May we all set an example for the peaceful way we want the world to be.

Sermon by Pastor Joel Crouse

Sunday November 12, 2023

A couple of weeks ago, former U.S. President Barack Obama released a written statement on Israel. It was among the most thoughtful I have read from a political leader – perhaps the most thoughtful. Of course, Obama has the advantage of not being in power, and of speaking from the sidelines. But he still carries influence, especially when he speaks so eloquently.

In the weeks since, we have seen more reports of the terrible crimes carried out by Hamas against families, young people at a music concert, and children. And we have seen the results of Israel’s response in Gaza – the displacement or death, from air strikes, of countless people, most of them children. And we have seen hatred and prejudice in our streets – and even a swastika raised on the land outside Parliament. Our hearts weep for the tragedy of the history and the inhumanity of it all, committed on Holy ground in the name of God.

Obama’s words were measured and careful. Israel, he said, has a right to defend its citizens, to dismantle Hamas, to rescue those kidnapped from its borders. But Israel, Obama said, must also respond in a measured way, in keeping with international law. This is the complexity from which we must find a solution that, in the clearest of goals, values dignity, safety, and justice for both Israelis and Palestinians. Because, Obama wrote, “Upholding these values is important for its own sake — because it is morally just and reflects our belief in the inherent value of every human life.” We must, all of us, argue for those values to be upheld, not just for the sake of future peace in the Middle East, but for the sake of the world as well. That requires a search for balance, he argued, recognizing Israel’s right to exist, but also that Palestinians have been displaced, that the push by some of their past leaders on both sides to find a solution has produced too few results. That a person can condemn Hamas and not be anti-Muslim, and that one can “champion Palestinian’s rights” and be critical of some of the policies of politicians in Israel and not be antisemitic. We can accept complexity, but also firmly and loudly condemn every act of hatred – here and overseas. Certainly we must make sure we do nothing to feed the hate we are seeing in our country.

But in the end, he said, perhaps most of all, for us here, so far away, is that we must try hard not to think the worst of those with whom we disagree. In talking to one another, we will find solutions that yelling never can. What’s more, Obama suggested, if we want peace, we must be peaceful people. If we care for children, he wrote, it falls upon all of us “at least to make the effort to model, in our own words and actions, the kind of world we want them to inherit.”

In essence, Obama was reminding us to stay awake. And is this not the lesson also of our Remembrance Day, a day to remember those who sacrificed so much to keep our country, and the world free from tyranny. Isn’t remembrance also a reminder to stay away. To keep awake to our own prejudices. To keep awake to the forces that threaten freedom, and thrive on intolerance. To stay awake to the times when we fail to listen, when we assume knowledge too quickly, when we pass judgment without wisdom.

When we fail, we might say, to bring oil for our lamps, so that our lights may shine in the night.

This is the lesson of our gospel this morning: stay awake. It is a lesson we will hear repeatedly over the next several weeks and into Advent. In a world of distractions, polarization, and argument, stay awake to the gospel in our midst.

Now, let me just say, I struggle with this metaphor in our gospel this morning. The notion of all 10 bridesmaids waiting for the bridegroom analogy has the strong whiff of patriarchy – the women waiting for the men to arrive, competing for that attention, and framed only around how they are judged once the groom shows up. As a parable, it is also clumsy: Jesus isn’t a groom waiting to assess us, and who then shuts the door on us when we fail. Jesus is the shepherd leading and guiding us, who goes and cares for the wayward sheep. Even the bridesmaids are problematic: does Jesus really want us not to share what we have so others may also find the gospel? I don’t think so.

But as always, we can find wisdom here – important wisdom even. So let’s talk about a bunch of people with their oil lamps waiting for Jesus to show up. They can’t say when he is coming. Some of them brought extra oil to keep the lights on to watch for him. And some of them forgot, so that when Jesus comes, they have fallen asleep and their lights have gone out, and in the night, they cannot find their way. The ones with oil refuse to help; and so Jesus cannot know them.

