Sermon: "Leaving Stinginess Behind," (the Eight Commandment), November 7, 2021

Preacher: The Rev. Ryan Slifka
Scripture: Exodus 20:1-15

The Eighth Commandment in our Sermon Series on the Ten Commandments, “you shall not steal.”

When I was eight or, my younger brother and I spent the day with my dad at the automotive shop where he worked. In the foyer at the front they had these full-sized O Henry chocolate bars for a fundraiser or something, because beside them there was a little cardboard box for you to tuck your donation in. It was all honour system.

Needless to say, I didn't have any money, so I pilfered one when no one was looking. I offered my brother a piece as I scarfed it down in the back seat of our Dodge Colt as a bribe to keep him quiet, but he wanted nothing to do with my deed. Needless to say, I was spotted by my dad’s coworker. Even though . I can still feel the deep sense of shame I felt at the time.

And it worked. Because this was probably my last and most obvious and flagrant violation of today's commandment. This is the most obvious meaning of the commandment to not steal. I took something that didn't belong to me. While we might recognize some instances where theft is acceptable—such as stealing to feed one's family out of desperation—outright theft is generally regarded as a moral wrong across cultures and traditions. Because really, if I'm allowed to steal something as small as a chocolate bar, what's to stop a stronger person from stealing something bigger from me? It prevents small injustices, a kind of basic trust that keeps communities and societies together. It's rather straightforward.

Of course by this point in the sermon series you probably have guessed that the commandments aren't quite so straightforward. We're only given “you shall not steal” here, but it's expanded on elsewhere in the Bible. While just takin’ somethin’ does fit the definition of stealing, the eight commandment is more of an umbrella. It's a shorthand term for a constellation of related transgressions, rather than a single solitary act.

There's fraud. There's with-holding the wages of workers. There's depriving someone of their means to survive and make a living. The Bible is very concerned with how those who have economic power deal with those in their employ or their care.

It's also considered stealing to stand by while a neighbour loses their donkey and you just let it fall into a ditch and die. If you saw the series finale of Seinfeld, where the main characters were sent to jail for a year for stand idly by, and even making fun of a man who esd getting robbed—that's got some biblical precedent in Deuteronomy 22. It's not enough to not steal in this case, but to with hold our help when a neighbour's livelihood is in danger breaks this commandment.

Stealing a person is also one of the most severe crimes. It’s a capital offence, in Exodus 22 fact. Slavery, indentured servitude, human trafficking, the seeds of their prohibition are sewn in the Bible. We might not find that to be particularly relevant to us, but the fact that many of the textiles, plastics, and electronics we possess are come to us via what is nearly slave labour or literally slave labour, as in the case of China's imprisoned Uyghurs, makes it plenty relevant to us. To sell or use another human being for our own gain is a violation of this commandment.

Perhaps the most significant violation of this commandment, though, is given greatest expression in the New Testament. In the New Testament this kind of theft is framed in eschatological terms. Which is to say, one of the things we'll be judged by in the end. Jesus tells a parable about a wretched beggar named Lazarus who a rich man named Dives ignores and steps over every day to get through the gate to his luxury condo.[i] Lo and behold when they die Lazarus is joyously embraced “the bosom of Abraham,” the heavenly kingdom, while Dives watches in agony from the other place—the bad place. The epistle of James, chapter five puts it even more bluntly:

“Come now, you rich people,” it says. “Come now, weep and wail for the miseries that are coming to you. Your riches have rotted and your clothes are moth-eaten. You gold and silver have rusted, and their rust will be evidence against you, and it will eat your flesh like fire. You have laid up treasure for the last days. Listen! The wages of the labourers who mowed your fields, which you kept back by fraud, cry out, and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts. You have lived on the earth in luxury and in pleasure; you have fattened your hearts for the day of slaughter.”[ii]

One of the most heinous violations against the eighth commandment is to with-hold our wealth from those who need it. You know that phrase “the road to hell is paved by good intentions?” Well, according to the Bible the road to hell is just as easily paved with gold, Bit-Coin, or stock options. Karl Marx ain't got nothin' on the Apostle James.

In the end, this commandment isn't just about refraining from snatching chocolate bars, or cars, or pyramid schemes. It's about our inability to love our neighbours, exhibited by our lack of generosity towards them. It's not enough not to simply refrain from taking. Fulfilling this commandment means turning away from stinginess, towards generosity. Towards giving.

Which is, perhaps, a perfect segue-way towards talking about Stewardship month. It's providential, really, that this commandment came up today as packages make their way through the mail thanking all of you, and asking you to make a commitment for the coming year, and consider your own giving.

