God’s Unfinished Creation - Romans 13:8–14 | Matthew 18:15–20

What a changing forest can teach us about love, community, and what God may be creating next.

A farmer in Lowville was worried about the coming winter, so he called Environment Canada. “What kind of winter are we expecting?” “Looks like a cold one.”

So he started cutting extra firewood. A couple of weeks later he called again. “Any update?” “Actually, we’re expecting a very cold winter.” So he cut even more wood. Finally, a few weeks later, with an enormous pile stacked beside the barn, he called one more time.

“Are you absolutely sure we’re going to have a terrible winter?” “Oh yes,” the meteorologist said. “We’re quite confident now.” “How can you be so sure?” “Because the farmers around Lowville are stockpiling firewood like crazy.”

Of course, weather forecasting is considerably more sophisticated than that. And this fall, meteorologists are watching a significant El Niño pattern developing in the Pacific. Exactly what that will mean for us remains to be seen, but one of the things I find fascinating about weather systems like El Niño is how powerfully they remind us that this planet is interconnected.

The temperature of water in one part of the Pacific can affect rainfall thousands of kilometres away. Rainfall affects rivers and crops. Crops affect food supplies. Forests influence weather. Oceans and atmosphere continually affect one another.

Nothing exists entirely by itself. And perhaps that is an appropriate place for us to begin the Season of Creation, because when we use the word creation, we sometimes speak as though it describes something God did a very long time ago. “In the beginning, God created…”

God made the heavens and the earth, filled the seas with life, planted forests, formed human beings, looked at everything and called it good. Creation complete. Except, of course, when we actually look around us, creation does not appear to be finished at all.

Seeds are becoming trees. Rivers are reshaping the land. Forests grow and mature and die back and grow again. Shorelines move. Species adapt. Even our own bodies are changing from one moment to the next.

Creation is alive. Still changing. Still becoming.

And perhaps one of the invitations of this season is to learn to see creation not simply as something God made, but as something in which God is still at work. And perhaps the same is true of us. Because God’s creation isn’t finished. Neither are we.

The Unfinished Work of Love

Paul gives us a beautiful way of talking about that in our first reading. “Owe no one anything, except to love one another.”

It is an interesting image, because most debts are meant to be paid off. Eventually the mortgage comes to an end. Eventually the car is paid for. With considerable determination, perhaps even the credit card balance reaches zero. But apparently love is a debt we never finish paying. No one reaches a point where they can say, “There. I’ve loved enough. My account is settled.” Love remains unfinished business because we remain unfinished people.

We are still learning how to love those who are different from us. Still learning how to love people who frustrate us. Still learning how to love our families, our neighbours, the stranger, ourselves. Still learning that love does not always mean agreement, and that forgiveness is not the same thing as pretending nothing happened.

We are still learning how to love the earth beneath our feet, not simply as something useful to us, but as something entrusted to our care. After a whole lifetime, I suspect most of us remain apprentices in love. God is still creating something in us.

A Community Still Becoming

And that may be one reason today’s Gospel feels so refreshingly realistic. Jesus does not describe the Christian community as a place where everyone agrees, nobody gets irritated, no one ever hurts anybody, and all church meetings end peacefully and on time. Apparently Jesus had met people.

He assumes relationships will sometimes become strained. People will hurt one another. Communities will get things wrong. And then Jesus says something remarkably practical.

“If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone.”

And through these few verses, one idea keeps returning.

Listening. “If the member listens to you…” “If you are not listened to…” Try again. Bring someone else. Keep listening.

Jesus seems to understand that one of the hardest forms love takes is simply hearing another person. Not waiting for them to stop talking so that we can explain ourselves. Not constructing our defence while they speak. Not deciding before the conversation begins what they must have meant.

Listening. Really listening.

And the context matters here, because immediately before these words Jesus has told the story of the shepherd who goes searching for the one sheep who has wandered away. This is not merely a procedure for church discipline. It is part of a larger picture of a community in which people matter enough that we do not simply discard one another when relationships become difficult.

That does not mean ignoring harm. Jesus tells us to name it. It does not mean avoiding difficult conversations. But the purpose is not punishment. The hope is restoration. Love keeps trying to create relationship where relationship has been wounded. And that too is part of God’s continuing work of creation.