What do we learn from this about discipleship? First, we see that the people who stayed awake and found their way most easily to Jesus had come prepared. They brought extra oil to light their lamps. They made their effort well in advance of the arrival of Jesus.

And so, don’t we learn that staying awake requires advance work on our part? What might that gospel preparation look like? Kindness, surely, and generosity. In the case of Israel and Palestine, it may mean that we seek to educate ourselves, to read and talk through issues calmly. We gather knowledge rather than assume we already have it. We collect the resources we require to serve the gospel -- to be that shining lamp in the night.

Also, what actually happens when those of us with oil refuse those who don’t have any? They are left outside. Jesus does not know them. Is this not a failure on our part? When we have plenty and decline to share to lift others, when we leave others outside the gate even though they want to enter, have we served the gospel? If you look at the parable the other way, we might see that we are the ones who have failed. We have failed to make room. We have failed to help others stay awake. We have grabbed our spot and thought nothing for those left behind. In doing so, did we not abdicate our own responsibility as disciples on earth? When some are left behind, are we not also culpable?

I would think we should be careful not to judge the foolish who forget their oil – for who among us has not been foolish? Perhaps we should save our disappointment for those deemed wise who did not share that wisdom – and who among us has not, at times, kept our wisdom for ourselves?

It is as Obama said. We can spend hours debating what is happening in the Middle East. And we can do it in the safety of our borders, far from the atrocities we are debating. But if we do not hold this one posture true, we have failed. If we want a peaceful world, we must be a peaceful people. If we want people to be thoughtful and prudent, we must also be thoughtful and prudent. We must – each and every one of us – set an example for the way we want the world to be. We must share our wisdom and forgive our foolishness. So that we might – each and every one of us – be a shining lamp in the night. Amen

When dealing with the loss of someone, Jesus promised us it will get better.

Sermon by Pastor Joel Crouse

Sunday November 5, 2023

All Saints Sunday

Today, we have one of the most beautiful and comforting lessons that Jesus gave us: the Beatitudes, the blessings listed by Jesus at the Sermon on the Mount. In it, Jesus makes a list of promises to those who may feel that life is stacked against them. But on this Sunday, on the week leading up to Remembrance Day, on the Sunday of All Saints when we remember our dead, I want to focus on one part of this list of blessings.

“Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.”

What an impossible promise that seems in our darkest days, in these dark and difficult days for the world. We see such acts of terror, such suffering; we bear witness to atrocities happening far away that become anger and hatred here in our own country. How easy it is for grief to consume us, for death to mark us, for joy to desert us.

In these moments, that line from Jesus seems insufficient. How hard it is, in the midst of grief and loss, for us to cling to it. Like the thoughts and prayers that get spoken but don’t come with policy and decision-making and change.

Perhaps you have had days when it felt that laughter seemed to have fled forever. I have, in my family. I know that there are families in our church who have and, often still feel that way. We, in our place of relative safety, can only imagine what it must be like for the victims of the Hamas atrocity, for the Palestinian civilians caught in the crossfire, for the families in Lewiston who must now face the real-world consequences of another shooting spree. Those who have lost, who must go on in the now after, who must face what comes next, are weeping. We all face loss, in one way or another in our lives. If that awareness of loss cannot inspire us to do more than pray, to be more than thoughtful, then I do not know what will. Grief is an unwanted, and yet universal visitor in all our lives, a weight upon all our souls. And a necessary part of life.

That is at the heart of the promise that Jesus makes to us. Not that we will laugh tomorrow, or next week, or perhaps even next month. But that we will laugh again. In my family, after the loss of my brother, it happened when we least expected it and caught us by surprise. It sounded loud and out of place in our lives; we were out of practice. I know other people I have counselled in grief have described the same feeling – that laughter was not permitted in sadness, that it was wrong to feel happy, that looking to the future with any kind of expectation made them feel guilty.

But that is what Jesus is speaking to: the release from guilt. He is reminding us that it is inevitable that we will laugh again, that it is expected of us, and that it is promised to us. We should not feel guilty when that happens; we should feel blessed. For we have walked through darkness and crossed into light. We may bear the scars. But when the day comes, we have not been stripped of the gift of laughter.

