March 27th, 2022

This morning, we hear the parable of the Prodigal Son, perhaps one of the most significant, and complex parables in the gospel. Certainly, for many of us, it will bring up an emotional response. How you respond to the Prodigal Son, will, I imagine, depend a great deal on your own story in your family. Were you the eldest, expected to keep everything together, upon whom everyone depended, while your siblings had more fun? Were you the one who stepped up to do the hard work, while the rest popped in once and while? Were you the quiet one who got less attention? The alternative one who always seemed to get too much criticism? Or were you the Golden Child, basking in adoration, who could do no wrong? Family dynamics are the setting for many of the stories and parables in the Bible. And of course they are - our families shape and define us. They lock us in a cage, or they set us free. They pull us down and lift us up. And long after we are grown, those roles and narratives really come back to us, sometimes without our even knowing it. Perhaps we care too much what people say. Or we can’t share our feelings with others. Maybe we feel unworthy. Or maybe, if we are lucky, we know our worth, we have an inner voice that is positive and affirmational, and we are happy. Not all of this, of course, can be laid at the feet of our families. But I have a been a pastor, a son, a father, and a partner, long enough to know, that for better or worse, our families leave their mark upon us. Let us consider our parable, then. We have three main characters: two sons and a father. Now the elder son is like many people I know and have met. He stays home and does his duty. He works like a slave and asks for nothing, not even a young goat to cook for his friends. Perhaps he had other dreams and ambitions, but we don’t know: the elder is defined by his choice to stay home. The younger son - he is a free spirit. He asks for his inheritance early, and then he goes off and parties it away. He has, we must imagine, a wonderful time - until the money runs out. Then, we hear, he is forced to do menial labour, feeding pigs, and eating little, until he has a thought: my dad might hire me back, and he feeds his servants. And so he heads home. And then we have the father, the parent figure. Clearly, he loves his sons, for he shares his wealth with them. He values the faithful company of the elder, and the independence of the younger, and he rewards them according to their wishes. When the younger son arrived home, having lost it all, how does this father respond? With love and happiness that his son has returned to the family, and throws a fancy party, and cooks a fatted calf. And the elder, toiling away, hears of this, and understandably, is enraged: where is his fatted calf, after working so hard for so long? But his father says, why shouldn’t we celebrate? For your brother was lost, and now he has been found. Perhaps a good way to understand the parable is to consider ourselves in each of these roles: how we would want to be treated, what we might be missing in the story. The gospel goes into great detail about the transformation of the younger son – who skips away joyfully with his inheritance, wastes it, and then has to labour just to get a bit of food on the table. What a lesson for a young man born into relative wealth to learn? What it is like to be truly hungry. Having learned it, he returns to his father, humbled and begging forgiveness, declaring himself unworthy. Rather than judging and scorning him – incidentally, as his brother does – his father sees his pain and forgives him. He is just happy to have him home. Let us not be too hard on the elder son, watching angrily from the fields. Who wouldn’t feel as he does? Not even a goat comes my way, and this sloth of a brother gets the fatted calf. But what is the elder son missing? What lesson is in this story for us? The parable is meant to add definition to our relationship with God, who is, of course, the father in this story. God welcomes us home when we make mistakes. Even when we feel unworthy, as the younger son says of himself, God sees our value. We make mistakes all our lives. The valuable action is in seeking to correct that mistake, in turning back to God. When we seek forgiveness, we are forgiven. The elder was missing an important point: he was invited to feast on the fatted calf. He was seeing a situation in which for him to win, his brother had to lose; but the love of God doesn’t work that way. God meets us where we are, and face-to-face with who we are. The parent loves the elder who stays; and the parent loves the son who must leave first to return. And there is not one kind of love for the first, and a second kind of love for the second; there is only love. Now, many of our families do not work like the gospel; our parents are not God. In real life, this parable may still chafe and irritate us, and that is okay. This is a story about agape or the love of God that is beyond human understanding, that is all encompassing, and unfaltering. It is a love to aspire to, or to stumble towards. The hope is that when we understand our relationship with God in this way – that in the drifting and stumbling of our lives we might know we are always loved and worthy. And we might also aim for that same kind of open, non-judging love with the people in our own lives. We don’t always get that right, not always, but the good news is we can go back to God and begin again. That new beginning was promised to the elder son, the same as the younger. A fresh start; freedom from the past. Perhaps, with the younger one home, the older would no longer have to work so hard; perhaps he could have the party with his friends and roast a goat. Perhaps, he might come to love and appreciate his younger brother. Perhaps, having seen his father show such welcoming love to a wayward son, he would feel more secure himself in his parent’s love. And maybe not. Maybe he could never let go of the bitterness he felt and was made smaller by. Like I said, it’s a complicated parable. Complicated, but for one simple lesson we are meant to learn: we may come and go; we may stumble and slip; we may be careless, and we may judge. But when we have woken up, we may always come home to God and find love waiting for us. Amen.