As much as I'd like to argue, guilt trip, or sweet talk folks into giving, I think there's something far more powerful that followers of Jesus hold dear that makes all kinds of generosity possible.

Breaking this commandment, whether through theft of stinginess comes out of a sense of scarcity. That we don't have enough. We take because we want more, whether it's an O Henry or wages meant for another. And we don't give because we don't think there's enough to go around.

Christianity tells a different story. The story of the Creator of the universe. One who gives life to the whole cosmos out of pure self-giving love. The story of a God who brought slaves out of Egypt whose whole life was theft, and sustained them in the wilderness with bread from heaven, and water from a rock. A God who had everything—all power, strength, and might, who gave it all up to deliver us from our selfishness and self-centeredness. A God who, in the words of the Apostle Paul, “that though he was rich, for our sake became poor, so that by his poverty we might become rich.”[iii] Christianity tells the story of a God who had all things, but gave it all away on a cross so that we would have everything. The story of grace. Meaning that in spite of everything we've ever been taught to believe, we have enough, and we are enough.

A friend of mine, Doug Goodwin, who's a retired minister told me once he has made it his discipline to tithe, to give ten percent of his income away to his congregation first, not because he's a naturally generous person, but precisely because he isn't. But God is. That's why we give. To give is an act of trust in God’s generosity. This God relieves us from the burden of our scarcity mindset, freeing us to experience the joy that our own Creator experiences in giving so abundantly. We don't have to steal. We can be generous, because we're learning to trust that with God, there's always enough to go around.

And I mean always.

The professor and psychologist Richard Beck tells the story of Jeffery, a member of his church in Abilene, Texas, came to church. Jeffery lives with cognitive disabilities. Jeffery's on disability and lives in a group home with other adults like him. He has anxiety, easily becomes fixated on things. He can't work, and can be hard to get along with.

When Beck brought Jeffery to church for the first time, he was extremely anxious because it was a whole new and foreign situation. Throughout the service he was alternatively excited and scared, unsure of himself and what was happening in the service. That is until the offering time.

When “the prayer for the offering came,” Beck says. When the offering time came “Jeffery's agitation grew. He knew what was coming—the passing of collection baskets—and he knew he wanted to give but didn't have any money. Jeffrey leaned over to tell me this with some concern. I gently reassured Jeffrey that he didn't have to give any money.

But that reassurance didn't seem to help. So I asked Jeffery if I could share some of my money with him. No, that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted something of his own to give.

The baskets passed in front of us. Jefferey seemed sad and distraught about what to do... and then I Jeffery calm. A peace seemed to fall over him. He'd decided on something.

As the baskets passed behind us he turned in his seat and solemnly took off his baseball hat. And then he placed his hat in the collection basket.

The baskets were taken up. The collection was finished. Jefferey turned to me, beaming.

“I gave my hat,” he said with a huge smile.

I beamed back, with tears in my eyes. “I saw, Jeffery, I saw.”

He leaned over for a hug. We hugged and rejoiced in his gift.

Community is hard. And Jeffery, you should know isn't always easy to get along with. There are days when he's agitated and he'll call me a dozen times. He doesn't know any better, but that doesn't make it any easier to have my phone ringing all day at work.

But that night at Freedom, Jeffery's generosity interrupted me in ways that I will carry forever. I was changed that night. Where ever I struggle with giving, sharing or generosity, I always think of Jeffery's gift.”[iv]

Despite his obvious limitations, Jeffery was able to keep this commandment. Jeffery knew that with God, there's always enough to go around. This made Jeffery was an icon of the risen Christ. Despite the fact he had virtually nothing to give, a divine generosity bubbled up within him, sheer joy, spilling over for everyone to see. And in seeing it, Beck was changed.

Friends, brothers and sisters. We are not to steal. But simply not stealing isn't enough. Keeping this commandment means leaving stinginess itself behind for the sake of our neighbours. It means abandoning the desert of our scarcity mindset for the green abundance of generosity. It means knowing that on account of God, we have enough, we are enough… even when the hat on our head is all there is to give. We practice this first in the church, not to win points with God, but so we can thank God, by practising it everywhere. So we, like Jefferey, know the freedom knowing that, with God, there's always more than enough to go around.

May this same infinitely generous God have mercy on us, and incline our hearts to keep this law.

 AMEN.

[i] Luke 16:19-31.

[ii] James 5:5:1-5.

[iii] 2 Corinthians 8:9.

[iv] Richard Beck, Reviving Old Scratch: Demons and the Devil for Doubters and the Disenchanted (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2016), 76-78.