“They all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces – twelve baskets full.” (Matthew 14:20)

 One of the unexpected privileges of being off on sick leave is the chance to “church‑surf” from the comfort of my couch. In the past few weeks, I’ve tuned into streamed worship from New York City, Toronto, Vancouver, Ottawa, Smiths Falls, Brockville, and of course, our very own Facebook livestream with all of you. I love this! I love that our virtual congregation each week sits somewhere between 120 and 140 people—more than double what we can comfortably fit into our sanctuary on a Sunday morning. It is astonishing and humbling to realize how the Spirit finds ways to gather us that our buildings simply can’t hold.

As I’ve wandered through these online sanctuaries—some grand and ornate, some tiny and tucked away—I’ve noticed something. Even the biggest and most beautifully appointed churches, even the ones with budgets ten times ours, with clergy teams, bustling offices, choirs accompanied by organs worth more than my car—most of these sanctuaries are at least two‑thirds empty. And the people who are there look a lot like us: older, predominantly white, faithful, and frankly… tired. Worn out, even.

There are bright exceptions. Kitchissippi United Church in Ottawa, for example, has seen its attendance blossom through its remarkable “God’s Beloved” ministry, recently welcoming over a hundred new members. What a witness. What a gift.

But for most congregations, the pattern is familiar. When I drive to church on Sunday morning, I pass eleven United Churches. Only three still have clergy. The other eight long ago concluded they couldn’t afford paid ministry staff. They rely on pulpit supply or Sunday worship teams. They stretch every dollar and every volunteer hour. And yet their sanctuaries look so similar—built within a few decades of each other, designed for another era, attended by faithful but dwindling congregations trying very hard to keep doing the Good News work they’ve always done.

I say this with love, and I say it as someone who cherishes the very bricks of our own building: I wonder if we’ve lost the plot.

For generations, our buildings have been the vessels of our faith—places where people encountered the Living God, where children were baptized, where marriages were celebrated, where lives were honoured at their end. These buildings have held story after sacred story. They matter.

But somewhere along the way, the sacredness of our spaces became tangled up with a theological story we were never meant to tell—the story of scarcity.

You know how it goes. Attendance drops. The budget tightens. A deficit looms. So we cut the caretaker. Then the administrative support. Then the musician. Then the clergy. And eventually, the congregation decides it’s too costly even to bring in Licensed Lay Worship Leaders. All of this so the building can stay open—even when the building is serving fewer and fewer people.

Lights over lives. Bricks over breath.

It isn’t that anyone chooses this. It’s that the script feels fixed. It feels inevitable. It feels like failure to imagine anything else.

This scarcity script isn’t only in our churches. I’ve been thinking a lot about how it plays out in the world around us too.

This week, Kingston General Hospital reported patients being treated in hallways because there are no beds. Algonquin College announced deep program cuts and the closure of its Perth campus. The Perth/Smiths Falls Hospital said 40% of its beds are filled with patients waiting for long-term care placements—creating the very bottlenecks that lead to hallway medicine.

And while all this is happening, our leaders seem to find endless money for projects that serve the wealthy or politically connected. Luxury housing developments. High‑speed rail lines carved through fragile ecosystems. Highway expansions in places that don’t need them.

And on the global stage, the pattern becomes heartbreaking. We hear of billions being allocated for new military campaigns—including conflict in Iran—while essential programs like Medicaid, which ensure that the poorest, the sickest, and our elders receive basic medical care, are threatened with cuts.

Somehow, we always have the money for war. But not for the vulnerable.

The world keeps telling the same story:

Property over people. Development over kindness. War over wellness. Scarcity for the vulnerable. Abundance for the powerful.

And I wonder—deeply—whether people of faith are not just invited, but called, to flip the script.

When Matthew tells the story of the feeding of the five thousand, he doesn’t simply tell an ancient miracle. He tells a story of radical abundance in the face of overwhelming need. A crowd of thousands, hungry, tired, sitting on a hillside. The disciples look at their meagre supplies—five loaves and two fish—and they panic. “What are these among so many?” they ask.

It is the question of scarcity. It is the question we ask every budget season.

But then a little boy steps forward. A child. With the smallest lunch you could imagine. He offers what he has—no guarantees, no safety net, no assurance that this will matter. Just a simple act of trust. A simple act of sharing.

And that is where the miracle begins.

Not in the bread. Not in the fish. In the trust.

In the willingness to give even when it seems too small.

In the refusal to let scarcity write the story.

Jesus takes what the boy offers, blesses it, breaks it, and suddenly there is enough. More than enough. Abundance so overflowing that the leftovers fill twelve baskets—one for each disciple, as if to say, “Remember this. Remember what God can do.”

I wonder whether this is the moment when we, too, must become that little boy.

What if we stopped guarding our lunches—the buildings we love, the programs we fear losing, the traditions we hold dear—and instead asked:

What can we share? What can we bless? What can we break open so that others may be fed?

What if flipping the script means placing community over the building?

What if faithfulness sometimes means letting go of the sanctuary so that the ministry can live?

Perhaps it means pooling our resources—gathering in one shared space so that our energy goes into people instead of patching roofs.

Perhaps it means trusting that God is not bound by our floorplans, our property lines, or the sentimental weight of our bricks.

Perhaps it means remembering that the Spirit has always been portable.

Scripture tells again and again a story of abundance:

• Manna in the wilderness.
• Oil that never runs out.
• A cup that overflows.
• A table prepared in the presence of fear.
• Bread enough for thousands.
• Grace upon grace.
• Life abundant.

Scarcity is the story the world tells. Abundance is the story God tells.

And Jesus invites us to step into that divine story, lunch in hand, ready to share.

My dear Bethel Friends, whatever happens with our buildings, whatever decisions we face in the coming years, remember this: God has never been confined to a structure. God is found in mercy, in justice, in humility, in bread broken and shared.

And God is found—always—in community.

Blessings today, dear friends. And remember—deep in your bones and in your spirit—you are Loved.

~ Rev. Lynne