God is not out of reach, nor is God a prize

Sermon by Rev. Joel Crouse

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany

February 4th, 2024

Isaiah 40:21-31

1 Corinthians 9:16-23

Mark 1: 29-39

If you have ever taken an Uber, you know the clever way that the company has ensured that everyone is on their best behaviour. At the end of each trip, the passenger gets to rank the driver on a five-star scale. The driver does the same for the passenger. Your score is averaged out, so that you can see how well you have been perceived. What’s more, it can have consequences on both sides: a low score for a passenger means a driver can choose not to pick them up, or a passenger can decline a driver.

All I know is that by all reports, it appears to be working. Uber drivers have an incentive to be chatty and gracious; and passengers the same. As the world of internet Likes and Yelp ratings has clearly demonstrated, we really enjoy keeping score.

But then, this morning, we have Paul, raining on our parade. For this is exactly what Paul is preaching against: the good deeds and kindness that we boast about, our need for constant affirmation. As Paul writes, the gospels give “no ground for boasting.” Good deeds and kindness are an obligation, with its own reward. If we do it for ourselves, sure, we might feel good. But following the gospel is something we are entrusted to do by God. The gospel is “free of charge,” so that we might make full use of it.

Indeed, Paul goes on, to truly serve others, we cannot place ourselves above them. We must be as them. We must be under the law, to help those who find themselves under the law. And outside the law, with those who find themselves outside of it. To help the weak, we must become weak; that is, we must walk in their shoes. And we must do it all “for the sake of the gospel” so that we may share its blessings.

In other words, following the gospel is the reward. The act of doing good is the good we receive. There are no Uber stars in the gospel. God just isn’t interested, we are told in the Psalm, “God is not impressed by a swift horse or the speed of a runner but finds pleasure in those who fear God.” Let us not get tripped up by the word fear – which means, in this context, to stand in awe, to listen to the directions we receive, to hear what God is saying to us.

These last few weeks have been focused on our personal responsibility as Christians, and the directions have been stern. It would seem our tendencies to brag, to flaunt our success, to puff ourselves up with pride, were well known 2,000 years ago, as they are clearly in evidence today. You have only to consult a Facebook feed to see it. It is perhaps the most dangerous risk to our ability to do good. When we need to boast about good deeds, we also need witnesses. We may help only where others we admire can see, and not where we are needed most.

But what is Paul saying: that we cannot feel proud of ourselves when we do good? That we should scorn accomplishment? And Paul wasn’t alone: Saint Augustine and Thomas Aquinas were among those who named pride as the “beginning of all sin.” They were talking about the pride that makes us blind to the needs of others – what psychologists today call narcissism. And perhaps they understand what now makes sense: confident people don’t need to brag; they don’t need to retaliate against those who threaten their self-image. What is hiding underneath the narcissist is not true self-pride, but as Jessica Tracy, the author of Take Pride puts it, “deeply hidden feelings of shame.” This kind of preening, arrogant pride is not about feeling good, Tracy concludes, but about not feeling bad. She argues that we need to learn the difference – between inner self-esteem, the “crown virtue” that pride can be, and the so-called “deadly sin” that leads to unhappiness.

And so, we begin to see that what Paul is preaching has a two-fold goal: his instructions are meant to facilitate the highest form of carrying out the gospel and also to keep those doing so happy. And what we learn is that each of these two aspects is necessary for the other to occur. Boasting of our gospel-led selves leads only to despair – the ways we don’t measure up, for starters. But internalizing the gospel as a way of being, and not as a sum of actions, extends that peace to ourselves. It is difficult to fulfill the gospel with our eyes continually on the prize, so to speak. And it is hard to feel good about ourselves when we are striving for a prize always out of reach.

But God is not out of reach; nor is God a prize. God does just what Paul describes: meets us where we are. What difference does that make for us, the skeptic might ask? What is really different in our life if we see our relationship with a higher power this way? Well, of course, when we can sustain the connection, it makes every difference. We don’t need the gospel to lift us up; we can be the gospel. And when that happens, the very first person we give it to is ourselves. We are the Good Samaritan who helps, the Prodigal Son who is welcomed, the Widow at the Well who is heard. We are the disciples on the fishing boat who are accepted. We are the tax collector who is invited. And having been treated so, we are free to respond. That five-star Uber rating doesn’t matter: we are kind and friendly not to get something back, but because it is the right way to be out of thankfulness for what we first received.

We can live, as Paul says, for “the sake of the gospel.” Because we share already in its blessings. Amen.

In community, all our paths are made smoother.