March 20th, 2022

As I contemplated the readings this week, one line jumped out at me: “So if you think you are standing, watch out that you do not fall.” That is a great line, and a useful reminder. “So if you think you are standing, watch out that you do not fall.” Let’s come back to that. Our readings today are rather grim: hearing them read out loud this morning only reinforces that impression. Who wants to hear about people being destroyed by serpents? But Paul often preached a grimmer message than Jesus – perhaps influenced by the panicky, dangerous days following the death of Jesus. Paul really needed the people to pay attention; the very act of preaching in the name of Jesus was a risk. So he gave an example of people who went wrong with God as a way to show his listeners how to stay right with God. And then he softened it up at the end, with a soothing message to the faithful: don’t worry: God won’t test you more than you can handle. Chin up, people. In the middle, though, there is this line: “If you think you are standing, watch out that you do not fall.” And here is where I think Paul really gets at the core of our gospel this morning: where he translates the lesson from Jesus into one easy-to- remember line. In the gospel, the emphasis goes in a different direction. Jesus is not focused on the wrongdoing of those who lost their lives in the example, but on the judgement of those left alive. Do you think, Jesus asks, they were any worse than their neighbors? Or, to switch it around: do you think Jesus is asking if their neighbors were any better than them? Or perhaps, to home right in on the true takeaway: Do you think that you are better than them? “So if you think you are standing, be careful that you do not fall.” Perhaps, as your pastor, I find that this phrase stands out so much to me because I observe and hear so much sadness, grief, and regret. And yet, often there is a common root hidden underneath: judgement. Family members judging the choices of other family members. Friends passing judgement on the behavior of those in their social circle. Partners making judgements about each other. Those judgements, in my experience, are often ways to circle around the real issues that are happening – it’s easier to be critical than honest. In some cases, it’s difficult communicating how people are really feeling. Or it’s a lack of perspective-taking, seeing the situation from the other person’s point of view. Sometimes, judgment comes from a sense of self-dissatisfaction. Those are perhaps the more palatable reasons why people judge others. Perhaps the hardest kind of judgement is self-righteous - when people fail to see their own advantage and privilege and condescend to others. And yet, with that line, there I go, judging the judgers. There is a reason why Jesus spends so much time trying to teach us to be humble, other-centered, and open-minded. Those qualities are the opposite of judgemental. But in our gospel this morning, Jesus endorses another action as a rebuttal to judgement: patience. He tells the parable of the man who has planted a fig tree that bears no fruit after three years, and he wants to give up on it and chop it down. It is, as he says, bluntly, a waste of space. But the gardener urges him to think twice: let me tend to it, the gardener says, and let’s see where it is in a year. The landowner said, this stupid tree; it hasn’t done what I wanted; let’s pull it out of the ground. The gardener said, let’s take a minute and consider what it might need from us. Let’s not judge too quickly; let’s see what a little patience creates. What an underrated virtue patience has become. Parents instruct their antsy kids on patience – when they are jumping in a long line, when Christmas is weeks away – but then it becomes an action meant to repress joy. We remind ourselves to have patience when someone cuts us off on the road, but then it is an action to suppress anger. In the example that Jesus gives, patience is not one of those things: it is life-giving, othercentering, it is a peaceful pause. How often do we use patience in that way – not as reaction to an event, but as a way to be? And so I come back to that great line: “So if you think that you are standing, be careful that you do not fall.” What did Paul mean? I would say he was cautioning those listening not to get so high and mighty that they considered themselves above everyone else – for how easy is it to trip when you fail to notice those around you? I’d say that line is also a reminder that when we are standing firm, when we believe we know better than others, when we are full of pride, when we think we have everything figured out, we have already started to fall. And I think it is also a reminder: when we feel the most puffed up about ourselves, we might take a moment - what are we not seeing? What’s another quality that prevents falls? Well, patience. Our steps are more certain when we pause and see our surroundings. Our path is clearer when we take a moment to reflect. And our reward is so much greater when we stop to look for ways not to tear people down, but to help them grow. Surely, if we were the fig tree that was not growing – for all kinds of possible reasons – we would want a kindly gardener - a caring community - to give us the same chance. We don’t know what happened to the fig tree. I will always imagine that it thrived and grew figs aplenty. But if it remained a spindly little fig tree, doing what it could, yet was well loved by the gardener, is that not still a success story? But we don’t know what happened because the fig tree’s future is not the lesson here. The lesson is that patience stepped in and soaked up the anger and judgement. The lesson is a reminder to us: when we think we are standing, let us watch out that we do not fall - into all the traps that human nature lays for us. And let us not judge too quickly, but see what patience creates. Amen.

