A minister was working with a Children’s Church class and she asked the children, “What is it that makes someone a good Christian?” One little boy shot his hand into the air and proudly answered, “When you love everybody!” The minister smiled and said, “That’s a wonderful answer. And how do we love everybody?” The little boy thought for a moment and replied, “Well… mostly by staying calm when people are annoying. Especially people like my little sister.” And honestly, that might be one of the most spiritually mature answers ever given in church. Because care is not always easy. Care costs something. Care interrupts schedules. Care stretches patience. Care asks us to move beyond convenience into compassion. And yet, at the heart of the Christian faith is this foundational truth: we are called to care. Not simply to believe. Not simply to worship. Not simply to preserve tradition: but to care for one another and for the world God so dearly loves.
I think care is one of the beautiful truths that I have discovered about Northwood. Care is not simply one ministry among many here. Care is the foundation underneath EVERYTHING. Whether it is worship, outreach, music, prayer, pastoral visitation, outreach, or simply coffee conversations, the heartbeat underneath it all is care. Today’s readings speak deeply into that identity.
Psalm 23 begins with one of the most beloved lines in all of scripture: “The Lord is my shepherd.” Shepherding is, fundamentally, an act of care. A shepherd guides, protects, feeds, comforts, searches, and walks alongside. The psalm does not say, “The Lord points me toward the right path from a safe distance.” No, it says: “The Lord is my shepherd.” Close. Present. Walking with us. The shepherd. Perhaps what makes Psalm 23 endure through the generations is that it does not pretend life is easy. It speaks honestly: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Not around it. Not over it. Through it. Most of us, in our own lives, know exactly what those valleys feel like.
One of those seasons can be Christmas. For many people, Christmas is joyful. But for many others, Christmas carries grief. An empty chair at the table. A name no longer spoken aloud without tears. Traditions that ache now because someone beloved is missing. That is why our Quiet Christmas service continues to matter so deeply. Some of you named in in your responses. Quiet Christmas acknowledges something profoundly Christian: that care means making room for sorrow, not just celebration. It is what the prologue in John gets at when it says “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness would not put it out”. It means saying: you do not need to pretend here. You do not need to force joy here. You are loved here exactly as you are. That is shepherding care.
As we prepare for our AGM, we always took time to remember the many saints who have died this year. Amidst an AGM that also focuses on budgets, reports, and plans, we also paused to remember people. Because people matter here. Not just productivity. Not just numbers. People. And that says something about who Northwood is. Care is not abstract here. It becomes visible. It becomes meals delivered quietly, prayer shawls wrapped around trembling shoulders, phone calls, visits, cards, meals, prayers, listening…it becomes the embodied presence of God. Those prayer shawls are one of the most beautiful symbols of ministry I know. They are not complicated. They do not solve every problem. But they communicate something sacred: “You are not alone.” You are wrapped in the shepherding love of God.
The same is true for the various expressions of Outreach: When I think of Fridays at the Storehouse food (and before that the “Hot Lunch ministry”). Food is never just food. Food is dignity, hope, and human connection. At Christmas time, every Christmas hamper says: “You matter. Your children matter. Your life matters to God.” When we think of the SUMS shoeboxes, they are gifts of dignity and love, vessels of care traveling into the world. Reminders that Christian love is not meant to stay inside church walls. A tangible living out of our mission to “Embrace all of creation with the love of Christ”.
This brings us to Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan. A lawyer asks Jesus, “And who is my neighbour?” It is such a human question, because what he is really asking is: “Where are the limits of my responsibility?” How far does care need to go? Jesus responds with a story: A wounded man lies abandoned on the roadside. Religious leaders pass by. Perhaps they were busy. Perhaps afraid. Perhaps overwhelmed. Perhaps they had reasons. But they passed by. Then comes the Samaritan, and Jesus’ listeners would have been shocked by this because Samaritans and Jews distrusted one another deeply. Yet the Samaritan stops. He sees suffering and allows himself to be interrupted by compassion. He bandages wounds, places the man on his animal, takes him to safety, and pays for his care. In other words, he becomes neighbour through action.
That is the heart of Christian care. Not stopping with the feeling of compassion; but embodying it. I think Northwood has tried to embody that spirit repeatedly over the years. One example stands out beautifully. When Bethany-Newton was discussing amalgamation and the Board was asked, “How do we feel about unification with another congregation?” the response came quickly (and not surprisingly): “ANYONE is welcome.” Friends, that is the Gospel. Not because it is efficient. Not because it is easy. But because Christian care always widens the table. The Samaritan widened the circle of neighbour-love beyond tribe and familiarity, and the church is continually called to do the same. To say: there is room here. There is grace here. There is welcome here. Have you EVER experienced a more exuberant expression of welcome than during ‘The Passing of the Peace?’ I know I don’t through the week!
In a world growing increasingly polarized, suspicious, and isolated, living the gospel of care matters. We live in a culture that often celebrates achievement more than compassion. Busy schedules. Endless productivity. Efficiency. Performance. Yet Jesus consistently stopped for people: children, widows, the sick, the grieving, the lonely, the outsider. Jesus was interruptible. And what I have witnessed is that Northwood does too! Perhaps one of the great spiritual questions for the modern church is this: are we interruptible by compassion? Can we still stop? Still notice? Still care?
These two readings remind us why this matters. Because every one of us eventually becomes the wounded traveler. Every one of us eventually walks through valleys. Every one of us eventually needs shepherding. One of the ways God shepherds people is through communities of care, through churches, through mosques and synagogues and the many expressions of faith. Through friendships, acts of mercy, and people willing to stop on the roadside. Sometimes scripture tells stories of miracles and dramatic supernatural events. But often the overlooked miracles in life is simply that someone showed up; someone called; someone listened; someone stayed. Maybe that is why these ministries matter so deeply at Northwood. Not because they are flashy. Not because they attract headlines. But because they reflect the very character of Christ: the shepherd who walks beside us, the Samaritan who kneels beside the wounded, the Christ who refuses to pass by human suffering.
It is important to highlight the kind of church YOU are, and to continue these efforts. A church where people can arrive carrying grief and still find gentleness. A church where strangers become neighbours. A church where ministries are rooted not in obligation but compassion. A church where people encounter the care of Christ in tangible ways. Ultimately, the Christian faith is not merely about doctrines we affirm. It is about love embodied. Roadside love. Shepherding love. Prayer-shawl love. Food-bank love. Quiet-Christmas love. Open-door love. The kind of love that stops and says: “You matter. You belong. You are not alone.”
My first experience at Northwood was care. And I experienced that care long before you called me as your minister in 2016. It occurred several years before that when I arrive while on a medical leave as a stranger. Following my divorce, I fell into a deep depression and visited Northwood to worship. I came for Rev. Will as everyone loves Will; however, what was even better was YOU. A person sat beside me; another passed me the peace of Christ; another gave me a prayer shawl. I experience the true nature of Northwood: a community of care. And in a wounded world, that kind of care may be one of the most powerful sermons the church can ever preach.
Amen.