© 2025 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.
A couple of weeks ago, on my day off, I drove to Mt. Magazine to meet a friend and look for hawks. Late September is a good time to spend several hours looking up for migrating raptors, and, because of some near-perfect weather conditions, we had a good day. On the way back, I stopped at the Harps grocery store in Ozark for a snack. After perusing the sunflower seeds, mixed nuts, and chips, I spotted the perfect choice. A package of red, white, and blue peanut-butter M&Ms left over from the Fourth of July was on deep discount, and, if there’s anything I love more than peanut-butter M&Ms, it’s a good deal.
I took my candy to the register to check out, but they didn’t ring up on sale. I politely informed the cashier that I had expected that item to ring up for a lower price, and she promptly said, “Well, let’s go check it out.” We both walked over to the shelf, and she verified the discounted price, and then we went back to the register to complete the now-corrected transaction. She apologized for the mistake, for which I thanked her and told her it wasn’t a big deal, and then I walked to my car to call Elizabeth and tell her about the interaction.
In our twenty years of marriage, I bet Elizabeth has heard me tell a story about a wrong price at the grocery store at least a hundred times. It doesn’t matter to me if the line at the customer service counter is so long that I’ll have to wait 15 minutes in order to get my 17 cents. I love a bargain, and an error at the grocery store which threatens to rob me of the satisfaction of knowing that I saved 17 cents on apples is enough to send me into a self-righteous tizzy. But can you guess what bothers me the most? It’s when the person at the store who fixes the mistake doesn’t say sorry. I never get into the car and call Elizabeth upset because they got the price wrong. I call to tell her how angry I am when I have to stand in line to fix their mistake and no one bothers to apologize.
I think it’s easier to forgive monetary debts than emotional ones. I think it’s easier to let go of a few dollars than the slight they represent. I’m like George Costanza with the big salad: I don’t want the money as much as I want credit for being a conscientious shopper. And that’s why Jesus teaches us that we must focus on the financial life of discipleship before we can attend to the spiritual life.
“Be on your guard!” Jesus tells the apostles. “If another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive.” These words at the beginning of Luke 17 represent yet another hard teaching about the kingdom of God. For the last five chapters, Jesus has been explaining what it takes to be one of his followers. We must put our trust not in earthly treasure but in the riches of heaven. We must use the dishonest wealth of this life to secure for ourselves a welcome among the saints. We must choose as our dinner guests those who would never be able to pay us back. We must give up all of our possessions in order to meet the needs of the poor. But none of those challenging teachings elicits from the apostles the level of concern as this last instruction about forgiveness.
When Jesus lays out the requirement that his followers must forgive anyone who repents no matter how many times they need forgiveness, the disciples cry out in desperation: “Lord, increase our faith!” Not everything Jesus has said about discipleship up to this point involves money, but much of what he has taught the disciples has. This feels like the straw that would break the camel’s back. As my grocery store escapades suggest, I’m not saying that the financial aspects of discipleship come easily, but I do think that the demand for radical, limitless forgiveness requires a kind of faith not easily found, even among the faithful.
“Increase our faith!” the disciples beg Jesus, and Jesus replies, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” Even the smallest measure of the right sort of faith, Jesus tells them, is enough to work miracles. The issue, therefore, is not how much faith we have but what kind of faith it is. Throughout Luke’s gospel account, faith is presented not as something to be possessed but as a way of life to be pursued. The disciples’ request for more faith is, in effect, a request for Jesus’ help living the faithful life to which he has called them. And the answer he gives is shockingly simple but culturally complex.
When a slave comes in from plowing a field or tending the sheep, do you ask him to sit down while you wait on him and bring him some supper? No, Jesus explains in a rather unpalatable metaphor. You expect the servant to do his job and only afterwards to take care of his own needs.
Debt-slavery or indentured servitude was a way of life in first-century Palestine. There is nothing good or right or holy about claiming ownership of another human being in any age. I’d rather Jesus reject the institution of slavery outright and find another way to make his point. Later in Luke’s gospel account, Jesus identifies himself as a slave who came to serve rather than to be served, which makes it feel a little better, but ultimately it doesn’t solve the problem. I think the right thing for us to do is to decry the ways that passages like this one have been used to support the subjugation of human beings and to insist that any wisdom we glean from them not be based on the sinful belief that any lives are less valuable or precious than others.
Leaving behind the servant-master metaphor, the point that Jesus is making is that the faith we need to be a part of God’s reign comes through a lifetime of small, ordinary, dutiful actions that we pursue not because we want recognition for them but because they are simply the hallmarks of a life that belongs to God. The invitation to deep faithfulness, therefore, is an invitation to carry out simple things in faithful ways. It is the little things done well and done for the reign of God that teach us what true faithfulness looks like.
I think that’s why Jesus talks about money so much—because making small, practical, and faithful decisions about how we use our money teaches us how to make big, impractical, and equally faithful decisions about how we live the rest of our lives. After all, it’s easier to forgive a financial debt than an emotional one, but learning how to do simple things—like giving some of our money to help those in need—prepares us to do those difficult things—like giving up our lives for the sake of the gospel. If you want to know how to make miracles happen in your life, commit to small, simple acts of faithfulness, and you will become a vessel for God’s amazing work in the world.
That’s why we spend so much time and effort talking about stewardship. It’s not because we’re trying to raise money for the church. Yes, St. Paul’s depends upon your generosity to carry out all the ministries we provide, but stewardship isn’t designed to fund our budget. It’s designed to provide an important, tangible, practical way for all of us to grow in faith. When you decide to give some of your money back to God, you are making a free choice to prioritize the work of God’s reign in your life. And that small but significant decision opens your heart to God.
How much should you give? The biblical example held up by the church is the tithe—or ten percent. Historically, that’s enough to represent a real offering of yourself to God without imposing real financial hardship. But, whether it’s ten percent or two percent, you should give enough to make a difference in your life. Our family gives thirteen percent—not because we want the vestry to pat us on the back but because that’s the amount that allows us to grow in our faith. That’s the amount that teaches us how say yes to God.
It sounds simple, but committing a small but significant portion of my income to God’s work in the world has helped me learn how to live a faithful life. My finances are something over which I largely have control. Making a commitment to God in a part of my life that I can control has taught me how to remain committed to God in the parts that are beyond my control. It starts by shaping my attitude toward money but quickly grows beyond that.
Instead of wanting to be rich, I want to be generous. Instead of wanting to be in control, I want to trust God. Instead of wanting to be right, I want to be kind. None of that happens without God’s help. I’m not perfect. Just ask the person behind the customer service counter when I’ve been overcharged for an item. But stewardship teaches me that I can say yes to even the most difficult demands of discipleship because stewardship teaches me that I belong to God—not only with a part of my life but with all that I have and all that I am.
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