But there is space between weeping and laughter that this line from Jesus leaves unspoken. We do not get there alone. We get there, as I well know, when we have faith that God is by our side, and friends who sit with us in our moment of need, who show up with lasagna, who understand us without prying, and who love us even when we are hard to be around. That is how we get to the other side.

And we can say the same for all our grief, and all our troubles. It is not prayers from afar that get us through it; or thoughts sent into the air. It is the real presence of God and the loving actions of others. A response of love that suggests peace may be yet possible. A call for justice that suggests policy can be changed to protect the innocent. A willingness to find the truth together, the way forward together. Otherwise we are trapped in our grief.

In our gospel this morning, Jesus also flips his blessing around: “Woe to you, Jesus warns his crowd, who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep.”

That sounds harsh. But it’s not a curse, it is a guide, a reminder that upon all of us grief will fall. So when we are strong and laughing, what should we do? We who live in comfort should have care for the afflicted. That is the society that the gospel envisions: one in which those in need today receive help from those able to give. We all have a part to play, and different roles at different times, depending on where we find ourselves in life.

What can we give those who weep? We can give the gift of solidarity. Or action. And, as we do each year, on November 11, we can give the gift of memory. We can give it when we stand at the cenotaph on November 11, remembering sacrifice. When we take time to hear the stories of those soldiers not remembered. When we make a commitment to learn something from those memories – whether it be the price of hatred and intolerance, or the cost of war, or the tragic fallout when the needs of the wounded are not met. Lessons the world still needs to learn.

And as we think about our personal losses and the 12 people who died in our community of faith this year, we can also share the gift of memory. To talk to one another about loss. To ask people how to help them in their grief. “How are you doing with all of this?” we might ask. “How are you holding up?” To put aside our own discomfort, or our fear of death, or our own worry about saying the wrong thing, and help someone burdened by grief.

Perhaps that is the real beauty of the blessing from God that Jesus promises to us. That in bringing laughter to those who weep, we also laugh. And, in that community, all our sadness becomes easier to bear.

We can believe in the resurrection and still be caught up in grief for those lost to us on earth. Jesus is telling us not to feel guilty about that, not to feel weak, or lost. “You will laugh again.” Jesus says. And in doing so, Jesus gives us the freedom to truly, deeply grieve.

Sit this week with your thoughts. About all those men and women lost to war. About the families they left behind. About a loved one who is no longer physically with you. And know that the resurrection is real, that God’s promise of new life is real, that Jesus’s words are real. But the only way through is a path we walk together. Amen

Before God, we’re all equal. There is no first, there is no last. It's about how we live our lives.

Sermon by Pastor Joel Crouse

Sunday October 29, 2023

Reformation Sunday

This morning’s gospel hits a note that I imagine all of us can relate to: the idea of fairness in life. We hear a story about a landowner who is paying people to work in his vineyard. He finds people at the start of the day, ready and willing to work, with no persuasion required, and he agrees to pay them a wage. At noon, he finds more workers at the gate, and he hires them as well. Again at 3 pm. And at 5, just when the work was ending. When evening comes, and it is time to get paid, the workers line up. The ones who started at 5 receive the same wage as those who started at 9. The all-day workers are angry – and who could blame them? They worked all day and ended up exactly the same as those who worked for a couple of hours. How is that fair? But the landowner is unrepentant and can’t be persuaded to reverse his decision. Instead, he says to the 9 am workers – you got exactly what we agreed. You gave up nothing so that others could get a wage. So why do you care? Are you envious of my generosity? And this, Jesus says, is the Reign of God: where the last may be first, and the first last. In other words: the landowner in the kingdom may not be fair – at least as we see it. Because this landowner is more concerned with being equal.

