(This week I’m straying from my normal blog format and publishing the sermon I preached at St. John’s United Church in Cardinal, Ontario, on Sunday May 3, 2026.  The scripture for this sermon was the Parable of the Good Samaritan, Luke 10: 25-37)

 

I am so delighted to be here this morning.  In many ways it feels like I’ve come to a family reunion and I’m staying for lunch at my cousin’s house.  You all are part of who I am as a Minister, as a rural minister, and as a life-long learner.  You see – way back many years ago when I was a student, Rev Myra was my supervisor, and I had a student supply appointment just down the road from you at your neighbour’s house – Johnstown United Church.  As I drove in this morning I took an automatic exit off of the 401 at the Bridge and drove along the River.  This is beautiful countryside, isn’t it!  But more than that, the River provides anchoring to home and to my neighbourhood in Brockville – it even provides anchoring to your Northern Neighbours where I serve now – Bethel United Church in Rideau Ferry, because we are on the Rideau River, which eventually runs through to our River – the St. Lawrence. 

We’re all neighbours, right.  We’re all connected by faith, by denomination and even by the River.  When I was a kid we used to sing a hymn that had the chorus “I’m so glad I’m a part of the family of God”.  And today I’m grateful for you as my neighbours and my cousins. 

 

Speaking of neighbours, how many of you remember the show Mr. Roger’s neighbourhood?  Ok.  So – tell me what happened at the beginning of every episode:

 

There’s this moment—some of you will remember it—when Mister Rogers walks through the door, takes off his jacket, puts on that cardigan, changes his shoes, and sings:

 

“Won’t you be my neighbour?”

 

It’s gentle. It’s disarming. It’s a little cheesy.

And it’s also one of the most radical theological questions ever asked.

 

Because it sounds like an invitation.

But it’s actually a disruption.

 

Won’t you be my neighbour?

 

Not: who qualifies.

Not: who deserves it.

Not: who looks like you, votes like you, believes like you.

 

Just: will you cross the room… the street… the divide?

 

And honestly, that’s the same question sitting underneath today’s gospel.

 

And it’s the same question sitting underneath this anniversary.

 

Because anniversaries—whether it’s a marriage, sobriety, or 143 years of being church—have a way of making us tender. They ask us to look back at the road we’ve traveled… and forward to whatever road is still unfolding.

 

And if we’re honest, they also tempt us to tidy up the story a bit.

To remember the highlights.

To polish the plaques.

To quietly ignore the mess.

 

But Jesus is not interested in polished anniversaries.

 

Jesus is interested in who we cross the road for.

 

So this lawyer shows up in Luke’s gospel and asks what sounds like a good, respectable church question:

 

“What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

 

And Jesus says, basically, you already know:

Love God. Love your neighbour.

 

And then comes the part that should make every church just a little uncomfortable:

 

“But who is my neighbour?”

 

Luke tells us the man asks this because he wants to justify himself.

 

And if we’re being real?

That’s not just his problem. That’s ours too.

 

Churches—especially ones with a long, beautiful history—can get really good at self-justification.

 

We say things like:

“We’ve always been welcoming.”

“We’ve done a lot of good.”

“We’ve loved people.”

 

And those things may all be true.

 

But they can also become a way of staying exactly where we are.

 

A way of not having to change.

A way of not having to notice who’s still lying in the ditch.

 

Jesus doesn’t answer the man’s question with a definition.

 

He answers with a story.

 

A man is beaten, robbed, and left half-dead.

 

A priest walks by.

A Levite walks by.

 

The good, religious, responsible people.

 

They see him.

And they keep going.

 

Because sometimes religion makes us really good at crossing to the other side of the street with very logical, very respectable reasons.

 

And then—Jesus says—a Samaritan comes along.

 

Which, to the original audience, would have sounded like:

“and then the wrong person shows up.”

 

The outsider.

The one you don’t trust.

The one you’ve been taught to avoid.

 

And that person—the wrong one—is the one who stops.

 

You see:

we all want to be the Samaritan… but most days we’re just really committed to not being inconvenienced.

