show compassion. We see this all the time when people in power take from others without consideration. And in some ways, this is just human nature: the more power we hold, the less we need community to help us. But this is a big problem for society - it means that the people most able to help - with their influence, their talent, their treasure - may also be the least likely to do so. The gospel is constantly waking us up to this tendency. If it is good enough for Jesus, the Son of God, it is good enough for us.

Perhaps you made some New Year’s resolutions. To lose weight. Or stop smoking. To binge less on television. Apparently, one of the most popular resolutions is: to be happier. But perhaps there is one resolution we might all make - one tied to happiness and self-worth: to demonstrate more compassion. To respond to chaos with the gospel’s idea of order. To be the kind of people in our everyday lives, in the moments that appear to us, who, as Mr. Corkum put it, would save a person from the icy deep. Amen.