Sermon — October 2, 2022

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

There may come a time in your life when you find yourself living with someone who feels the need to announce, publicly, their completion of every basic household chore. You may already have lived with them. You may be living with them right now.

“Just taking out the trash!” they’ll say to as you lie on the couch. “Long list today!” they say as they unload the groceries, after going to the store for the first time this month. Or, as one New York Times writer put it in her Op-Ed headline, “Honey, I swept the floor!” (Subtitle: “Why do so many husbands feel the need to boast about completing simple household chores? With mine, it’s all about branding.” Which, if you weren’t already in couples counseling… Publishing that sentence in a major newspaper has got to send you straight there.)

The article singled out husbands, but any kind of housemate can be like this, of any age or gender. Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful to thank someone you live with for the often-unnoticed tasks that keep a household running. But it’s obnoxious to fish for that gratitude. Doing your half of the chores doesn’t deserve special praise or congratulations. That’s why it’s called “your half of the chores.”

And when Jesus kind of goes off at the disciples in the gospel today, I hear some of that frustration. I wish he’d picked a different way of making the point, without casually taking the institution of slavery for granted, but I hope you understand what he’s saying: Do you thank your servant for serving you? No! he says. Likewise with you: When you do your Christian duty, it is simply your Christian duty. Don’t expect God to thank you for doing it!

The ”slave” thing is strange, for Jesus. But what’s really strange to me is that Jesus says this in response to the seemingly-simple request that he increase their faith. It seems like a total non-sequitur. The disciples pray, as many of us have, for faith, and Jesus lashes out and tells them they’re “worthless.”

So I was wondering what could be behind this kind of response. And I thought about the connection between faith, and trust, and this idea of “doing your half” in a relationship. What is faith, after all, but trusting that someone else is going to hold up their end of the bargain? What is faithfulness but holding up yours? The New York Times columnist interprets her husband’s behavior as “branding.” But I wonder if it’s more about insecurity. One unfortunate husband is cited in the article for arranging separate “viewings” of the freshly-cleaned garage for each member of the family. Maybe that’s because he wants the praise in triplicate. Maybe it’s because he feels so untrusted, he’s so convinced that nobody has any faith that he’ll actually do it, that he feels the need to prove himself over and over again. When the disciples ask Jesus to increase their faith, there’s something a little insulting to that. “Jesus,” they seem to say, “we don’t trust you to follow through on the incredible promises you’re making. Help us trust you more.” And Jesus seems to say, “I’ve done my part. The rest is up to you.”

But if this is what it looks like when God is doing her half of the chores, then I can understand why the disciples pray for faith. It reminds me of one of the most common questions I hear as a pastor: “What is God waiting for?” What’s God waiting for? You don’t need me to list the tragedies, personal and national and global in scale, that could really use a miracles, that desperately need an infusion of God’s grace and mercy and peace. You know them. You’ve lived them. You’ve prayed about them. You may even have lost your faith over them. Two thousand years of war and plague, of sickness and death, and while things are undeniably better today than they once were, Jeremiah’s lamentation for Jerusalem 2500 years ago still rings true. His cry of pain for refugees driven out of their destroyed homes could’ve been spoken this morning about any one of a hundred cities in any one of a dozen countries around the world. So what is God waiting for?

Here’s the thing: We Christians have been losing our patience with God for almost 2000 years now, and still we keep the faith.

You can actually see it in this reading from Paul’s second letter to Timothy. Now, it’s disputed among scholars whether this letter to Timothy is one of Paul’s latest letters, or whether it was actually written well after Paul’s death by a follower adopting his name. But in any case, it’s clear that this is not the period of Paul’s early missionary activity, when he’s traveling around, spreading the good news and forming new churches. Timothy himself is a third-generation Christian: his faith, Paul writes, “lived first in [his] grandmother Lois and [his] mother Eunice.” (1:5)

You get the sense that the excitement of the early days has faded, that the gift of faith needs to be “rekindled,” as Paul says, even in church leaders. Many among the first generation of Christians were convinced that Jesus was coming back soon, literally, in his resurrected body, to set things right. They believed that Paul’s claim that Christ “abolished death and brought life and immortality to life” (1:10) meant that Christ had abolished death, that they themselves would not die. And yet they did.

