April 13, Amidst the crowds, let the Gospel guide you.

There is no recording of the sermon this week.

April 13, 2025

Sunday of the Passion

Palm Sunday

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Psalm 31:9-16

Philippians 2:5-11

Luke 23:1-21

(The context of this sermon was 100% written in Canada by a human)

So now we near the end: it has come upon us almost without warning. For the last five weeks, we have heard hardly a word of dissent: Jesus has been conducting his ministry on the road to Jerusalem, and while he has been pushing all sorts of boundaries, any sign of brewing trouble has been merely whispers on the fringes.

But now on Palm Sunday, we hear the celebration and cheering on the streets as Jesus and the disciples enter the gates of Jerusalem. We can see the palms thrown on the ground before this healer and teacher on a donkey. And we know, with the benefit of hindsight, that within that jubilant crowd, a meanness of spirit is taking root and growing like a vine, turning hearts one by one. The misinformation is spreading, in whispers. Who does this man thinks he is? someone asks his neighbour. “Are we sure he’s the great man everyone says?” the neighbour wonders to her husband. “They say he’s a charlatan trying to trick us,” the husband tells her brother. And so on, and so on, until the cheers become jeers, and the welcome becomes poisonous.

Jesus, who has tried only to spread good, who has been a voice of God on earth, is thus betrayed by an angry mob, sacrificed by an indifferent leader, a self-serving religious leadership, and crucified. His last words will not be to his followers, preaching in a public square, but to the thieves hanging with him. How did we end up here?

Certainly, one reason why his death breaks us, is that it is hard to have faith in humanity when we reject the very kind of leader that we say we most desire. Long before the word had all its negative connotations, Jesus was the consummate politician. He was a master orator, able to sway a crowd with his words, to inspire faith and belief. He asked people to dream, and he gave them a reason to do so. He held himself to the same high standard that he set for his followers. And he spoke for what was right, because it was right, and not for his own political gain. And yet in the end, humanity rejected him.

We say we want leaders who tell us the truth, who warn us that change will be hard, who admit the fight may be long. We claim to admire leaders who tell us how the world really is instead of spinning a story to make us feel better. Maybe we don’t really seek a leader who says, “I will sacrifice on your behalf, but in return I call on you to practice justice and kindness, even when it is the hardest moment of all to do so.” How often has humanity been comforted by a leader who feeds us simple answers or manufactures a good enemy, even with one hand in our wallets, while crushing the values we claim to hold dear?

Jesus could have been an entirely different kind of leader. Not the kind we see in the world these days -- the kind that takes advantage and looks after themselves first. He had the holy pedigree. He had the star power. He had the talent. Perhaps we are even frustrated that he didn’t capitalize better on that strength, or fight back.

And yet to do anything differently would have been to betray the very lessons he was teaching: he knew the only way his story could end. Jesus was a person of substance. A policy guy. He looked at the root causes of problems, rather than at the quick fixes. That’s the harder sell – and certainly to the powers that be, more threatening.

Think on it: Jesus promised people freedom and hope, but nothing for himself, and he was hung on a cross.

Here we are, as Canadians, at a time when we must also consider the questions of leadership, in the most important election in a generation. Yet we have clarity, thanks to Jesus. We have the values of the gospel and the example of his leadership to ask ourselves: which candidate is speaking for the good in the world that matters most to me?

And once we make that choice, where do we fit? We are told what to do – and how to shape our response in the first lesson. I want to draw your attention to three parts in particular from which we can take some solace out of our difficult gospel.

First, we are told: The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word. So we are told – from the beginning – not to be silent.

Secondly, we are offered this passage: The lord has opened my ear; and therefore I was not rebellious, I did not turn backward. So we are told to listen. And we are told that in listening, we will learn not to rebel against the gospel and God, but how to go forward whatever the cost. These, we know, are political skills – the ability to speak when the time calls for it, and to listen when we need to. We are to look for the way, following the model of Jesus, to bring the gospel to people who need to hear it the most. And to find those opportunities, we have to listen.

