The Life That Is Really Life

Sermon for Proper 21C – T2 (Season of Creation – Fourth Sunday)

Texts (NRSV): Amos 6:1a, 4–7; Psalm 146 (BCP Psalter); 1 Timothy 6:6–19; Luke 16:19–31

1 Timothy 6:6–19 Luke 16:19–31

We’ve been walking through the Season of Creation these past few weeks --

listening for God’s voice not only in Scripture but also in the song of birds,

in the soil beneath our feet,

in the rhythms of ocean and oak tree.

Today is our last “regular” Sunday of this season

before next week’s holy chaos of the Blessing of the Animals.

So this is a good moment to pause and ask:

what have we learned? What has shifted in our perception?

The prophet Amos opens with a sharp word:

“Alas for those who are at ease in Zion…

who lie on beds of ivory, stretched out on their couches,

eating lambs and calves… singing idle songs,

anointing themselves with oils,

but are not grieved over the ruin of Joseph.”

In other words: woe to people who live in luxury,

cut off from the suffering of their neighbors,

insulated from the consequences of their choices.

And Jesus’ parable of the rich man and Lazarus

says the same thing with searing imagery.

The rich man feasts every day, while Lazarus,

covered in sores, lies at his gate.

The divide is clear,

but the rich man doesn’t see it – or refuses to see it.

After death, the gulf becomes unbridgeable.

It’s not hard to hear echoes today.

The comforts of some -- our couches, our banquets, our oil --

come at the cost of others:

the poor, the vulnerable, and the more-than-human world.

The ecological crisis lays this bare.

Some profit, while others -- human and non-human alike --

suffer the sores.

Lazarus is the earth itself, lying at our gate.

Today’s psalm gives us the counter-vision:

“Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth,

for there is no help in them…

Happy are they who have the God of Jacob for their help,

whose hope is in the Lord their God;

who made heaven and earth, the seas, and all that is in them;

who keeps faith for ever;

who gives justice to those who are oppressed,

and food to those who hunger.”

Here the God who creates is the same God who feeds,

who lifts up, who sets captives free.

Creation and justice are bound together.

We hear more in the admonition to Timothy,

warning against the love of wealth:

it is a snare, a root of many evils.

Instead, he is told: be content with enough.

Strive for righteousness, faith, love, endurance, gentleness.

And then this unforgettable charge:

“Take hold of the life that really is life.”

What is the life that really is life?

Not the insulated, gated, self-indulgent life of the rich man.

Not the disembodied, disconnected life of endless consumption.

But the life that is rooted in God’s creation,

generous and abundant enough to share,

attuned to our neighbors near and far,

human and non-human alike.

Here in our valley, we’ve been learning to see this.

The oaks, with their deep roots, teach endurance.

The poppies and sage that flourish after fire teach resilience.

The Topa Topa mountains remind us that we are small, and yet held.

The mighty Arbolada Creek, the soil under our feet,

the birds at dawn, the sycamores spreading their shade,

the wildflowers that surprise us in spring --

they are part of the choir of today’s psalm,

singing praise simply by being alive.

But they are also Lazarus at our gate.

Drought, heat, fire, declining species: these wounds are real.

The cracked earth, the dry creek beds, the hazy skies --

these are not abstractions.

They are neighbors calling out for care.

To ignore them, to insulate ourselves,

is to fall into the complacency that Amos condemned.

To notice them, to grieve, to respond --

that is to align ourselves with the God

who made heaven and earth, the seas,

and all that is in them.

Over these past few weeks,

we’ve been practicing this alignment.

We’ve said that Christ comes to us in the stranger’s guise,

in the breath of trees, in the flow of water, in the face of the poor.

To love God is to love Creation;

to follow Christ is to live as part of that Creation,

not separate from it.

The Season of Creation is not an “extra theme” tacked onto the church year.

It is a remembering of what was always true:

that the Gospel is good news for the whole Creation,

not just for human souls.

That redemption is cosmic, not narrow.

That salvation is the healing of all things.

So what do we do?

The letter to Timothy tells us: live simply.

Live generously. Be rich in good works. Share.

Take hold of the life that really is life.

And what does that look like here and now?

It may mean turning off the lights at home to honor the gift of energy.

It may mean choosing to walk or bike or carpool

so that the air itself may breathe easier.

It may mean planting native plants

that invite the hummingbirds and bees to thrive alongside us.

It may mean supporting our neighbors who farm and labor for our food,

or standing with those most vulnerable to climate extremes.

Each small act is not just “doing the right thing” --

it is practicing resurrection, living into God’s new creation.

This isn’t about guilt or despair.

It’s about hope, and courage, and joy.

It’s about learning to live as though Lazarus matters,

as though the oaks and rivers matter,

as though our own lives matter enough to be lived with intention and care.

Next week, we will bless the animals --

dogs and cats and geese and maybe a few creatures we don’t expect.

And it will be holy chaos.

But it will also be the continuation of this same season:

delight in Creation, reverence for life,

joy in the God who made and sustains all things.

So today,

as we start to bring this Season of Creation to a close,

hear again the charge:

Take hold of the life that really is life.

Not the life of insulation and indifference,

but the life rooted in love, grounded in earth,

opened to justice, and overflowing with joy.

Amen.