Matthew 18:10–14
In 2023, I was in Nepal, visiting the children supported by an education and housing charity established by my previous parish. So when catastrophic floods struck last month, we were desperate to know whether they and their families were safe.
At least 1,200 people have died, and more than 4,000 remain missing.
One thousand, two hundred dead. Four thousand missing. Huge numbers.
Each one somebody’s child, parent or friend.
But I have not really been waiting for news of 4,000 people. I have been waiting for news of one: Sallu and Suraksha’s mum, Shanta. Not because her life matters more, but because I know her children. I know the people waiting for the phone to ring.
For me, this overwhelming tragedy has a name and a face. Shanta is not simply one among thousands. Not a statistic. She is the one.
And perhaps that helps us understand something about God.
We hear Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep, and we might immediately recall the super-familiar version in Luke’s Gospel, where Jesus tells three stories together:
The lost sheep. The lost coin. The lost son.
Something precious is lost. Someone searches for it. What was lost is found. And everybody is summoned to rejoice. Luke’s emphasis is upon the joy of finding that which was lost. But Matthew tells the story differently.
Matthew places it in a whole chapter about vulnerability. The disciples begin by asking Jesus who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Jesus responds by placing a child among them and speaks about welcoming them. He warns against causing a little one to stumble. And then he tells them about a shepherd with a hundred sheep.
One sheep wanders away and the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine and goes searching for the one. Matthew’s version ends like this:
“It is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost.”
The emphasis is upon the value of the vulnerable one. The one in danger. The one whose absence might go unnoticed among the ninety-nine.
Humanity may look at the ninety-nine and say: “At least most are safe. It is only one.”
But God says: “That one is mine.” For God, one is never just one.
And this is the Season of Creation. Throughout September, Christians around the world celebrate God as Creator. We remember that creation is not simply something God did a very long time ago and then walked away from. Creation is God’s continuing act and God’s continuing gift. And creation itself calls us to become collaborators with God: loving, tending and protecting all that God has made. We do not stand outside creation, looking in. We are creatures among creatures.
We belong to the same community as the trees and rivers, the birds and animals, the oceans and soil. Our lives are interwoven with the life of the Earth. So perhaps, during this season, the parable of the lost sheep can train us to see the whole creation as God sees it; the person hidden within an enormous number; the sheep separated from the flock; the single tree felled in a forest; the river that can no longer sustain life and the bird whose song is disappearing.
In the Gulf of California lives a tiny porpoise called the vaquita. It is the smallest porpoise in the world, and lives nowhere else on Earth. Vaquitas become trapped in illegal fishing nets and drown. Their numbers have fallen so drastically that there may now be as few as ten vaquitas left. Ten. Not ten thousand.
And we might ask: Would it really matter if they disappeared?
The oceans would remain enormous. There would still be dolphins and whales and other kinds of porpoise. It is only one species among countless others.
But there it is again: Only one. One missing sheep. One missing mother. One endangered species. And to God, one is never just one. The shepherd does not decide a one per cent loss is an acceptable outcome. They notice who is missing and goes to the one in danger. That is the movement of God. And it must become the movement of God’s Church.
The Season of Creation calls us to notice what the world has learned not to notice.
To value what the world considers expendable. To protect what cannot protect itself.
To go towards what is vulnerable, separated, endangered or lost. That is what it means to go looking for the one.
We cannot rescue everyone. We cannot repair a devastated country by ourselves.
We cannot single-handedly save every endangered species or halt the warming of the planet. But the thought that “I cannot do everything” must never become “there is nothing I can do.” We can give. We can share. We can press our political leaders to act seriously on climate change. We can welcome those displaced by poverty, disaster and conflict. We can notice the family waiting for news, the species approaching extinction.
Caring for creation is not an optional extra for Christians who happen to enjoy “the outdoors.” It is the outworking of our love of God and neighbour. When the climate changes, people suffer. When habitats are destroyed, creatures disappear. When one part of creation is wounded, the whole of creation is diminished.
And in a few moments, we will come to this table. We will bring bread and wine: Grain and grape. Soil and water. Sunshine and rain. All joined with human labour.
Creation will be gathered into our hands and offered back to its Creator. And God will return it to us as the life of Christ. Here, creation becomes sacrament.
God takes the ordinary gifts of the Earth, transforms them and then transforms us. And after we have received, we are sent out to give ourselves for God’s beloved creation—over and over again.
As we pause for this month of Creation Season may we learn to look again:
To see Shanta among four thousand missing people.
To notice the absent one within the flock.
To stand in awe before the vastness of the ocean—and still care about perhaps ten remaining porpoises. When we learn to see like that, we begin to reflect something of God. One beloved creation, held together in God, where not one animal, human, plant, tree or species is ever just one. And if they are not expendable to God, they cannot be expendable to us. Amen.
Holy Adventures 