Guilt comes to us all. Sometimes fear leads the way. When Jacob died, Joseph’s brothers trembled because they didn’t know what would happen next. Their past disturbed them. Did Jacob really say what they said he said? We don’t know, but we do know this: Forgiveness takes time. It requires space. Sometimes it comes through tears. It unfolds slowly.
You know this struggle. A harsh word at work. A friend’s silence. Forgiveness doesn’t come all at once. It begins with a drop — a gentle word, a silent mercy. These are drops of promise. They begin to heal. They begin to restore trust.
One of the principles that underlie this continued excursus into a new Torah in Matthew’s gospel is probably pretty well summed up by Paul in Romans — who are you to judge the servant of another? (I paraphrase). That could also be translated as “Why do you pass judgment on your brother or sister?”
Matthew tells us a story. Peter asks, “How many times must I forgive?” Is there a limit? Seventy-seven times. Seems generous, but Jesus sets the tally aside. Forgiveness is never counted. It’s not finished. It’s a way of life, always beginning again.
If we summed up all the readings today, it would be this:
- Do not take God’s place.
- Do not keep the ledger.
- Do not prolong the injury.
- Choose mercy.
Today the image is a drop of water. Not a flood. Not a torrent. Just one drop. Reconciliation doesn’t start with big gestures. It starts with small things. A moment. A beginning.
Imagine with your mind’s eye a drop of water. It may be like the one on the front cover today. If it falls into a larger pool of water, it usually splashes, and you can see the displacement; when it settles, concentric circles ripple away. From then on, something changes.
We could talk of butterfly wings and far-away storms. But maybe that’s too much. A drop falls into a pond. The surface has changed. Ripples move out. Water is no longer still. Sometimes the drop falls into a wave and is lost. Change is real even if unseen.
Creation heals quietly. Drought doesn’t stop with one downpour. Earth is restored drop by drop—slowly the ground softens, seeds stir, roots awaken; what was dead begins to live again.
The Lord is merciful. Slow to anger. Abundant in goodness. Slow is the word. Mercy doesn’t always come with a show. It comes quietly. One forgiveness. One moment of patience. One relationship mended. One patch of earth restored. One creature sheltered. One habit turned.
No act alone saves the world. But drops become rain.
At the Abbey on Wednesday, someone said Romans 14 is a section about vegetarianism. Some smile, some say, “What?” Paul was writing to a divided community then. Think Roman community mindset now. Paul reviews these differences throughout Romans—between Jewish exiles and Roman proselytes and converts (Romans 2–3). Jews think about following Jesus through purity laws (what is clean or unclean), so food choices are affected by that. Kosher laws also played a big historical role.
In Romans 14, Paul tells people not to judge others because of their eating habits or sacred observances. These weren’t trivial lifestyle preferences. Food determined whether people could sit at the same table. This is not so much a question of dietary choice; it is at the heart of being in communion.
For a Gentile community, these laws are foreign and hard to understand. Hospitality was how the Christian community met. Can I share a table with somebody whose faithful response to God differs from mine? Paul was going to Rome — meetings, at first, were in houses. Paul is confronting the practical question: how does this strange new community eat together when its members carry quite different understandings of faithful living?
So the big question is: how do we look out for those who see things differently? Should we become just first? Should we become Gentiles? Should we follow dietary regulations? Should we even think about buying food from the markets if there has been a pagan offering immediately afterwards? What we find is distinctions being made and judgments being passed about who is in and who is out. Not once in this letter does Paul justify who is in and who is out. “Let us therefore no longer judge one another.”
Now, if we want to think along those lines (how our ecological doorway is working), strap yourself in, fasten your seatbelt, and get ready for the state election. How do we care for the same creation together when we disagree about what faithful care looks like? Do we subscribe to people who want to generate power without resorting to arguments over which technology is right? Can people still genuinely care for creation and yet disagree about how best that care is expressed without resorting to declaring others ‘morally deficient’?
Choices do matter, as do discretion, evidence and consequences. Some will agree to disagree. Some will judge. Does that make us better? No. But if one drop helps us find a way forward together, then so be it.
We respond to creation’s need in many ways. Diet. Transport. Recycling. Advocacy. It is easy to let good practice become pride. Paul calls us to gentler ground. Not am I better? But what modest act of faithfulness can I offer?
And that’s where the uncomfortable world of the merciless servant begins. The servant has received something very large indeed — remission, a chance to start again — but he cannot translate it into small things like forgiving a lesser servant. He chooses to keep the ledger.
We have received creation. Life. Water. Soil. Food. Beauty. Neighbour. Creature. The gift is too great to measure, but our response is simple: show mercy as we have been shown mercy. The failure isn’t unpaid debt—it’s withheld mercy.
In this season we ask: does this gift change us? In response to the gift, we respond with gratitude. In time, gratitude becomes our default practice. Plant a tree. Tend a garden. Show patience. Pick up litter. Encourage a neighbour. Forgive. Every deed is a drop of mercy given and received.
We receive a gift. Mercy is slow and good. We show our thanks in small ways. One drop is not rain, but many drops nourish the earth. Slowly, change comes. Creation is restored.
Back to the image: a raindrop, a vibration. A drop is small, but water changes when it happens. In each little promise, mercy comes. Mercy goes forth. Creation is tended.
What happens next for us? Does the world around us change? Is that change for the better?
Make one small change this week. A simple act of mercy. Care for creation. Kindness to another. What drop can you offer?
- One drop will not make the rain.
One act will not heal creation.
One moment of mercy will not mend every wound. - But the surface changes.
The ripple begins.
Only time will tell.
Breaking Open 