February 19th 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

How often do we meet people from our past – an old school friend, perhaps, or a work colleague, and we say to them, “You haven’t changed!” We mean it as a compliment, that the years have been easy on them, that they look the same. But of course, sometimes you only have to meet that un-changed person for coffee and hear how the years have gone, and you realize that underneath it all, they have been very much changed. This morning, we hear the story of the Transfiguration, the moment in our gospel when God put the stamp, so to speak, firmly on Jesus. Three disciples have gone with Jesus up the mountain for some time away. While they are there, they suddenly see Jesus - his face shining like the sun, his clothes dazzling. Moses and Elijah appear talking to him, a sign of his special place. And then, the story goes, they hear the voice of God, announcing: “This is my Son, my Beloved; with him I am well pleased. Listen to Him!” In that moment, the disciples are humbled, they fall to their knees, but Jesus asks them to stand. Don’t tell anyone, he says. But of course it is too late: they have seen Jesus now in a new light. In that moment, he is not just a man they are following, a special leader with unusual healing powers. He has been named by God. The timing of the transfiguration is important: only a short time later, the disciples and Jesus will make the Palm Sunday march into Jerusalem, toward the darkest of roads. Why tell the story now? It is not just a way to remind the followers of the gospel that Jesus is the Son of God, like placing a billboard of lights above his head. It is a recognition that the way he has been conducting his ministry – and the path down which he will soon go – is the right way, and the worthy one. Other people might want to announce that endorsement, in the same way that politicians jockey for the kudos of other famous names to win voters over to them. But based on that example, we can understand immediately why Jesus is so quick to tell the disciples not to say anything – to “tell no one.” Jesus does not want his message to be lost in the rush of celebrity, by people seeking him out, not for what they might accomplish in the name of the gospel, but by currying favour for what Jesus’s divine connections might do for them. All through the gospel, we have examples of Jesus telling the disciples to keep the miracles and healings quiet, not to boast about them to people who had not seen them. Jesus understood that belief was much more powerful when it originated inside a person, rather than from outside pressure to join the popular club. So that is the first lesson we learn about the transfiguration: it is for each one of us to uncover for ourselves. Yes, we can read the story now, and hear about the events on the mountain – and it is a truly powerful tale. But how we view and see the transfiguration of Christ – how he appears to us as the Son of God, as the incarnation of that voice on the mountaintop – is not for us to be told. It is for us to seek and keep seeking our entire lives. The transfiguration is not one moment of light – one instance of realization dawning upon us. Every time we see something, or someone, in “a new light,” we have experienced a form of transfiguration. That’s another lesson of this day: even when you think you know someone, even when you think you have learned enough, there is always more to find. The disciples were the closest friends Jesus had, they spent every day together, they travelled beside one another. And yet in that moment, the disciples were in awe of the Jesus that had been revealed to them. Too often, I think, we set in stone the stories we tell about ourselves and one another, we decide this is how it is, and it will always be so. But many times in my life, I have met people who I thought were one way, and as I came to know them, I realized I had been completely wrong. Sometimes, it was someone I had discounted who stood by me when others didn’t. Or someone I thought was arrogant, who was really just shy. Someone who seemed self-absorbed but whose life, in fact, was full of quiet generosity. In each case, those people were transfigured for me – they shone brighter to me. But that just didn’t happen; it came about because, like the disciples, I took the time to listen and learn, and pay attention. But in the end, what we learn from how Jesus reacted is that it is not the moment of transfiguration that matters – the instant in which you are declared a winner or named a star – it is what happens next. Jesus, as we know, came down from the mountain – despite the entreaties of the disciples to stay there – and carried on, just as he had planned before. It is not to win recognition, to receive an award or trophy, because that moment fades quickly. The danger is that we become too proud when the gospel calls us to be humble servants. Jesus didn’t need to have the title Son of God – stamped on his business card. He believed in what he was doing and the lessons he was imparting. Jesus wanted his deeds to be his best evidence. And indeed, aren’t we drawn to those humble servants, the people who even after the fact reveal something truly wonderful about themselves that nobody knew about? There is something special about doing good without asking for attention. For instance, recently I read the story of a farmer named Hodi Childress in Alabama. Every month, he brought a small wad of cash to the local drug store, and handed it over quietly, telling the pharmacists to keep it secret. It was meant to be used to cover drugs for those in dire need who couldn’t afford it. But Mr. Childress didn’t want anyone to know; and he told no one. His generosity was only discovered after he died. Word of his gift spread and now Hody Childress funds have started up in drug stores across the US. If that’s not an example of transfiguration, I don’t know what is. So ultimately, that is our lesson too: that what we do, and how we act, is our transfiguring moment. God has already shone the light upon us and given each one of us a ringing endorsement. The question now is how will we respond? Amen