Lastly, we are reminded of our secret weapon: The Lord helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; I have set my face like flint. Whenever we get turned backwards, we have the gospel to remind us of the right direction, and to brace our backs against difficulty.

Ultimately, the story of Jesus’s last day is about too many people failing to speak when they should have, or to listen. Too many people swept up in a mob that was played like a fiddle by the Pharisees, so desperate to bring Jesus down. Too many people who listened to whispers. Too many people who didn’t sit down and reflect on the full picture: what evidence do I have that Jesus says who he is and means what he says? What evidence that the sources of the misinformation might have an agenda? Have I taken my values and looked at the situation with those virtues in mind?

It is a powerful lesson in history, as we have seen time and again, when mobs have been moved like a swarm of bees into doing harm. And yet we also know it takes only a couple of people to turn the mob back. They just have to be brave enough to risk it. On this day, despite the sheer cruelty of the sentence, there was no one brave enough. And as the jubilant parade goes silent, we have to live with that.

How many in that crowd on that grim day, realized, when they were alone with their thoughts, what their anger and betrayal had done. I imagine many of them said: “I didn’t know this would happen! I wasn’t thinking!” How many times do we claim the same, even though there can be no doubt of the path we were on? How many easy choices do we make only to claim that the results were not our fault?

We stop the story this morning with an angry mob out of control, and the desires played out, and we are horrified. And we are meant to hear the warning of that lesson so that we avoid it in our own lives, so that we recognize when it is happening in our own society.

In those moments, God gives us a few rules: Speak only with a teacher’s tongue, listen with an open ear, and let the gospel guide you.

Amen.

April 6, It's Not About the Shoes, It's where They Take You

Click above to watch a recording of Sunday's sermon.

April 6, 2025

Fifth Sunday in Lent

Isaiah 43:16-21

Psalm 126

Philippians 3:4b-14

John 12:1-8

(The context of this sermon was 100% written

in Canada by a human)

Let me present you with an ethical scenario: You are walking by the Rideau River one day, and out in the water, you see a drowning child. You are a strong swimmer and able to rescue this child with little trouble, and no risk to yourself. But you are wearing a brand new pair of expensive hoes that would be ruined if you did. So what’s your decision? Of course, we would all say, you forget the shoes and rush in and save the child. Any other decision would be terrible. You could never compare a child’s life to a pair of shoes!

This scenario was first posed by ethicist Peter Singer. He went on to ask: would it make any difference if the child was far away, but we were equally able to save them? When he posed this question to his students, they were emphatic: most said it would make no difference.

And yet, we make this kind of judgement call – almost each and every day. As the haves in a world of have-nots, we make the choice to save our shoes and leave the child to drown. Or, as it happens, to leave the child to starve, to not become educated, to be orphaned or to live in squalor. Every day, we choose what to spend our money on – those metaphorical shoes or the drowning child – and choose we do. Even though, as Professor Singer pointed out, appetite for fast fashion, new kitchens, and shiny cars pales in significance to the plight of the Ukrainian parents whose children have been stolen by Russia, and the immigrant students being summarily arrested on the streets in the United States, the unhoused people we pass by in downtown Ottawa.

But then this morning, we have this confusing gospel. Jesus has arrived at the home of Lazarus, and in that evening, Mary comes and uses a fancy perfume to anoint Jesus’s feet and dry them with her hair. In our context, this is a weird thing to do; back then, in a time of sandals and rough roads and long walking distances, anointing feet was a sign of hospitality for a travelling guest.

Judas, hardly the best advocate for the poor, is in a snit about it. He argues that perfume should be used for the poor. But of course, we know him – it’s all grand-standing. He’s a thief, we are told: one who was in charge of the common purse of the group and regularly pilfered from it. (How this could be known by our gospel author, we shall not question for these purposes.) So Judas is playing a game: perhaps he would take the perfume to be stolen and keep a bit for himself. Jesus, however, doesn’t agree: “She bought it for my burial,” he says. “You will always have the poor, but you will not always have me.”