 

Because the Samaritan doesn’t just feel something.

 

He gets his hands dirty.

He binds wounds.

He pours oil and wine.

He gives up his ride.

He pays the bill.

 

This is not “thoughts and prayers” energy.

 

This is love that rearranges your life.

 

One of my favourite authors, Diana Butler Bass, talks about how the church isn’t meant to be a museum of what God did once upon a time—it’s meant to be a living, breathing community paying attention to what God is doing right now.

 

And that requires something scary:

 

Insight.

 

The kind of insight that cracks things open.

The kind that makes you realize maybe the ditch is exactly where God is hanging out.

 

So let’s ask it plainly, as a 143-year-old church:

 

Who is in the ditch in our neighbourhood right now?

 

Is it the lonely senior down the street?

The kid who doesn’t know if there’s a place for them in church—or in the world?

The family quietly choosing between groceries and rent?

 

And maybe the harder question:

 

Where have we gotten really good at walking past?

 

But here’s the twist we don’t talk about enough:

 

Sometimes… we’re not the Samaritan.

 

Sometimes the church is the one in the ditch.

 

Beaten up.

Exhausted.

Not entirely sure who we are anymore.

 

And if we’re honest, St. John’s has known some of that.

 

Loss.

Change.

That disorienting feeling when what used to define you doesn’t quite hold anymore.

 

And across the wider church? Same story.

 

Declining numbers.

Aging buildings.

Big questions.

Tired people trying to hold onto faith in a world that feels like it’s unraveling a bit.

 

So maybe the question today isn’t just:

“Who is my neighbour?”

 

Maybe it’s also:

“Will I let someone be a neighbour to me?”

 

Because that takes a different kind of courage.

 

The courage to not be the hero.

The courage to receive care.

The courage to be changed by people you didn’t expect.

 

“Won’t you be my neighbour?”

 

Mister Rogers asked it like a song.

 

Jesus asks it like a command.

 

But maybe, today, we hear it as both an invitation and a confession:

 

We need neighbours.

And we are called to be neighbours.

 

Even when it’s inconvenient.

Even when it messes with our traditions.

Even when it means letting something old die so something new can live.

 

Because resurrection doesn’t happen without death.

 

And churches don’t get new life by clinging tightly to the old one.

 

The Samaritan changed his route.

His schedule.

His budget.

His priorities.

 

So here’s the real anniversary question:

 

What are we willing to change… so someone else can live?

 

Are we willing to cross new roads?

To listen to new voices?

To be led, even, by people we once thought we were here to “help”?

 

Are we willing to become the kind of church where the answer to

“Won’t you be my neighbour?”

isn’t just a sweet sentiment…

 

…but a lived reality?

 

This is:  “grounded hope.”

 

Not the kind that pretends everything is fine.

But the kind that trusts God is still moving—right here, right now—even when the path ahead is unclear.

 

So today, we celebrate.

 

We give thanks for 143 years of people who crossed roads when it mattered.

Who showed mercy.

Who built something that we now get to carry forward.

 

But we don’t stop there.

 

Because Jesus is still asking the question.

 

Standing right here, in the middle of our history and our uncertainty, saying:

 

“Which of these was a neighbour?”

 

And when we answer, “The one who showed mercy,”

he doesn’t congratulate us.

 

He sends us.

 

“Go and do likewise.”

 

So yes—let’s celebrate.

 

But then let’s take off the nice jacket.

Let’s roll up our sleeves.

Let’s step off the safe side of the street.

 

Let’s be the kind of church that isn’t afraid to be changed—

by God,

by our neighbours,

by the people in the ditch,

and by the ones we never expected to teach us anything.

 

Let’s be a church that hears that old, gentle song echoing through the gospel:

 

Won’t you be my neighbour?

 

And instead of overthinking it…

instead of justifying ourselves…

instead of staying comfortable…

 

we simply say:

 

Yes.

 

Amen.

Audio file: https://audio.com/lynne-gardiner/audio/office-hours-won-t-you-be-my-neighbour