February 12th 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

Someone told me this week about a study that explored how the taste buds of Canadians and Americans differed, and how health experts were taking that into consideration when they explored food labels and other regulations. Americans, apparently, love their sugar. But for Canadians, we can’t get enough salt. Certainly, salt is as central to us in winter as it would have been in Jesus’s day: obviously for different reasons. Anyone who has lived by the ocean knows the power of salt water to heal a cut, or take the sting out of a bad day. In this morning’s gospel we have two popular metaphors for describing the followers of Jesus: salt and light, and both of them help us see our role in relationship to God. Salt is a favourite metaphor in the gospels. In Mark, we are told, “have salt in yourselves and be at peace with one another” – as if the word might be a stand-in for “faith.” In Luke, salt shows up as a metaphor for obedient discipleship – and that those with a shortage of “salt” have carried the cross too lightly and without commitment. Jesus, of course, was a master at making the words of sacred text contemporary for regular citizens of his time, rather than serving up lofty talk to the educated masses. He knew the analogy to salt would resonate – though perhaps he didn’t suspect that it would become an idiom so many centuries later. But what does Jesus mean when he calls his followers the “salt of the earth”? It is in fact very different from calling us sheep to his shepherd – in that parable, our relationship to God is defined as those who are protected, kept safe from harm, and led out of the valley. The description of salt of the earth is, in many ways, much more powerful, and for each of us, more empowering. First of all, Jesus is declaring a high value upon his followers – as precious and essential as salt. In the time of Jesus, salt was such a costly and valued commodity that sometimes, Roman soldiers were paid a measured portion of salt in their wages. Salt was so valuable because it was essential to life: it preserved food and gave it taste. It cleansed wounds. It was used to keep things pure. But Jesus is not just being declarative with us; Jesus is being aspirational. He aspires for us to be as salt: dependable, decent, and unpretentious when it comes to our commitment to the good works of the gospel. Isn’t that what is meant when we describe someone as the salt of the earth? In these days of flamboyant celebrities and say-anything politicians, that might be seen as a backhanded compliment for boring. The whole point of so much social media and reality TV is to be clever, outside the box and bold. Not so much salty, but really, really spicy. But those are fleeting moments; salt is enduring – it preserves for the long run. We know that in truth, when everything else is washed away, we would want someone by us who is dependable, who does not change or waver with the tide. Who is decent and strives to be kind. Who is unpretentious, allowing their good works to be seen incidentally as they fulfill them. A sheep, obedient and dutiful, may, however, be all of those things, But by calling us salt, and urging us not to lose our taste – our spice – Jesus was adding free will into the mix, for us to be not only followers but also leaders. Salt is an active ingredient – it changes what it touches. For what is salt without taste? It’s good for nothing, Jesus concludes, but to trample under one’s feet. It preserves nothing and adds flavour to nothing. And so, by naming us this way, Jesus is also challenging us – to see our role as adding individual flavor to the world. The person, in fact, who strives to be decent and kind, cannot help but be at least a little spicy: for there are always times when being decent means speaking up, and being dependable means not backing down. But that is a challenge: how we can we be salt – dependable, decent, and unpretentious – but just spicy enough while also shining our light upon everyone, as Jesus urges us. Being sheep would be so much easier. In the end, it distills down, so to speak, to one thing: the motive behind our actions. If thinking of ourselves as sheep brings us into God’s embrace, then being called salt sends us out again – to change whatever we touch and whomever we meet. But Jesus’s word in our gospel is caution as well: if we are not paying attention, if we are trying to justify our own choices, if we are studying only to make our parents happy, or stepping in for our own glorification, we will almost sprinkle too much or too little salt on the situation, and either spoil it, or make no difference at all. If our motivation is to be the salt that heals someone else, or thaws a difficult situation, it cannot be about us – who have already been found to be of priceless value. This is why, Jesus, I suspect, draws in the light metaphor, as he encourages us to be salty. We are warned that as we carry out the gospel – as we try to be good and decent people – we let all the rest shine on its own. We are not to be a flashlight pointing a single stream of light, trying to get someone’s attention. We are called to be the lamp that naturally casts a sweeping light, indiscriminately. For in the end, this is the definition of the good life, the gospel-led life: to be the salt that preserves and nourishes and protects, and in doing so, we become preserved, nourished, and protected. To be a light that shines widely, and in doing so, we see God more brightly. Amen