Sunlight shining through an opening in an Ontario forest canopy onto new growth below.

What a Forest Does With an Opening

Creation itself offers us an image of that. If you walk through an old forest, sooner or later you will find a place where a large tree has fallen. For decades that tree may have been part of the canopy. Birds nested in its branches. Its roots held the soil. It provided shade and shelter and became part of the familiar shape of that place. And then one day it fell. Perhaps because of age. Perhaps disease. Perhaps wind or storm.

At first, what you notice is what is missing. There is an opening where something used to be. And I think we need to be careful here, because loss is loss. Not every ending is secretly wonderful. Some things fall and leave wounds behind. Some things need to be grieved.

But the forest does something interesting with the opening. Light begins reaching the forest floor in a way it could not before. Seeds that have been lying dormant begin to germinate. Wildflowers appear. Young trees begin reaching toward the gap. Even the fallen tree itself gradually becomes part of the soil that nourishes what grows next. The forest does not simply return to what it was. Something new begins to emerge.

And perhaps creation is reminding us of something we easily forget: An ending is not always the end of the story. Sometimes there is an opening. Sometimes light reaches somewhere it could not reach before. Sometimes there are seeds beneath the surface that we did not even know were there.

What Is God Creating Here?

I have been thinking about that as we enter another fall together at St. George’s. There are real questions about what the future looks like for small churches like ours. Questions about money and buildings. Questions about attendance and volunteers. Questions about how ministry changes as the communities around us change. We do not need to pretend those questions are not real. But I am increasingly convinced that the most faithful question is not simply:

“How do we keep St. George’s the way it has always been?”

Perhaps the better question is: What is God creating here now?

I believe God’s not done with St. George’s. I do not say that because I know exactly what the next five or ten years will look like. I don’t. I say it because I believe God is still creating. Still forming us into people who know how to love. Still teaching us to listen. Still bringing people into our lives whom we have not met yet.

Still showing us needs in this community. Still inviting us to care for this beautiful little corner of creation that has been entrusted to us. There may be seeds already beneath the soil that we have not noticed. There may be light reaching places it did not reach before. There may be something beginning among us that we do not yet know how to name. And I wonder if faith sometimes looks less like having a clear plan for everything that comes next, and more like learning to pay attention.

Where Two or Three Are Gathered

That brings us to one of the most familiar sayings of Jesus. “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” We often quote that verse when attendance is a little disappointing.

“Well… where two or three are gathered.” And there is comfort in that. But that is not really the context in which Jesus says it. He is talking about the difficult work of being a community. About truth-telling and listening. About conflict and forgiveness. About discernment and trying again.

And it is there that Jesus says: I am among you.

Where people genuinely listen to one another, Christ is there. Where someone has the courage to speak truth and someone else has the humility to hear it, Christ is there. Where a community refuses to simply throw someone away, Christ is there. Where people recognize that something has gone wrong and find the courage to try again, Christ is there.

And perhaps that is the deepest reason I believe God’s not done with St. George’s. Not because churches are guaranteed to remain exactly as they are. Not because faithful communities are spared uncertainty or change. But because Christ is still here. And where Christ is present, there is always the possibility of new creation.

Not Finished Yet

Later in Romans, Paul describes the whole creation as groaning in labour, waiting for what God is bringing to birth. I love that image because it refuses to imagine creation as something static and completed.

Creation is moving toward something. Healing. Reconciliation. Justice. Wholeness. The new creation God has promised.

And whenever we choose love over indifference, whenever we listen instead of dismissing, whenever we repair something we have damaged, welcome someone who needs community, care for the earth instead of merely consuming it, or find the courage to try something new, we participate in that work.

Perhaps only in small ways. But creation has always had a great deal to say about small things. A seed. A drop of rain. A gap in the canopy. A little light.

So as we begin this Season of Creation, and as we begin another fall together, perhaps our invitation is simply to pay attention. To listen. To notice where light is reaching the forest floor. To watch for the green shoots we might otherwise walk past. And to keep asking: What is God creating here now?

Because God’s creation isn’t finished. Neither are you. Neither are we. And thanks be to God— God’s not done with St. George’s. Amen.