“Where is God?” they were asking in the 40s, and the 50s, and the 60s AD. “What’s taking him so long?” they asked, as the years since Jesus’ death stretched into decades. Little did they know just how long it could be.

If you understand the Christian faith the way those early believers did, then we are clearly the most oblivious people in the world. If you think that Christ’s destruction of death means that Christians do not die, that Christ’s triumph over the powers of evil means that there is no longer evil, then you’re in denial; you ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so easily fooled.

“But I am not ashamed,” writes Paul. “For I know the one in whom I’ve put my trust, and I am sure he’s able to guard what I’ve entrusted to him until that day.” (2 Tim. 1:12) I can endure suffering now, because God has broken its ultimate power. I trust that on “that day,” that long-awaited promised day, all shall be well. I do not need God to tell me that he’s cleaned the garage, because I trust that on “that day,” that garage will not only be cleaned, but will be transformed into a place of unimaginable wonder.

So “guard the good treasure,” Paul writes, “that has been entrusted to you.” (1:14) Trust in God to win the ultimate victory. Keep the faith, even if your faith is as small as a mustard seed.

And then he adds, in what sounds like it’s just the kind of phrase that preachers throw in to put a prayerful bow on a paragraph or sentence, something that ends up being the most profound theological answer to the entire problem I’ve been describing for about the last ten minutes, and that Christians have been struggling with for about two thousand years. (Are you ready?)

“Guard the good treasure,” he writes, “with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us.”

“Where is God in all of this?” you may ask. “Why is God taking so long? What is God doing in the face of such tragedy? ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken us?’”

And there is Paul’s answer: Where is God? “Living in us.”

This is what makes the dry abstraction of the Trinity come alive. If only God the Father is God, then it’s clear that God has written us off, that God created the world and the world went wrong and God went off on vacation, leaving us to our own devices. If only God the Father and God the Son are God, the picture is a little better: God the Son came into the world in Jesus, and tried to set things right; God suffered, and died, and rose, and God will come again on “that day,” but in between, we’re left alone again. But God’s a Trinity, not a Binity, and so we are not alone. Because while God the Father is up in heaven (wherever that is) and God the Son is seated at his right hand (whatever that means), God the Holy Spirit is right here with us, “living in us.” That’s how God has chosen to respond to our pain in this world. By dwelling within our hearts and minds. By inspiring us to love and courage. By comforting us and strengthening us and working in and through us, as we love, and comfort, and strengthen one another.

God is right here, taking out the trash of our lives, and cleaning our garages, emptying our dishwashers and putting air, God bless her, in our tires. And if these things are happening in your life, but you don’t notice them—if you ever feel hope, or courage, or peace; if you ever offer an act of love, or let someone care for you, but don’t think of that as the work of God—It’s only because God is not like those good-for-nothing husbands. For God, it’s not all about branding.

So, God: Open our eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Open our hearts to feel the power of your love within us. “Increase our faith,” we pray, knowing that it is already enough, even if it’s only the size of a mustard seed; give us grace to guard the good treasure you have entrusted to us, with the help of the Holy Spirit who lives in us. Amen.

Sermon — September 25, 2022

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“[The rich man] called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’” (Luke 16:23–24)

There’s a lot to say about this story of Lazarus and the anonymous rich man, but there’s one detail that always stops me in my tracks: The rich man knows Lazarus’s name. He knew who Lazarus was in this life, he knew his name, and he did nothing to help him as he lay dying outside his gates. He knows who Lazarus is when he sees him in the afterlife, and he knows his name, and he won’t even address him. He begs for mercy, but he doesn’t beg Lazarus for mercy. When he speaks, he doesn’t say, “I’m sorry, Lazarus.” He doesn’t say, “Now I know how you must have felt, Lazarus.” He continues to ignore Lazarus, just as he had in this life, and speaks to Abraham instead: “Send Lazarus, won’t you, to bring me something to drink.”