What are we to make of this? On the one side, we could say that his fan club attention has puffed up Jesus a bit too much. On the other hand, doesn’t the caregiver also deserve some care? Carefully note what Jesus says to Judas: He points out that Mary has purchased the perfume to keep it for the day of burial. She is using just a little now, while Jesus may enjoy it still. And once he has been tried as a criminal, sentenced to death, with most of his allies in hiding, who else will ensure he receives the proper rituals of death, but someone like Martha and her family, who have made provisions.

The lesson for us, then, is one of perspective. This is a view that even Prof. Singer points out: An ethical approach to life does not forbid having fun or enjoying food and wine; but it changes our sense of priorities. We might question where our focus lies, and what we are not doing. We may reconsider what benefit comes from earning ever more money and collecting a larger pile of possessions. We may ask ourselves: what is our life worth? And simultaneously, as Singer proposed, we must also ask: What makes us feel fulfilled? What brings us a sense of accomplishment and peace? Perhaps, he suggests, those two sets of questions are not that far apart. “An ethical life,” he writes, “is one in which we identify ourselves with other, larger, goals, thereby giving meaning to our lives.”

We only have a few weeks left of Lent. Hopefully, you have maintained your discipline. But that only matters, of course, if that act of reflection has helped you clear space within yourself for something new and life-giving. We might think of Lent as the time when we all consider our ethics: What do we accept to be true? What do we reject? How do those answers shape our lives? We may frame those answers against the gospel, the ultimate manual for the ethical, Godly life. But its directions, kindness, love, and charity come with complexity. If our time and our resources are finite, for whom do we prioritize our love and charity? And is it okay to get those lovely new shoes we found online?

I suspect Jesus would say yes, and no. The gospel is not meant to make life so harsh that we take no enjoyment from it. If, however, we are only buying shoes, and never using our relative advantage to save lives, we know we are serving only ourselves.

Last weekend, I was present for a debate about whether to cancel our Out of the Cold rotation because of a looming ice storm. I found this difficult to hear. Serving the gospel requires sacrifice and risk. How could travel issues from our own warm and comfortable homes come before the hungry and cold people living outside in that same ice storm? And yet, my faith was restored by all of you: Given the number of volunteers who came out last Saturday, we all knew the right answer. My thanks to all of you who served so kindly and lovingly. I heard from many grateful clients about the warmth of their reception.

Once is not enough, as we know. Already, in that kitchen, plans were afoot to do more. And as Prof. Singer sagely notes, by giving to others, by saving the child in danger, we are giving back to ourselves a life of purpose and joy. In doing the right thing, we give ourselves happiness. The gospel is clear about this. Jesus’s life and death are concrete examples of this. Not only is the child saved from drowning, not only is the spirit of the weary stranger fed, not only is the world changed for the better - but so are we.

Amen.

Mar 30, We Can Only Control Ourselves. Change Must Happen Inside.

Click above to watch a recording of Sunday's sermon.

March 30, 2025

Fourth Sunday in Lent

Joshua 5:9-12

Psalm 32

2 Corinthians 5:16-21

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

(The context of this sermon was 100% written

in Canada by a human)

Our brains are built to make comparisons. It is how we learn language at an early age: What’s the difference between an orange and an apple? It is how we learn to function in our social environment: How is my house different from my neighbors? How is this situation different from the last one? Based on this, where should I go, how should I respond, which one do I really want – the apple or the orange?

But our brains also have a bad habit, one we know all too well. Psychologists call it the social comparison, and it is perhaps the main reason we find ourselves unhappy. We compare ourselves to others and reach judgments. Sometimes, we come out on top – smarter, better-looking, more successful. And sometimes – perhaps more often – we lose: the subject of our comparison is smarter, more attractive, wealthier. We choose whether to look up or down in our comparisons, and a lot of that depends on context. We use those comparisons to decide who gets loved most in our families, who merits a win at work, where we stand in the line of life.