March 13th, 2022

This week there were so many heart-breaking images and stories from the front line in Ukraine. And there was remarkable bravery as well. There are many ways to tell that story. Of course, there is President Zelenksy who remains in the capital, urging the world to pay attention to whatever it can for this country. The untrained young people who are staying back or travelling home again to fight for their nation’s future. The grandmothers who have remained in Kyiv to help feed those who are defending the capital. For me this week, it was also the story that appears in The Globe and Mail of the convoy – a line of vans and buses and SUVs- that travelled from Lviv to Kyiv. A group of civilians had jammed their vehicles with supplies and food for those still in the capital, and they made the 500-kilometre journey – towards the Russian tanks and bombs - to deliver them. In a suburb outside Kyiv, they loaded those same vehicles with evacuees – including children who need medical care – and brought them home. It was a journey of courage, made at great risk - leaving safety and going purposefully into danger. . So many of these stories linger, even as we carry on living in Canada, watching the signs of spring slowly win out over the cold of winter. What happens to all that courage in the face of the evil of humanity? What happens if those exemplifying it eventually lose? Is courage a moment of conviction, or something more? Don’t we already know? Our gospel this morning helps reveal the answers. Jesus has been teaching in the small towns and villages on his way to Jerusalem. But word had spread. His presence – and the crowds he was gathering - had become known to Herod, who felt threatened by Jesus. The Pharisees have come to see him, to urge him to flee because Herod wanted him dead. But Jesus shrugs them off: Go and tell that Fox, he says, today and tomorrow I will be casting out demons and performing cures. On the third day, I will be on my way. - toward Jerusalem, where my fate awaits. It reads like a challenge to Herod, and perhaps it is. Indeed, it echoes the now infamous words of President Zelensky, who when offered an escape by the United States, declined with his own challenge: “I need ammunition, not a ride.” Zelensky has remained in Kyiv while the Russians close in. And Jesus continued to Jerusalem while the authorities closed in around him as well. In both cases, the grand city is symbolic. It was a place to take a stand. A place to face corruption and cruelty and not blink. What happens to that bravery? In the case of Jesus, he did not win. He was betrayed by his friends, sacrificed by a week leader wanting to appease a mob, and hung on a cross. Brave as he was, he did not win over Herod. And yet, he won. We are still telling his story all these centuries later. His teachings took on new life. His disciples went forth and spread the gospel. And here we are on this second Sunday of Lent, still marveling at the bravery of Jesus. Our world puts a great deal of stock in winning. And yet, it is not the winning that is remembered. It is the bravery and the burdens and the hurdles along the way. It is how we face the challenge of our times that defines us. Someone who wins by crushing others is no true victor. The one who loses by sacrificing for the vulnerable, for what is true, for justice, and what they believe, they are the heroes of the hour. It is as the Bible says: those who lose their life, will gain it. We are seeing that happen in the world right now. The Ukrainians are outmatched and outgunned. They were expected to fall to Putin’s Regime within a couple days at most – so quickly in fact, that little was done to prepare international aid resources on the ground. And yet they have not fallen. They continue to defend democracy, and their nation, and their freedom. Their actions have inspired historic cooperation around the world. So where does that bravery go? We know, of course. It lives on, in the stories grandmothers tell their grandchildren, in the scripture that is read at church. It weaves its way through society. It reaches into the hearts of future generations. Long after the end has come, courage continues to speak to us. Long after the end, courage continues to set an example for us. That, perhaps, is the best we can do. We can reach back in time and convince Jesus to leave Jerusalem; that would be a fool’s errand anyway. We cannot, on our own, change what is to come for the people of Ukraine. But once in a while, we have a moment where an act of courage can change the world. It happened that day in Jerusalem. It is happening now, in a grand city a continent away, even as spring comes peacefully here in Ottawa. Let us be true witnesses. Let us listen for what courage is saying. Let us follow its example. Amen.