February 5th 2023

Sermon By Rev Joel Crouse

Someone told me this week about a study that explored how the taste buds of Canadians and Americans differed, and how health experts were taking that into consideration when they explored food labels and other regulations. Americans, apparently, love their sugar. But for Canadians, we can’t get enough salt. Certainly, salt is as central to us in winter as it would have been in Jesus’s day: obviously for different reasons. Anyone who has lived by the ocean knows the power of salt water to heal a cut, or take the sting out of a bad day. In this morning’s gospel we have two popular metaphors for describing the followers of Jesus: salt and light, and both of them help us see our role in relationship to God. Salt is a favourite metaphor in the gospels. In Mark, we are told, “have salt in yourselves and be at peace with one another” – as if the word might be a stand-in for “faith.” In Luke, salt shows up as a metaphor for obedient discipleship – and that those with a shortage of “salt” have carried the cross too lightly and without commitment. Jesus, of course, was a master at making the words of sacred text contemporary for regular citizens of his time, rather than serving up lofty talk to the educated masses. He knew the analogy to salt would resonate – though perhaps he didn’t suspect that it would become an idiom so many centuries later. But what does Jesus mean when he calls his followers the “salt of the earth”? It is in fact very different from calling us sheep to his shepherd – in that parable, our relationship to God is defined as those who are protected, kept safe from harm, and led out of the valley. The description of salt of the earth is, in many ways, much more powerful, and for each of us, more empowering. First of all, Jesus is declaring a high value upon his followers – as precious and essential as salt. In the time of Jesus, salt was such a costly and valued commodity that sometimes, Roman soldiers were paid a measured portion of salt in their wages. Salt was so valuable because it was essential to life: it preserved food and gave it taste. It cleansed wounds. It was used to keep things pure. But Jesus is not just being declarative with us; Jesus is being aspirational. He aspires for us to be as salt: dependable, decent, and unpretentious when it comes to our commitment to the good works of the gospel. Isn’t that what is meant when we describe someone as the salt of the earth? In these days of flamboyant celebrities and say-anything politicians, that might be seen as a backhanded compliment for boring. The whole point of so much social media and reality TV is to be clever, outside the box and bold. Not so much salty, but really, really spicy. But those are fleeting moments; salt is enduring – it preserves for the long run. We know that in truth, when everything else is washed away, we would want someone by us who is dependable, who does not change or waver with the tide. Who is decent and strives to be kind. Who is unpretentious, allowing their good works to be seen incidentally as they fulfill them. A sheep, obedient and dutiful, may, however, be all of those things, But by calling us salt, and urging us not to lose our taste – our spice – Jesus was adding free will into the mix, for us to be not only followers but also leaders. Salt is an active ingredient – it changes what it touches. For what is salt without taste? It’s good for nothing, Jesus concludes, but to trample under one’s feet. It preserves nothing and adds flavour to nothing. And so, by naming us this way, Jesus is also challenging us – to see our role as adding individual flavor to the world. The person, in fact, who strives to be decent and kind, cannot help but be at least a little spicy: for there are always times when being decent means speaking up, and being dependable means not backing down. But that is a challenge: how we can we be salt – dependable, decent, and unpretentious – but just spicy enough while also shining our light upon everyone, as Jesus urges us. Being sheep would be so much easier. In the end, it distills down, so to speak, to one thing: the motive behind our actions. If thinking of ourselves as sheep brings us into God’s embrace, then being called salt sends us out again – to change whatever we touch and whomever we meet. But Jesus’s word in our gospel is caution as well: if we are not paying attention, if we are trying to justify our own choices, if we are studying only to make our parents happy, or stepping in for our own glorification, we will almost sprinkle too much or too little salt on the situation, and either spoil it, or make no difference at all. If our motivation is to be the salt that heals someone else, or thaws a difficult situation, it cannot be about us – who have already been found to be of priceless value. This is why, Jesus, I suspect, draws in the light metaphor, as he encourages us to be salty. We are warned that as we carry out the gospel – as we try to be good and decent people – we let all the rest shine on its own. We are not to be a flashlight pointing a single stream of light, trying to get someone’s attention. We are called to be the lamp that naturally casts a sweeping light, indiscriminately. For in the end, this is the definition of the good life, the gospel-led life: to be the salt that preserves and nourishes and protects, and in doing so, we become preserved, nourished, and protected. To be a light that shines widely, and in doing so, we see God more brightly. Amen