St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Amos 6:1a, 4-7
Luke 16:19-31

Today in our readings,
the prophet Amos 
has a big ol’ bee in his bonnet
about . . . couches.

But not just any couches.
If here were here today, 
he’d be talking about 
those good couches.

Couches with cup holders.
Couches that recline.
Couches with charging ports,
lumbar support,
and built-in speakers
that can sync to your phone
so your playlist follows you
from the kitchen
to the couch
to the grave.

Couches are not the enemy, 
but according to Amos—
and Jesus—
they’re not exactly helping either.

Blind Comfort

Today’s readings are unsettling.
They are meant to be.

Amos rails against a people
who have become way too comfortable: 
who lounge on couches,
eat whatever they want,
live in luxury,
and scroll on their phones 
past every news story
about the ruin and heartbreak around them
without feeling a thing.¹

And he mocks their excesses:
“They drink wine from bowls,” he says.²

Bowls, y’all.

Now, I know some in this church love wine,
but I doubt even y’all have ever 
looked at a cereal bowl and thought,
“Yep, that’ll do.”

That is not savoring a good glass.
That is Costco-sizing.
That is abundance gone off the rails.

And then Jesus comes along in our Gospel today,
and with surgical precision
gives us the parable
of the rich man
and a poor man,
ulcerated on the street,
named Lazarus.³

One man in fine linen
and royal purple,
feasting daily,
while just outside,
a poor man
rots at his gate.

It is not a subtle story.

But what makes it frightening
is that the rich man
is not a monster.
He is not cruel.
He does not beat Lazarus.
He does not have him removed.

He just . . .
doesn’t . . .
see him.

The Danger of Numbness

That is what comfort does to people
if we’re not careful.

Comfort can numb us.
Insulate us.
Deafen us
to the cries right outside our gates.

Jesus tells this story
not to shame the rich,
not to idolize poverty,
but to warn us of the chasm
that slowly grows
when we live our lives
on the couch of comfort and complacency.

And if you think that sounds far-fetched,
just remember last week.

Across the internet 
there was all that frenzy
with people saying 
the rapture was going to happen.

Spoiler alert: y’all missed it.

(Quick side rant:
No, we Episcopalians do not believe in the rapture,
a doctrine created only about 180 years ago 
by an Anglo-Irish preacher.
What we do believe is far older, 
rooted in scripture, 
and confessed by Christians for two millennia:
the Second Coming of Christ,
the resurrection of the dead,
and the judgment of the living and the dead.

We also don’t believe in predicting it,
because Jesus said that even he 
does not know the day or the hour.⁴

So we live our lives.
We do our good.
We lean into grace.
We wait for that great Day
knowing that we will rejoice 
to behold his appearing
without shame or fear.⁵

All that is in scripture.
All that is in the prayer book.
Go read it.)

But here’s my point.

In all that rapture frenzy,
I saw a quote that said this:

“It is a broken Christianity
that desperately looks for Jesus returning in the clouds
but refuses to recognize him in the poor,
the sick, the homeless, the immigrant, the starving,
the marginalized, and the oppressed.”⁶

Or, to put it in the words
of the great prophet Johnny Cash:
“You’re so heavenly minded,
you’re no earthly good.”⁷

That is exactly the point of today’s parable.

Jesus shows up in our lives, 
but when he does,
it’s usually right there at the gates:
not floating in the clouds,
but lying in the dirt,
covered in sores,
hungry,
waiting to be invited in,
waiting to be seen.

And here’s the kicker.
When the rich man finally does see Lazarus,
it’s too late.
He has died.
The chasm is too wide.

And when he begs Abraham
to send Lazarus to warn his family,
Abraham says:

“Bah. They already know.
They have Moses.
They have the prophets.
If they can’t see it now,
they won’t even see it
if somebody rises from the dead.”⁸

Well, for us, 
somebody has risen from the dead.
And still, we struggle to see.

The Chasm of Scarcity

Here’s the thing.
If we are being honest,
that chasm Jesus describes
is not just between two men.

It is the chasm
our whole culture 
seems determined to dig.

The chasm of anger.
The chasm of suspicion.
The chasm of fear and chaos and blame.
The chasm of who’s in and who’s out.

But in some ways, 
it’s best described 
as the chasm of scarcity.

Everywhere we turn,
someone is proclaiming
the gospel of scarcity:

Not enough resources.
Not enough room.
Not enough compassion,
forgiveness,
or grace
to waste on people outside your sphere.

That, my friends,
is fear-mongering.
It is soul-shrinking.
And it is a lie.

Because everything about Jesus,
everything about the Gospel,
everything about Amos and the prophets,
everything about our whole Christian life
proclaims a better word.

Y’all, we know better.
We believe better.
We proclaim better.
So we dang well ought to practice better.

For we proclaim a God
whose generosity knows no end.

We proclaim a God 
who provides and gives,
and therefore wishes for us 
to provide and to give.

We proclaim a God 
who has already crossed the great chasm
in Jesus Christ—
from heaven to earth,
from life to death to life again—
so that nothing can separate us
from his love.

And because that is who God is,
that is who we are meant to be.

In a world that preaches scarcity,
the Church is called to embody abundance.
And one of the most tangible ways we do that
by the way we steward the gifts God has given us,
and by the way we offer them back
for the sake of others.