This is not an abstract story about the tragedy of economic inequality, about the notion that someone somewhere else is starving while you have enough to eat, and so you should feel guilty, young man, if you don’t clean your plate of all that delicious liver and onions. It’s a very concrete story, not just about inequality but about inhumanity, about what it means to look at another person, to know another person, and to treat them as if their life is worth nothing to you.

In a way, Jesus’ story almost reads like the sermon illustration he would use if he were preaching on the passage we heard from Paul’s first letter to Timothy, although of course the letter isn’t written until long after Jesus is dead. “We brought nothing into the world,” Paul writes, “so that we can take nothing out of it;if we have food and clothing, we will be content with these” (1 Timothy 6:7–8) But here’s the rich man, not just content with having food and clothing but feasting sumptuously and dressed in fine linen and royal purple; and there’s Lazarus, longing to eat even a crumb and clothed only in his sores. “As for those in the present age who are rich,” Paul advises, “command them not to be haughty.” (1 Tim. 6:17) Yet the rich man presumes to order Lazarus around as if he were a servant, even as he suffers in Hades and Lazarus rests in Abraham’s embrace. The rich man is rich in goods, but he’s certainly not “rich in good works, generous, and ready to share,” as Paul says. (1 Tim. 6:18) He has not “[stored] up for [himself] the treasure of a good foundation for the future.” (1 Tim. 6:19) He’s spent his treasure on himself in this world, and he’s now paying the price in the next.

Of course, Jesus isn’t actually preaching on Paul. But they both take for granted what was, without a doubt, the mainstream Jewish opinion of the day, and still is: Both societies and individuals have a moral obligation to help those who are poor. When someone is hungry and you have food, you feed then. When someone is cold and wet, and you have clothes, you share them. When someone needs medical care, and lying in the street, you don’t send the dogs out to lick their wounds; you heal them. This is what Abraham means when he says that the rich man’s brothers don’t need Lazarus to tell them to care for the poor. They “Moses and the prophets,” in other words, they have the Bible, they have centuries of God’s repeated instruction to use their spare resources to care for those who don’t have enough. Whatever we have in this world, we cannot take it with us to the next. Everything we have will one day be taken away, whether we like it or not. But we have a chance, now, to give it away. And that makes all the difference.

Easier said than done, right? We all have things we need or just want in this world. We all have bills to pay. We don’t want merely to survive; we want to thrive, to enjoy our lives, and if we have children, to make their lives easier than our own. It would be incredible hypocrisy for me to stand up here, and wag my finger, and tell you that money is the root of all evil, and then take a paycheck for it. But that’s not what Paul says, and it’s not what Jesus says. What Paul says is not “money is the root of all evil” but that “the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.” (1 Tim. 6:10) When the love of money overpowers the love of neighbor—when you are so attached to your wealth that you will step over a man whose name you know as he is dying in the street rather than sharing it—then you are in trouble. Then you are already engulfed in flames.

So this is a sermon about stewardship.

Not about “stewardship,” in the churchy sense, as a technical term for a fall pledge drive or fundraising campaign. But “stewardship” in a much bigger sense. “Stewardship,” if it helps you to think about the origins of words, from an Old English compound meaning, essentially “being the one who guards the livestock pen”: a “steward,” originally, is a “sty-guard,” as in a pig-sty.

The steward is not the owner. She doesn’t have an absolute right to the property, to do with it whatever she likes. She’s been entrusted with it, to use it as the owner has instructed. So we are “stewards” of creation, given this earth as our home, but not entitled to destroy it as we are destroying it; it’s God’s, not ours. We are “stewards” of this building, given it for our use and for our worship, but not entitled to sell it or tear it down. And we are “stewards” of our own lives: of our wealth, as little or as great as it may be; of our time, as long or as short as it may be; of our talents, as great or as meager as they may be. We brought nothing into this world, as Paul says, and we can take nothing out of it. We’ve been temporarily entrusted with everything we have so that we can better love and serve God and our neighbors, so that we can be “rich in good works, and generous, and ready to share.”

