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.

Copy of God gives us powerful tools in order to be active workers for Love, Peace and Hope in the wo

Sermon by Pastor Joel Crouse

Sunday October 22, 2023

So this morning, we have one of the most political stories in the gospel. The Pharisees, the incumbents in power, have approached Jesus, the Upstart in the hope of tripping him up. They try to butter him up with false flattery about his wisdom and then they gently spring their trap and ask…about taxes, of all things.

First, let’s put this in context. At this period in Jesus’s ministry, taxes were very controversial. There was, in fact, a revolt underway against a head tax that the Emperor Caesar had leveled against Jewish citizens. There were riots, and even executions for some of the ring-leaders. When the Pharisees pose the question of the “lawfulness” of paying taxes, they are assuming that Jesus falls into the anti-tax camp.

So, right away, they think they have him: if he supports the tax, he risks losing supporters - both the powerful ones, who objected to it, and the poor, who could barely afford it. Plus, he would appear to be contradicting scripture, which warns against worshipping false gods.

If he says no to paying the tax, he could be arrested by the Romans and possibly executed.

Either way, as the Pharisees see it, they win.

Ah, but Jesus was wily - and in this passage we see how clever he was. He does not answer right away. He responds to the question from the Pharisees with another question - a savvy rhetorical trick. Instead he asks to see the coin, likely the denarius that would be used to pay the tax. These coins were relatively rare - used in higher circles and by the emperor to pay his soldiers. When the Pharisees readily produce one, Jesus has already linked them to Caesar.

“Whose head is this, and whose title?” Jesus asks, an answer he surely knows already. The Pharisees are forced to reply: “The emperor’s.” On the denarius was a picture of the emperor, with the included inscription: “Caesar Augustus Tiberius, son of the Divine Augustus.” Jesus gets the upper ground: the coin includes a “graven image” and describes Caesar as God-like. And the Pharisees haven’t just produced such a coin; they have done so in a temple.

Jesus’s answer is remarkably simple, seemingly vague, and yet at the same time clear: “Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s,” he says, “and to God the things that are God’s.”

Amazed, we are told, the Pharisees went away. More likely, they were stunned at being so cleverly outmatched.

So what was Jesus saying with his answer and what does it mean for us? This text has been interpreted, throughout history, as a case for paying our taxes - but many scholars have questioned whether Jesus intended his response to be about support for taxes, or even taxes at all. For one thing, as we learn later, when Jesus is arrested, one of the charges against him was that he opposed the head tax - rather than supported it. This was essentially a tax targeted at a particular group of people, and the money would be used, not to improve the lot of the poor, but as a war chest for Rome; it’s hard to imagine Jesus’s rallying in favour of it. He was hardly one to go along with authority for the sake of authority.

Given that context, it’s more likely that Jesus’s answer was rhetorical. After all, what would Jesus say were “God’s things?” Were his followers to be so divided in their allegiance - between Caesar and God? Should faith in the gospel, as he defined it, tilt back and forth between earthly authority - and indeed, a questionable one at that - and God’s grace? If the answer to “What is God’s” is “everything,” then what is left for Caesar? The answer: nothing.

But does this mean we should all stop paying our taxes? Let’s consider that question more thoughtfully, from another angle. In his skirmish with the Pharisees and his dodge with Caesar, Jesus raises the question of leadership. The Pharisees, preaching one thing, have used Caesar as their ally, when it was convenient – doing what they needed to hold on to power. Jesus has cast a spotlight on their true motivations;- power for the sake of power. And he has virtually dismissed them: his answer, on the surface, is barely more than a shrug. You worry about what matters to you, he is saying. I will be over here doing the important work.

But to the wide audience – and to us – his question lands differently. What is God’s? And what is Caesar’s? And how do we, living in a complex world, manage that distinction.? We can say that everything is God’s, but we still have to live, and eat, and pay our bills. And what’s more, in a functioning democracy, paying taxes is our collective contribution to a larger, common good. We may not decide where every dollar goes, but we do have a say in who spends it; and we accept that with appropriate checks and balances. It is imperfect. But we aren’t perfect.

But take the taxes away: Pharisees made this the subject, not Jesus. Without the prop of the coin, then Jesus’s question broadens. Caesar becomes our stand-in for flawed human leadership. How do we balance what is God’s against what is Caesar’s? How do we give to both God and Caesar?

In that context, Jesus is posing a larger ethical challenge: how do we follow the gospel in a flawed world? Jesus is lobbing that question to us. Because it is complicated. We want to see an end to poverty, but how do we make that happen in a free-market system? We want to save the planet, but we are accustomed to an ever-expanding consumer economy. We want leaders who do only what is just and fair, but they exist in a system that requires them to please enough of the “right” people to get re-elected. So it becomes our job to ask how faith filters through the complexity of the world.

Jesus doesn’t answer that question for us in our gospel this morning: he leaves us to wrestle with it. So where might we start? We must ask the right questions. Questions like: why have we always done it this way, and is there a new and better way? Questions like: where did this information come from, and what is the truth? If the truth is not yet knowable, should we not wait to learn more? If we think some people are being left out, how do we include them?

For a large portion of his ministry, Jesus works within the “rules” of society, pushing at them, but not snapping them so hard that he falls outside of it. In the end, as we know, he takes the hardest stand of all. But his ministry also shows us how we can exist in a human world, while aspiring to a divine life.

Like Jesus, we must not only be alert to the misleading questions. We must ask the right questions. For chief among “God’s things,” as Jesus says, are God’s people - that is, us. And God’s call to serve others is neither political, nor rhetorical. It is our highest responsibility. Amen

workers for love, peace, and hope in our lives and in the world. Amen.