Sunday Sermon - 19 October
I was just stepping out of the front door of the Rectory last Thursday when I heard the sirens and smelled the smoke. I knew it was close, so I walked to the bend and could see that they were working on the south upper corner of the Home Hardware building. At that time, smoke was only coming out of the one corner apartment window and it looked as though it was under control. I didn’t think much of it and went around to the front of the church to get in my car and head off to get gas.
In the next 20 minutes, everything changed. The roads were closed, the fire had spread across the top of the building, and it was clearly uncontained. The smoke was thick at the Rectory, heavy and acrid — that unmistakable smell of something burning that is not meant to burn. A smell that clung to your clothes and lingered heavily in the air. I remember standing there, watching the swirling black clouds billow out the windows and upward, and thinking, “Oh no… this is really bad.”
And it was. As I was writing this on Friday, that beautiful, historic building was being razed to the ground and bystanders were pulling up chairs to watch the final dismantling of people’s lives. People lost their homes, their jobs, their pets. A cornerstone of our main street — gone in a day. A stark reminder that our own little village of Lakefield is not immune from tragedy and disaster.
But even as the ashes settle, even in the quiet that follows the chaos, we come here — to this place of prayer and peace. We come before God to listen, to sing, to remember, and to gather strength from Scripture, from communion and from one another. Maybe today, of all days, we can — or at least should — identify with that persistent widow Jesus tells us about.
A widow in Jesus’ time was one of the most vulnerable people in society. Without a husband, she often had no social standing, no income, no protection. She was easily overlooked, often dismissed, and sometimes outright ignored. In this parable she’s pleading with a dishonourable judge — a man of authority — to grant her justice. She keeps coming, day after day, wearing him down. Finally, this judge, who is neither godly nor compassionate, gives in just to get her off his back.
It’s tempting to think the judge represents God, but that’s not at all what Jesus means. The judge is the opposite of God. The point Jesus makes is this: if even a corrupt and uncaring judge can be persuaded by persistence, how much more will our loving, gracious, and faithful God respond to His people when they cry out to Him?
Jesus tells this parable to encourage us to pray and not lose heart — to stay faithful even when the world feels faithless.
He ends with that piercing question: “When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?”
It’s a question that sits deep in the heart. It’s not about whether God will be faithful — because God always is — but whether we will be. Will we keep trusting, even when things burn down? Will we keep believing, even when everything we’ve built feels fragile?
Luke places this parable right after Jesus’ teaching about the coming Kingdom. That’s deliberate. Luke wants us to understand that faith isn’t proven in the high moments, when everything is smooth and easy. It’s proven in the waiting — in the long, sometimes exhausting in-between time — when hope seems thin and the answers haven’t yet come.
Jesus knows His followers will face disappointment, loss, and heartbreak. He knows there will be fires — literal and spiritual — that destroy what we thought was secure. He knows we’ll look around and wonder if God still sees, still cares.
So He gives us this parable not as a tidy lesson, but as an invitation: Don’t give up. Keep praying. Keep showing up. Keep believing that God’s goodness is still at work, even when you can’t yet see it.
The prophet Jeremiah reminds us of the same thing. He speaks of a new covenant — one not written on stone, which can be broken or lost, but written on our hearts. God says, “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.”
That’s not just beautiful poetry, it’s an intimate promise. God’s faithfulness isn’t something external; it’s within us. His Spirit dwells in us. The covenant isn’t fragile like Moses’ stone tablets of old; it’s living and breathing. A relationship that cannot be burned away, not by fire, not by time, not by anything.
And that’s the kind of faith Jesus is calling for in this parable — a faith that endures, a faith that doesn’t give up when life gets hard.
We see that same kind of faith in the life of Dr. Jane Goodall, who I’m reminded of because of her recent passing. Dr. Goodall was not only a brilliant scientist, but a deeply spiritual woman. A person who believed that hope was not naïve, but necessary. She sat for hours, for days, for years in the forests of Gombe, Tanzania, patiently waiting, observing, learning. That’s what persistence looks like — showing up, day after day, believing that something good will come of it.
Her work wasn’t just about chimpanzees and primates. It was about connection, about understanding creation as part of God’s great, sacred web of life. She often spoke of her belief in a Creator and of the deep moral responsibility we have to care for one another and for the earth. Her quiet endurance mirrors the widow’s persistence, the refusal to give up on what is good, what is right, what is holy.
That same perseverance is what Paul urged Timothy to live by and to “continue in what you have learned and firmly believed.” Paul was near the end of his life when he wrote that letter. He knew suffering. He knew disappointment. Yet he tells Timothy to keep the faith, to stay the course, to preach the Word even when it’s inconvenient. To trust that God is still working, even when it’s hard to see.
I think that’s the lesson we can hold close this week.
Since the fire, I’ve seen extraordinary faith at work in Lakefield. People have stepped forward without hesitation — offering rooms, food, clothing, prayers. I’ve had phone calls from people asking, “What can I do? How can I help?” Businesses and churches and neighbours are coming together to care for those who’ve lost everything.
That’s faith in action. That’s what the covenant written on our hearts looks like. It’s love taking form in real, practical, grace-filled ways.
On Thursday night, I, along with some of you, went to the Youth Unlimited fundraising dinner, and as I sat listening to stories of lives transformed (not just young lives, but whole families) I thought again about this parable. Because what changes lives isn’t just programs or money or effort. It’s love. It’s faith made visible. It’s people who refuse to give up on one another.
That’s what Jesus is asking when He says, “When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?” He’s not looking for grand declarations. He’s looking for the quiet, steady perseverance of people who keep showing up for one another. Who keep believing that healing is possible, even after the smoke clears. Who keep rebuilding, loving, forgiving, and praying. Again and again and again.
So yes, when the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?
You bet He will.
He’ll find it here — in the hearts of His people.
He’ll find it in the streets of this village, where neighbours lift one another up.
He’ll find it in the prayers quietly offered up for strangers.
He’ll find it in the acts of compassion that rise from the ashes.
That’s faith.
That’s Lakefield.
That’s the Kingdom of God alive among us.
Amen.