This is not a sermon about “stewardship,” in the narrow sense. It’s not about the money you give to the church, at all. It’s about stewardship in the broader sense. It’s about what you do with what you have in this life. It’s about the neighbors you see and know, like the rich man knew Lazarus, and what they need that you can give; and it’s about the neighbors you don’t see and don’t know, and what they need. It’s about what it looks like to live a life of “faith, love, endurance, gentleness,” good works, generosity, sharing; what it looks like for you already now to “take hold of the life that really is life.”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon — September 18, 2022

The Rev Greg. Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“The manager asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’
He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him,
‘Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty.’” (Luke 16:5–6)

Debt relief is as hot a topic today as it was in Jesus’ time. You may have heard this summer about the Biden administration’s new plan for student-loan debt relief. But there’s been another kind of debt in the news recently, one that’s less controversial and, in my opinion, much more interesting: some churches are building a movement to purchase and forgive huge amounts of unpaid medical debt.

What makes medical debt relief so interesting is that it costs almost nothing. It works like this: There are a huge number of outstanding hospital bills in this country that will simply never be paid. Imagine, for example, that you don’t have much money and you have bad insurance or no insurance, and you have a heart attack that leads to emergency heart surgery, and maybe the cardiologist or the anesthesiologist on call is out of network. You may end up with a bill that you simply cannot ever pay. After a few months, the hospital can hand your debt over to a collection agency, but there’s only so much they can do. Medical debt collection is a tough business to be in. After all: they can hound you with phone calls, they can trash your credit score, but they cannot repo your heart. Not yet.

So there’s this huge and strange market for medical debt that’s premised on the idea that it’s better to get something than nothing. You can buy and sell big bundles of debt for literally a penny on the dollar, and if only 1 or 2% of it ever gets paid off, you’ve done all right.

Or—and here’s where the debt relief comes in—you can buy someone’s debt, and then simply forgive it. One church in Durham, North Carolina, for example, is including medical debt relief in its capital campaign as part of their mission, because by raising just $50,000 in funds they could forgive $5 million in medical debt for people in their community.[1]

If you think about this like an economist, this all makes perfect sense. If you think about it like—no offense—a human being, it’s mind-boggling. After all, if my $10,000 debt could be sold to someone else for $100 and then forgiven, then why didn’t I just owe the hospital $100 in the first place?

Our parable this morning is the fourth in a series of five that Jesus tells in this section of the Gospel of Luke about the inextricably linked concepts of wealth, sin, and forgiveness. Last week, we heard the two parables of the “lost sheep” and the “lost coin,” two stories about people who lost some portion of their wealth, in livestock or cash, and then went out to find them and bring them home. Jesus explains them as parables about how God relates to us when we sin and repent, when we are lost and God comes looking for us. Next week, we’ll hear the parable of Lazarus and the rich man, in which the rich man begs God for forgiveness and mercy, having never cared a bit for the poor man Lazarus in his lifetime while he lay on the streets outside the rich man’s gates. And between last week and this week our lectionary skipped over the parable of the Prodigal Son, which we heard earlier this year, in which the younger son squanders his inheritance and then comes home, begging forgiveness from his father, who treats him to a lavish party in return.

These parables can be confounding, this morning’s especially. Jesus seems to commend some very shady dealings. It seems that this dishonest manager been running his boss’s affairs for some time, and abusing his power to line his own pockets. The boss hears some rumors and asks him to show him the books. So the manager goes around and retroactively edits all the loans, using his authority to forgive huge portions of the people’s debts.

It’s a little hard to figure out exactly what’s going on. Is it like the situation of medical debt, where the boss has already written these loans off as unlikely to be repaid, but the manager manages to squeeze out a fraction of what’s owed by forgiving the rest? Is it a last-minute attempt to cook the books, hiding what the manager has stolen from the loan repayments by pretending it was never owed? Is it just a spending spree in which the manager uses the last moments of his power to buy the loyalty of the people in the community, before he’s thrown out the door? At the very least, that last part is what Jesus picks up on, and he’s right. These neighbors are now in the manager’s debt, not just the master’s. They owe him, not jugs of olive oil or containers of wheat, but some serious favors down the road.

