Sunday Sermon - 26 January

As I sat down to put words to paper for this sermon on Thursday, I was simply not in the right mindset to write a sermon.

You see, I am not a winter person. I don’t like winter. I don’t like the cold. And it has been cold—really cold. Apparently on Friday, Ontario was being cited as the coldest place on the planet, which feels both impressive and depressing at the same time. And, probably like some of you, I am sick and tired of shovelling snow.

Just to round things out nicely, I’ve been wrestling with the worst bout of diverticulitis I’ve ever had. I apologize if that’s TMI but as you can see I am winter weary and deeply frustrated. It’s late January, the snowbanks are above my head and stand taller than my optimism about the Groundhog not seeing his shadow, and my stomach has opinions about everything I eat. Needless to say, I found myself in a deep midwinter funk and was not exactly sermon-ready.

So I stopped trying to force words onto the page and decided instead to walk across the street to see my friend Peter Moore, the pastor at Lakefield Baptist Church. The church was hosting a prayer vigil day for peace and I thought I might find a little solace there or, at the very least, a warm chair and a quiet place to take a moment and breathe.

Clergy are not always very good at admitting that we need a spiritual lift. We’re supposed to be the ones offering it. There’s a certain confidence—sometimes even pride—that comes with the collar. Humility and vulnerability are not always our strong suits. But I knew I needed help. I needed a reset. I needed to adjust my mindset. So I bundled up, walked down the street, and knocked on the door.

I was greeted warmly—lovingly—with a big hug from a big man. Pastor Peter smiled, said exactly the right things, handed me a few prayer guides, and left me to sit.

And so I prayed. Prayer slipped into meditation. Time slipped away.

I honestly don’t know how long I sat there but somewhere in that stillness I found myself resting in peace. Not because the snow had stopped. Not because my stomach had suddenly behaved. But because God had met me in that place, right there.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve had quiet conversations with a few others who are also struggling. Nothing dramatic. Just honest.

People who are tired. People who are worn thin by life’s challenges. People for whom everything feels hard, harder than it should be.

When pain—physical, emotional, spiritual—lands all at once, it can feel unbearable. If that’s you, please know this: you are not alone in what feels like the depth of winter. What Shakespeare once called “the winter of our discontent.” A season that is both literally and spiritually cold.

Isaiah speaks directly into that place. He speaks of people who walked in darkness. Not people who passed through it quickly. Not people who managed it well. But people who walked there—step after slow determined step.

That’s what a “woe is me” season feels like. It’s not drama or self-pity. It’s weariness, sheer, utter weariness.

The grace we hear in Isaiah is this: God does not scold the people for being there - trapped in their weariness.  God does not tell them to snap out of it, toughen up, or try harder. God simply says: “The light will shine there.”

Not after everything is fixed. Not when the body behaves. Not once the mood improves. The light shines there—right where you are.

Matthew then shows us how that light often arrives.

Jesus begins his ministry not in comfort or at the centre of power, but in Galilee—a hard, occupied, overlooked place. And when he calls his first disciples, he doesn’t wait for ideal conditions. He calls them while they’re working. While they’re tired. While their life is unfinished. He says, “Follow me.”  A moment of grace interrupting life.

But notice this - they do not go alone. They follow together. That matters because when we find ourselves in our own “woe is me” space, the temptation is to turn inward. To withdraw. To isolate. To believe we have to manage it on our own, or that no one wants to hear it. The gospel tells a different story.

God is often found when we seek one another. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, knows exactly what happens when people pull apart and when ego, fear, exhaustion, or pain fracture a community. Paul’s answer isn’t clever arguments or forced agreement, he points to the cross. The cross reminds us that God meets us not at our strongest but at our most vulnerable, when we are exposed, weary, hurting. It is often when we feel our faith is slipping, when we quietly wonder if God has abandoned us, when we fear we have failed—that faith is actually being born again.

That’s why the image from the poem Footprints in the Sand has stayed with so many people for so long and it resonated with me this week. You know the moment where the person looks back on their life and notices that in the hardest seasons there is only one set of footprints and they cry out, “God, where were you?”

God answers with loving gentleness: “Those were the moments when I carried you.”

That is not weakness. That is grace. And here is something we typically forget: very often, God carries us through one another.

We live in a culture that tells us to be strong, to cope quietly, to not burden others. The gospel invites us to something braver. The gospel calls us to be courageous. The gospel invites us to turn toward one another, reminding us that we are not alone. To reach out to friends. To lean on family. To sit beside someone and say, “I’m not okay—and I don’t need you to fix me.  I just need you to be here, with me.”

That kind of vulnerability feels risky. It exposes us. But it is holy ground because when we dare to speak honestly, we often discover that we are met not with judgment, but with compassion—with listening, with presence, with love.

Community is not a nice add-on to Christian life. It is how God has always chosen to show up in our lives.

This past week also happened to be Bell Let’s Talk Week, the week in these dark days of winter when Bell promotes Mental Health. It is a reminder that silence isolates, but speaking gently and honestly creates union and connectivity. God’s light doesn’t always arrive in the quiet of solitary prayer. Sometimes it arrives through conversation and companionship, through a hug you didn’t know you needed.

In my case, it arrived through Pastor Peter — his welcome, his kindness, his presence set the table for me to find rest and reconnect spiritually (just to be clear, this is not a sermon about going to the Baptist church to find God, though that’s perfectly fine if you do!).

This is a sermon about vulnerability and humility. About unity. About comm-unity.

Paul speaks of unity through the cross. Matthew shows us that the disciples were called together while wearily working at the most inopportune of times.
Isaiah promises light to a people — not a person alone.

So if you’ve been in a “woe is me” place lately, like me, hear this:

You are not weak.
You are not failing in faith.
You are not forgotten.

The light still shines. God’s call to you still sounds. You belong. You are a deeply loved child of God.

I kept thinking of that Footprints poem over the last few days, of walking through winter with God. Of looking back over the long, cold stretches of life and seeing two sets of footprints (God’s and ours) not on a beach, but in the snow. Then noticing that in the hardest parts, when the cold cut deepest, when the path was icy and uneven, when the sky felt endlessly grey, there was only one set of footprints.

And asking, “God, where were you then? Why did you leave me in that cold and desperate moment?”

And hearing God answer, gently and with loving truth: “My beloved child, I did not leave you. Those were the moments when the snow was deepest, when your strength gave out, when you could not take another step. Those were the moments when I carried you.”

That single set of footprints is not where you walked alone. It is where you were held.

So often — and this is the part we forget — God carries us through one another. Through friends who listen, family who show up, a warm hug on a cold day, a community, like the love we feel in this parish family, that says, “You don’t have to do this by yourself.”

Paul reminds us that we belong to one body. Matthew shows us that disciples are called together, not sent out alone. Isaiah promises that light shines not on isolated individuals, but on a people walking together through darkness.

The road may be snowy, the winter may feel long, and you may be tired but you are loved. You are carried and you are never walking alone.

So let’s keep walking. Sometimes slowly, sometimes laughing, sometimes leaning on one another for balance. Let’s keep talking. Let’s keep reaching out.
And when the path becomes too hard, let’s trust that God — often through the hands and hearts of others — will lift us up and carry us through.

We walk together in love with Christ, and thanks be to God for that.

Amen.