Y’all, we don’t want to be people of comfort. 
We want to be people of blessing.

A New Way of Stewardship

So I’m going to spill the beans
and give you a little preview on something.

Stewardship season starts next Sunday,
and we’re going to do things differently this year.

For years,
our approach to stewardship at St. John’s
has served us well and borne good fruit.

But as we grow into this new era of
deep roots,
true belonging,
and abundant grace,⁹
it’s time to take a fresh step.

This year we’re going to try something new: 
a model I’ve used in previous congregations,
a model I’ve seen change individual lives
and the life of the whole parish.

It’s called Consecration Sunday.

The beauty of Consecration Sunday
is that it pulls the way we
think about giving,
talk about giving,
and act on giving
out of isolation,
off the couch,
and into community.

Over the next month,
you’ll hear teachings and take actions
that constantly remind us:

That giving is not a private bill to pay; 
giving is an act of worship.

That giving is not about the church’s need to receive; 
it is about our deep, spiritual need to give.

That a life without giving 
is a life incomplete.
It withers.
It grows numb.
It drifts from the couch
to the chasm.

And that a life rooted in generosity
is life abundant.

About Consecration Sunday

So let me tell you
what’s going to be different this year.

The whole thing
is built toward one big, joyful, abundant day
called Consecration Sunday, 
which will be the last Sunday, October 26.
Go ahead and mark your calendars.

On Consecration Sunday,
we will gather here for a 
beautiful, glorious morning of worship.

And afterward,
we’ll move to 
Alfriend Hall,
Killeen Hall,
and other spaces across the campus 
set with tables,
to enjoy a fantastic parish-wide feast,
free of charge 
and open to all.

No buffet line.
No waiting.
No QR code to scan. 
No $10 at the door.
Just pure fellowship and fun.

Many of you have said 
you wish we had more opportunities
for fellowship.

Well, my friends, 
this is the big one.

And here’s what else will be different.

This year,
we are not mailing out pledge cards.

Let’s be honest:
when we do mail out pledge cards, 
they tend to sit on kitchen counters
for weeks and weeks 
until someone calls to nag.

Instead,
you’ll receive your pledge card
right here on Consecration Sunday.

And there’s beauty in that
because instead of filling out our commitments
in isolation,
we will take this step 
as a community,
as an act of worship,
as a prayerful move
toward abundant grace . . . together.

Then—and this is the heart of it—
as we leave worship
on Consecration Sunday,
to go enjoy lunch,
you will have the opportunity,
if you wish,
to place your sealed pledge card—
your confidential commitment—
on the altar.

Not as a transaction.
But as an act of worship.

And how fitting is that?
Because every Sunday,
that table right there
is the place from which all generosity flows.
Here Christ gives himself to us again and again,
poured out without ever running out.

Of course this is the place
where we would offer 
our commitments and gifts 
back to God.

When I started this in my last parish,
I’ll be honest: 
I was nervous.

But over time,
it became many people’s 
favorite day of the year.

One newer member—
not just a convert to the Episcopal Church,
but to Christianity itself—
said to me, tears in her eyes:

“Consecration Sunday is my favorite day 
because it is the one day of the year
when I, little old me,
get to walk up and touch the altar of God. 
It is the day when I get to make 
my gift personally to God. 
It is the best day of my life every year.”

And I’ll tell you one other great part. 
This year, nobody will call you for a pledge.
You’re welcome.

Now, we might call you for an RSVP
because we definitely want you here.

But nobody is going to call you
with that awkward,
“Hey, did you get your pledge card?”
conversation.

None of that.
It will all happen here, 
together, 
in community.

From Couch to Table

Why does it matter how we do this?

Because, y’all,
the real question is not mechanics.

It is whether we will open our eyes
to Lazarus at the gate,
to our neighbor at the gate,
to Jesus at the gate,

or drift back again
to the comfortable couch 
our culture adores.

Because the couch numbs.
The couch insulates and isolates.
The couch preaches scarcity.

But the table—
Christ’s table—
is where abundance flows.

This table is where strangers become family.
This is where generosity becomes worship.
This is where Christ gives himself to us
again and again.

So, my friends, rise up from the couch.
Rise up and cross the chasm
that Christ has already bridged.
Rise up and notice your neighbor in need.
Rise up and come to the table . . .
to Christ’s table.

And then, for God’s sake, 
let’s surprise our hurting world
with a compassion it does not 
even believe is possible

and spill the abundant grace we find here
to those gates
and spill it out
into the waiting and hurting world.

Amen.

---

1. Amos 6:4–6 ↩︎
2. Amos 6:6 ↩︎
3. Luke 16:19–31 ↩︎
4. Matthew 24:36; Mark 13:32 ↩︎
5. The Book of Common Prayer (New York: Church Publishing, 1979), 378. Proper Preface of Advent. ↩︎
6. Anonymous quote, circulating online (2025). ↩︎
7. Cash, Johnny. “No Earthly Good.” The Rambler, Columbia Records, 1977. ↩︎
8. Luke 16:29, 31 ↩︎
9.  Vision statement of St. John’s Episcopal Church, Tallahassee. ↩︎