Keeping the Light Through the Long Night

Remembrance Sunday — November 8, 2026

St. George's Anglican Church | 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18; Matthew 25:1–13

Yesterday, I spent the day at our Diocesan Synod, which reminded me of something someone once said about the Anglican Church: we do believe in change. We just prefer to introduce it gradually, over three or four generations!

There's something comforting about that, until you're the one doing the waiting. And sometimes the things we're waiting for really matter. Watching the American midterm elections this week, many people felt some renewed hope. But even welcome news doesn't mean the problems we've been worrying about have disappeared. Change can take longer than we expect.

Of course, some kinds of waiting are much harder than others. Think of a family during the Second World War, waiting for news of someone serving overseas. Picture a kitchen table, and a letter that might take weeks to arrive. You have no way of knowing whether the person you love is safe, when the war might end, or what the world will look like afterward. And still, meals need preparing, children need caring for, and neighbours need help. There might be laughter around that table alongside fear and uncertainty. People found ways to keep living, loving, and encouraging one another in the middle of the waiting.

On Remembrance Sunday, we honour people who lived through those uncertainties. And our scripture readings come from communities asking questions we might recognize: What do we do when the future we expected doesn't arrive? How do we help one another keep going?

Waiting Through Uncertain Times

In his first letter to the Thessalonians, Paul writes to people whose expectations have been shaken. They had anticipated Christ's return, but some members of their community had died, and Christ hadn't come. Had those who died somehow missed out? Was the promise still true? Paul doesn't scold them for asking. He tells them that he doesn't want them to grieve as others do who have no hope. Notice that he doesn't tell them not to grieve. Their loss is real, and their sorrow belongs within a larger hope. Death will not have the final word.

After describing a remarkable vision of resurrection, of those who have died and those who remain being gathered together, Paul ends with something wonderfully practical:

“Therefore encourage one another with these words.”

Hope was never intended to be something we carry entirely on our own.

Keeping Our Lamps Burning

In Matthew's Gospel, Jesus tells a rather strange story about ten bridesmaids waiting for a wedding celebration. They have their lamps, but the bridegroom is delayed. And delayed. And delayed.

Eventually, all ten fall asleep—the wise and foolish alike. Apparently even the faithful need a nap sometimes.

Five have brought extra oil; five haven't. When the bridegroom finally arrives, the lamps of those without oil are going out. They ask the others to share, but there's not enough to go around. They leave to buy more, and when they return, the door is shut. The bridegroom refuses to let them in.

That's uncomfortable. Certainly Matthew offers a warning about readiness. But the women didn't cause the delay. All of them waited and grew tired, yet some are excluded. Feminist and liberationist theologians have asked why so much responsibility falls on the women who waited, and why we accept the exclusion so readily. Those questions matter when we remember how often Jesus opened doors for people others left outside.

Whatever we make of the ending, one detail is unmistakable: the night lasts longer than expected. How do we keep the lamps burning while we wait?

That image has particular meaning for people who cannot take security for granted. Many of us have lived with more stability than the people who first heard these scriptures. For much of human history, and in much of the world today, uncertainty isn't an interruption of ordinary life. It is ordinary life.

There's an African American spiritual, Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning, drawing on this very parable. In the experience of slavery and oppression, keeping a lamp burning could express perseverance, dignity, and hope even when freedom and safety were far from certain.

That kind of hope doesn't promise everything will turn out as we wish. It sustains courage and compassion when outcomes are unknown. It helps us welcome strangers, stand with neighbours, and work for peace even when peace feels impossibly distant.

Remembering Truthfully

Remembrance Sunday also asks us to remember truthfully. We honour the courage and sacrifice of those who served. And we remember that, for many, the war didn't really end when the fighting stopped.

Some soldiers came home carrying experiences they could barely explain to people who hadn't been there. They struggled with grief, fear, and finding their place in a world that felt unfamiliar. We understand more today about how the effects of trauma can continue through family relationships, sometimes touching children and grandchildren. Not every veteran experienced this, of course, but many families have carried the consequences of war long after the official peace.

There are other stories we haven't always told fully. During the Second World War, more than 21,000 Japanese Canadians were uprooted from their homes and communities. Their property was confiscated, and many were confined in camps or subjected to other restrictions. While Canadians were fighting tyranny overseas, our own government was denying fundamental freedoms at home. Indigenous Canadians also served, often returning to discrimination and unequal recognition.

Remembering these experiences takes nothing away from those who served. It widens our understanding of the human cost of war. Listening to stories we might otherwise overlook is one way of refusing to let people be forgotten. And that, too, can be a form of encouragement: coming alongside someone whose burdens have gone unseen.

Encourage One Another

I think we have something to learn about encouragement here at St. George's. We're a small congregation, and there are days when caring for this church and serving our community feels like a lot for the people we have. Every so often, someone makes a joke about our tremendous crowds on Sunday mornings. I understand the humour. Sometimes laughter is easier than admitting we're worried.

But if we focus too much on who's missing, we can overlook the gifts already here. Think of our children's activity leaders, preparing creative and thoughtful experiences to help children discover God's love. Think of our bakers getting ready for the Christmas market, sharing their talents to bring people together. Think of the wardens and administrator doing so much unseen work to care for this building and sustain its ministry. And think of the people who visit, pray, welcome, and quietly look after one another.

These are more than jobs that keep a church running. They're gifts of the Spirit: signs of faithfulness, generosity, creativity, and love. If we're always measuring ourselves by how many people aren't here, we might miss the extraordinary things God is doing through the people who are. That doesn't mean pretending everything is fine. Last Sunday, at All Saints, we made room for lament, for grief and the things that hurt. We need that. But lament and encouragement aren't opposites. We can tell the truth about our struggles and still help one another notice grace.

Which brings us back to Paul: “Encourage one another.”

The Greek word he uses, parakaleite, can mean comfort, strengthen, or call someone alongside. It's related to the word John's Gospel uses for the Holy Spirit, our Advocate and Comforter. Encouragement can be as ordinary as listening to someone's sorrow, thanking them for their gifts, or saying, “I'm glad you're here.”

Keeping the Light

There's an interesting tension with Matthew's story. The wise bridesmaids couldn't share their oil. Yet Paul asks Christians to share something that doesn't run out when we offer it. We can't take away another person's grief or make the night end sooner. But we can stay with them through it.

The people we remember today didn't know how their stories would end. Neither do we. We cannot know when wars will end, what changes are coming, or what St. George's will look like years from now. But we can continue to make peace, practise mercy, and encourage one another.

I keep thinking about that kitchen table. No one there could make the war end or bring a letter any sooner. But someone could put the kettle on, pull up a chair, and stay.

Sometimes that's what keeping the light burning looks like. And perhaps that's how we carry it forward for those who come after us. Amen.