Sermon by Rev. Joel Crouse

Forth Sunday after Epiphany

January 28, 2024

Deuteronomy 18:15-20 

1 Corinthians 8: 1-13

Mark 1: 21-28

At the beginning of the new year, we set a lot of goals for ourselves – to improve our habits. But science continues to tell us that one thing matters more to our happiness than how much we eat or how often we exercise. What actually matters most of all is our relationships, and the state of our friendships. And yet, how often do we vow: this year I will be a better friend? It occurred to me this week that Paul’s word to the Corinthians is about friendship and relationship. And more particularly, it is about not being a frenemy. Now while frenemy might seem like a new word of a hashtag age, it actually first appeared in the 1800s, as a recent article in The Atlantic informed me. It seems frenemies – that is, people pretending to be your friend and acting like an enemy when you aren’t looking – have been around forever. The article went on to define three kinds: the two-faced frenemy who is pro you when you can hear them, and bullies you in absentia when you can’t; the competitive frenemy who is always trying to win at your cost; and the manipulative frenemy who does things like undermine your confidence.

Now, I know you are all thinking of somebody right now, a certain frenemy who perhaps has plagued you at one time or another. The article even had a quiz so you could test whether a friend was actually a frenemy without your knowing it.

But if frenemies are so common, guess what that means: we all probably have a bit of frenemy in us.

And I think that’s where Paul’s words are instructive, because ultimately he is talking about our responsibility to live in relationship with others, and to see our role in the paths that others take, or are forced to take.

On Sundays, we vow to be “in mission for others.” To serve others. To care for them. But as our second lesson points out, this is not just a responsibility that God sets before us. It is the responsibility we hold one another to.

Now sure, it might seem as if Paul is just telling us that old rule: set a good example. In the lesson, it is about those who still eat food that is offered to an idol. Paul, preaching to Christians, points out that this is not what we believe: Food, he says, will not bring us closer to God. But if we join in, are we encouraging them to see their food – and presumably their circumstances – as declaring their acceptability to God? Paul suggests yes.

Just to pause here: Of course, in our modern understanding, we know that a communion among people who believe different things can be a time of sharing and learning.

But Paul is not talking about people who choose different beliefs, worthy in themselves. In speaking to this particular audience, his central point is that we are responsible to other people for how we behave. And so we need to ask ourselves: Do we lift people up on their journey and make their steps easier? Or are we stumbling blocks to others living well and honorably and happily?

That phrase “stumbling block” appears several times in the Bible. In another translation of our second lesson, Paul concludes: I will never eat meat, lest I make my brother stumble.”

In Romans, we are told, “Therefore let us not pass judgment on one another any longer, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of another.”

And in Corinthians, we are cautioned to “take care that this right of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak.”

A stumbling block is one of those perfect metaphors. We imagine, perhaps, a concrete brick placed in the path of a person, that causes them to trip. In that imagination, the brick was not placed by the one who is tripping – although some stumbling blocks may be. The blocks in Paul’s speech are placed by someone to trip another. A stumbling block is an object of injustice, betrayal, insensitivity, and perhaps most of all, carelessness.

And the point that Paul is trying to make is that we place them in front of people, collectively and individually all the time. Our job is to see the blocks and remove them before the stumble happens. As Paul suggests to himself, “I must be extra honourable, else I cause another to stumble.”

In what ways are we the stumbling blocks for others? We can see how the frenemy archetype puts out stumbling blocks of doubt and uncertainty. But we might also cause someone to stumble by what we don’t do – by not speaking up when we should have done so, or by not offering support to someone in need. And there are plenty of active behaviors that toss out stumbling blocks as high as walls. For example, when we join in gossip or start it. When we post a thoughtless comment online. When we lash out in anger. When we assume we know everything. Each behavior, Paul reminds us, has the potential to influence another. It may be either a stumbling block or a path-smoother.

Our second lesson opens with an important phrase, one we should all remember – especially these days, when so-called “knowledge” is just a Google search away. “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” It is when we assume we know all things, to know inside a person, to know what caused an event, that creates a stumbling block. When we seek to understand, when we are open from a place of love, we become path-smoothers.

Think of the time when you might have leaned too heavily on knowledge, and not learned how love told the full truth. In this way, knowledge would have served as its own stumbling block.

According to The Atlantic, a team of researchers at McGill University came up with what they called the six basic dimensions of true friendships. Each one is the antithesis of a stumbling block. Companionship—spending time together. Help—providing selfless support. Intimacy—the ability to share confidences without fear of betrayal. Alliance—standing by one another no matter what. Validation—feeling joy in the success of each other. And Emotional Security—providing comfort and confidence. Not only do these six characteristics of relationship prevent stumbling; they hold us up so our steps are easier.

Jesus was a teacher who saw the world as complicated and taught his followers to navigate those complications. Paul’s words are not meant to divide: they are meant to warn us how easily we can become stumbling blocks to one another if we are not careful. They remind us that both the knowledge and the love of a community are built collectively, with each of us being intentional in relationship. In the end, all our paths are made all the smoother for it. Amen

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2024/01/frenemy-machiavellianism-friendship-happiness/677159/

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.