Now let’s be honest with one another: this still chafes. Just ask anyone with a little sibling who is always getting out of the dishes or getting special treatment, while they, as the eldest, are asked to do more chores. That’s not fair. Or ask those people who believe refugees shouldn’t be allowed a shortcut into our country, with health care and benefits and support from taxpayer dollars, while the rest of us work to get ahead. That’s not fair. Or what about the people who get social assistance but could get jobs if they just weren’t so lazy? That’s not fair. Or just ask any woman who has learned that the men in her office get paid more than her for doing the very same work. That’s not fair. No, seriously, that last one is really not fair – but we’ll get back to that.

Here’s the thing: and doesn’t every parent eventually get around to telling their child this: Life just isn’t fair. You learn it at school when the mean but pretty girl gets all the attention. You learn it at work, when the charmer who shops online all day at his desk gets promoted. You learn it in life when you stay healthy, and still get cancer. Life is not fair.

But actually, this is not the point of our gospel. We already know that life isn’t fair. The gospel is trying to get us to look at what’s behind that perceived unfairness – context, and perspective. Sometimes what seems unfair is just. And what looks fair is an injustice.

For one thing, I bet when you heard that gospel, you probably saw yourself as the worker who showed up at 9, and did the right thing, and still came out the fool at the end. But, come on now: have you never been the person who showed up at 5, who sneaked in the door, and received just as much benefit? Maybe you’ve been the person whose parents knew someone that helped you get a job. Maybe you benefited from a friendship, or a random circumstance? Maybe you just lucked out on genes, something no one can control. Even if none of those examples apply, we can’t say no, that’s not me: because we were born here in Canada, so right away that random circumstance puts us ahead of most of the rest of the world. A while back I was listening to an interesting radio conversation about whether the United States should have to pay reparations for slavery. One of the guests made an interesting observation: in the U.S., the discussion often focuses on the long-term disadvantage that African Americans suffered because of racism and slavery. But what is less often pointed out is the long-term advantage that White Americans gained by being the ancestors of plantation owners, or people who could always vote, and always had access to the best schools. To make things equal, you would want to consider not just the losses of one side, but the gains of another. We could have the same discussion here in Canada about the history of Indigenous Canadians. Non-Indigenous Canadians could do the same. The point is that maybe the worker in our gospel who arrived at 9 am had a car, and educated parents, and was the right sex, with the right-coloured skin and spoke the right language. And maybe the worker at 3 or 5 had no child care for their sick baby at home and couldn’t get to work on time, or didn’t know where to go for the job. The landowner in the gospel balanced their fortunes.

Does this mean we never have to fight for what is fair? If it all works out in the end, why does it matter? Of course it does: this parable doesn’t negate the call of the gospel to right injustices. But what it reminds us is that fairness and equality are complicated, and oftentimes so are the solutions. As parents, we instinctively know this: we don’t always treat our kids exactly the same because we see them as individuals who don’t always need the same thing. But we also need to remind ourselves that what is fair and equal changes with time and circumstances. We have to ask ourselves: what’s behind this picture? What am I not seeing? How does being seemingly unfair in this circumstance make life, my family, or society more equal and just? That’s why many argue that quotas – for gender and diversity – are fair even when they might not seem that way – they remove the disadvantage to the worker who showed up at 3 through no fault of their own and no true measure of their ability. Or why we allow in refugees to share our benefits – they came late because of wars they didn’t start and disasters they didn’t cause. Someday, we might be the ones late at the gate, looking for an unfair hand to make things better.

And ultimately, that’s what God, the landowner in the Reign of Heaven, is really saying when we find ourselves arriving early or late at the gate: You made it, and that’s what matters. It’s not that the first person gets bounced to the back of the line, or that the last person gets to sneak up to the front. That the last become first and the first become last is a way of saying, that before God, we’re all equal. There is no first, and there is no last. Our stories shape us, our lives define us, but they don’t decide our spot in line. A line – a rank, a title – are all human inventions. Not divine ones.

Listen, life isn’t fair. If it was, why would we need the gospel? But God wants us to remember to think carefully so we don’t mistake equality for unfairness, and to look clearly so we see unfairness that we can make more equal. And also to know that whether we arrive first or we come last, whether we get lucky or misfortune falls, in our relationship with God, there is always a place saved for each of us. We don’t need to get in line for it. Amen.