Most parables are hard to parse. We sometimes assume the biggest and the most powerful person in the story is supposed to be God. And that can create some very weird theology. Say that God is the master, the one in charge. Is Jesus the steward, who goes around practicing forgiveness and mercy. So God is planning to… fire Jesus for mismanagement? But then he’s pleased when it turns out Jesus deceived him? You didn’t have be at Thursday’s discussion on the Nicene Creed to sense that maybe that’s not how the Trinity’s supposed to work.

Like the lost sheep and the lost coin and the Prodigal Son, this is often read as another parable of sin and forgiveness. And in fact “debt” is very traditional language for sin. The text of the Lord’s Prayer, for example, actually reads “forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” (Matthew 6:12) This “debt = sin” image is just so ingrained in theology that we translate it “trespasses” or “sins” instead. Parables are tricky to understand. But if this story about the forgiveness of debts really does have something to do with forgiveness writ large, then there a few things about it that I want to point out.

First: we are all deeply in debt to one another and to God. It’s one thing to say that sin is like a debt. If I’ve wronged you or mistreated you, in some sense, I owe you some kind of repayment. But it goes much deeper than that. Simply by being alive, we are deeply in debt to those who came before us: to those who bore us and raised us, to those who built our cities and our churches, to those who fought and struggled and died for our freedom, in battles and protests and courtrooms. And we’re deeply in debt to God. There is no price that we could pay to purchase for ourselves a life. It is a gift from God.

Second: it costs a lot, in time and money, to repay our debts. It takes just minutes and pennies on the dollar for someone else to forgive them. No farmer in the world could’ve offered to pay that manager 50% of his debt and call it even without being laughed out of the room. But it only takes the manager a second to cut the price in half. Although, to be fair, he is committing fraud. It costs only pennies on the dollar for someone else to buy your hospital bills, when you could never in your lifetime pay them back. And what’s true for debt forgiveness is even true for forgiveness forgiveness. There may come a time in your life when you mess up. (Maybe you already have.) And you can work so hard to make things right, you can try and try and try to be perfect, to never do it again; but even if you succeed, you will never be free from that debt until the person you have wronged forgives it. And they can grant that forgiveness so much more easily than you can earn it.

And third: the forgiveness of a debt creates transforms a relationship. The dishonest manager knows this. That’s why he does what he does. He’s purchasing a literal social safety net for himself after he’s thrown out of his old job. That church in North Carolina knows this. They weren’t just doing this alone, they were organizing other white churches to raise money to forgive hundreds of millions of dollars medical debt, primarily for poor Black people in their state, trying to transform their relationship with a community they’d kept in chains. Forgiveness doesn’t just roll things back to the way they were. It begins to build a new relationship for the future.

All of this is what Paul means when he writes that Jesus, as a “mediator between God and humankind…gave himself a ransom for all.” (1 Tim. 2:5–6) He means that in Christ, God forgave our debts. To whatever extent we owed God something—for the gift of our lives, or as the debt owed for our actions or our inactions—in Jesus’ life and death, God paid the bill. God chose to forgive us our debts, knowing that we could not ever earn enough to pay them off. And God invited us to forgive one another as we had been forgiven.

So maybe there’s a debt that someone owes you that will never be paid off. Maybe they wronged you long ago, but they’re no longer alive, and you’re left with your resentment. Maybe they nearly ran you over or cut you off in traffic on the way here, but you’ll never see them again. Maybe they owe you a literal, actual debt, but you know they just can’t pay. What would it cost for you to forgive that debt? What would it look like to write it off? Would it do anything to transform them? More importantly, maybe— Would it do anything to transform you?In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

[1] https://sojo.net/articles/churches-are-forgiving-medical-debt-pennies-yours-can-too