Worship is at the heart of who we are.

Sermon for the 15th Sunday after Pentecost

Text: Luke 16:1–13

Grace and peace to you in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. Amen.

I don’t know about you, but this parable, in my opinion, is one of the strangest stories Jesus tells. It is not straightforward. It doesn’t have a clean, moral ending. It leaves us scratching our heads.

A dishonest manager cheats his employer, changes the debts, and somehow, instead of being punished, he gets praised. This isn’t the kind of parable we want Jesus to tell.

We prefer the simple, straightforward Jesus—the one who’s easy to follow and easier to stomach. But this is the parable we have right now.

And quite frankly, we are living in a time when truth and lies are all tangled together. When power is abused, when corruption goes unchecked, when the voices of the vulnerable are drowned out by the wealthy and powerful. We are living in a time when people are exhausted by the endless spin of politics, by the cruelty of extremist rhetoric, and by the slow erosion of trust in leaders, in systems, in each other. Exhausting.

It is easy to lose hope right now. Losing hope in neighbors. Losing hope in government. Losing hope in the church. And if we’re honest, maybe even losing hope in God.

And then we have this parable.

In the first-century world, debt was everywhere. The economy was rigged against the poor. Wealthy landowners would lend money or goods at outrageous interest rates. The peasants would farm the land, but after paying back debts and taxes, they barely had enough to survive. Debtors lived under constant shame and the threat of losing their land, their livelihood, even their children.

And the manager in our story was caught in the middle of that system.

He was accused of squandering - maybe skimming off the top, maybe just failing at his job. Either way, he knew he was finished. And in desperation, he did something radical: he started cutting people’s debts. Fifty jugs of oil becomes twenty-five. One hundred measures of wheat becomes eighty.

To the rich master, this was dishonest.

But to the debtors, this was life-giving relief.

And here’s the twist: instead of condemning him, the master commends him for his shrewdness. And the master does this because the manager realized something we often forget. When everything else around us falls apart - when wealth, position, and security crumble - what matters most - when it comes crashing down?

Relationships. Who will welcome you, regardless of what you have? Who will stand with you, if the ship is sinking? Who will you belong to, if your identity can no longer be tied to your status or worth?

That sounds an awful lot like our reality right now.

We live in a world that worships wealth, where policies are written to benefit corporations and billionaires while families struggle to buy groceries or afford housing, healthcare and childcare. A world where extremists distort truth and sow division, where fear becomes a weapon, and where honesty feels like it’s in short supply.

And into that world, Jesus tells us: You cannot serve two masters. You cannot serve God and wealth.

Notice what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say money is evil. He doesn’t say resources don’t matter. He says: be faithful. Use what you have - whether much or little - in ways that build relationships, that honor God, that create belonging, that lift up life.

Because in the end, wealth -whether monetary, status, influence, beauty, career, popularity, 3 or even comfort - is temporary. Systems collapse. Power, influence, popularity shift. The dishonest manager knew this firsthand. When his position was slipping away, he realized money and power could not save him. So he reduced debts - not out of pure generosity, but because he knew relationships were what would last when the wealth was gone.

Even in his dishonesty, he stumbled into a deeper truth: people matter more than profit. And that is exactly where Jesus turns our attention. Because the kingdom of God - the kingdom of God - is eternal. In God’s kingdom, people matter more than profit. Mercy matters more than manipulation. Hope matters more than fear.

So, if you are losing hope right now, hear that you are not alone. The world is unstable, unjust, frightening. But this parable reminds us: God’s kingdom is not built on the system of this world, not on wealth or lies or the powerful. God’s kingdom is built on love, mercy, and justice.

And I have to believe that if a dishonest manager, in a broken economy, can find a way to make space for grace - cutting debts, restoring dignity, building a community that could welcome him, if he could do that, how much more can we (who perhaps would do it differently), find ways to embody God’s mercy, generosity, and truth?

And let’s not underestimate how radical that is. In a culture that thrives on cynicism, every act of honesty matters. In a political climate that thrives on division, every act of compassion matters. In a society that measures worth by productivity or possessions, every reminder that human dignity comes first is an act of resistance.

But here’s the hard part: God’s kingdom breaking in doesn’t always look the way we want it to. If it did, my brother would still be alive. You know the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline launched 1 month and 7 days after my brother died. The moment I heard the news that it had launched was both, one the best and most painful moments of my life.

God’s kingdom breaking in doesn’t always look the way we want it to. And I imagine, that it grieves God’s heart as much as it does ours.

God does not micromanage the world. God does not swoop in like a Marvel superhero to instantly fix every injustice or wipe away every lie the moment it is spoken. And that is hard to swallow. I know - because I, like so many of you and our neighbors, long for quicker solutions, for God to simply set it all right.

Instead, God works in ways that are slower, quieter, and often hidden in the moment - in the small acts of courage and faith that ordinary people choose each day. Keep choosing them. These small acts matter: they start to dent, to crack, to weaken the systems built to silence and oppress. Over time, they grow into movements that change what once felt immovable. And it is through these faithful, seemingly ordinary choices that the kingdom of God speaks - not with spectacle or force, or speed, but with persistence, mercy, and a hope that refuses to die.

So hold on to hope, dear church.

Hold onto hope…

Not because the world is stable, but because God is faithful.

Not because the systems are trustworthy, but because Christ is the truth.

Not because we have power or wealth, but because God’s love refuses to let go of us.

The economies of this world are fickle. But God’s kingdom endures. May we have the courage and wisdom to know the difference.

And may hope be rekindled within us - not the fragile hope of this world, but the living hope of Christ Jesus, who bears with us, calls us forward, and is our true and lasting treasure - no matter what this world demands or denies. Amen

- Pastor Minna Bothwell