Social media are designed to capitalize on our propensity for comparison, our instinct as social creatures to compare how we measure up to those around us. In this case, we are fooled into judging, as the saying goes, the insides of our houses to the outsides of everyone else’s. So we look at our messy lives, and compare them to the carefully curated front lawn, the all-smiles vacation, and if we are not careful, these flawed comparisons can make us miserable, can make us blind to what we have ourselves, and can be demotivating.

Consider how social media would have factored into our gospel this morning – the famous story of the prodigal son. The wayward son who comes home is instantly forgiven and gets the royal treatment from the father. The pain and anger of the dutiful son would only have been heightened by the fact that he would likely have been following his brother’s social platforms and seen all the fun he was having. Partying and frolicking with their father’s money, while he toiled away and did his duty. How that would have irked him even more. How it irks us when we find ourselves in that situation.

The lesson of the prodigal son is a hard one for us to accept. It goes to the heart of what is fair. Is it fair, that one son should have to stay home and work, while the other gets to go off and live the grand, irresponsible life? It’s not fair. How many times have we said that? When, as kids, our siblings got excused from the dishes when we had to do them? As adults, we are more likely to mutter it to ourselves – when, say, one sibling gets a helping hand from parents because they are down on their luck, while you, working hard, receive no gift. I see people trying to balance that family ledger all the time, and the conflict that flows from it. It is impossible. What’s fair is always relative. But it is not the same as equal.

That’s the lesson for us today. God is above fairness: but God is very big on equal. The prodigal son is meant to show us that God does not make comparisons. We are neither apples nor oranges. There is no line-up at the pearly gates. We arrive as individuals and we are judged that way. The forgiveness that the gospel describes and the grace that Jesus teaches mean nothing if God doles them out like treats for good behaviour; it must be equally available for all of us. Whether we are behaving like the wayward child, or the dutiful one – and be honest: are any of us always one and not the other? We are meant to understand that we are equal before God, that our relationship to God is our own, and is the only way to live a gospel-led life. God does not compare us to anyone, and we should not do it to ourselves.

But also – and this is important - God is saying: Butt out. Mind your own business, because your business is complicated enough. If the returning son is guilty of sloth, the dutiful son is guilty of pride. Both have lost their way.

We get this lesson in Lent, at a time when we are to be reflecting on our lesser qualities, on improving our relationship with God, and with those around us, because there is a tendency to use that time to make comparisons. When we say things like, “Sure I am not perfect, but look at that other guy; he’s a real mess.” Or, “Why bother? I will never compare to this other person; she’s got it together. “

But, as the gospel shows us, that is looking at things all the wrong way. This kind of self-talk gets in the way of making real change. When we are looking outward, there is a greater chance of feeling ourselves fall short. But change must happen inside, by rooting around, tossing what should go, treasuring what should stay. We cannot truly learn about ourselves, and truly change, if we do not first know who we truly are.

The lesson here is that we are not meant to feel better or worse when we consider the lives of others; we are meant to learn from one another and teach one another. We can hold one another accountable with guidance and support and not judgement or envy. This is the positive comparison that Jesus is trying to illustrate for us. What can we learn from that person we so admire? What can we offer the person who is struggling more than we are? How can we, like God, bring balance to life? How can we step out of the line – because who created that anyway? – and bring others with us?

It is not easy. There are plenty of days we feel like the angry son. But if we are happy managing the farm, why does it matter what anyone else does? If we are not happy, what might we do to change it? What can we control? Only ourselves.

What might that angry brother have done differently? He might have recognized that it was no skin off his nose that his brother had returned – indeed, it was a possibility for reconciliation, a chance for more help with the family business, an excuse for a party. Life, as we know, is a lot about how you look at it.

The gospel narrative is not always fair. Some people get more time with Jesus than others; some people, whose need is greater, get more help. But the goal of the gospel is to bring balance to the world. We cannot be a source for that balance if we are busy judging others. There is only one person we should be comparing ourselves to. And he is slowly, knowingly and generously, making his way to Jerusalem on our behalf. Amen.