Advent 1A

Isaiah 2:1-5              Psalm 122                Romans 13:9-14                 Matthew 24:36-44

I grew up with the soundtrack of the great heartthrob, Cliff Richard. My parents had all the records, and some of his classic hits were based on this morning’s gospel, so have been my ear worm all week. Don’t Get Left Behind talked about people disappearing from fields and beds and I remember panicking about being the one who got left behind, and then, switching to feel rather pleased with myself because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be. Faith and fear make strange companions.

It wasn’t until theological college I learned the concept of the “rapture”— some people being whisked away while others were left behind — was pretty new, barely a couple of centuries old. That discovery was both a relief and a revelation and sent me straight back to passages like these, to discover what it might be about and this passage isn’t about escape; it’s about awareness. Jesus isn’t talking about being lifted out of the world, but about being awake to God within the world — awake to hope and noticing her as she breaks through the ordinary.

And that’s what Advent is about — not fear, but focus. Not quite penitential, like Lent, but a time for getting sorted – leaving things behind so we might be prepared and ready. A readiness for the kingdom that keeps arriving, whether we notice or not, whether we’re ready, or not. And all of that, says Jesus, is exactly where hope begins. And hope is our theme for advent 1.

Isaiah saw that hope long before it came. He dreamed of nations streaming to God’s Mountain; of swords melted into ploughshares; of people learning war no more.
It’s a vision of a world that is awake to peace — a world in which despair is not the final word. And he ends with an invitation: “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.” How much does the world need that invitation now? Put darkness behind you, great nations and world leaders, and walk in light. Wouldn’t that be incredible?

That’s the invitation of Advent — to wake up and walk – to walk out of darkness and towards and into light.  To look for light, even when it’s faint and pursue it. To trust God’s dawn is always nearer than we think. We need that reminder more than ever. The news, the wars — they whisper that hope is naïve. But Advent whispers back, No — hope is holy defiance. Hope keeps our eyes open for God. And it might feel feint but, man, Hope is fierce.

In these verses Jesus is calling his followers – down through the ages – to be attentive. It’s a wake-up call: Notice what’s sacred right beside you. And that’s why this gospel is perfect for today. Because this morning Cecilia stands at this altar for the first time as a priest — a new beginning for her, and for us.

Priesthood, at its heart, is the ministry of staying awake to hope.

To lift the bread and see God in it. To bless the cup and taste grace in it.

To look at the gathered people and glimpse Christ among you.

Every time she stands here, she’ll be practising holy attentiveness; naming hope where others may see only habit. That’s what a priest does, and that’s what the Church is called to do: stay awake to hope.

There’s a phrase among priests about the privilege of standing at the altar to make present the body and blood of Christ. This first time is terrifying, and profound and incredibly precious. And priests commit to, and encourage one another, to make every time the first time. So Cecilia – may every time you stand before God’s people be like this first time. May you be awake to the hope God is entrusting to you, and awake to the holy surprises God has for your priestly ministry. Be awake to what is happening in the spiritual realm, because that is what is most significant, most real.

And that is our challenge too; being awake to what’s real: awake to injustice, awake to suffering, awake to possibility. That’s gospel wakefulness. A heart that won’t go numb. Keep awake, because God’s kingdom doesn’t akways crash in with trumpets; it more often slips quietly into everyday life, and only those who are open will notice it.

In the last year, we have learned a fair bit about what it is to be awake in the rectory. Friday marked the first anniversary of Kennie joining our family. This little ball of chaos and love likes to get up at 4 or 5 or occasionally 6am. We are, honestly, wrecked, bone-tired — but it’s good and holy. Kennie wakes up every morning as if the dawn happened just for her.  No gentle stretch — just full attention, full curiosity, and joy, ready to see what good things might happen next. She’s a living Advent sermon: eyes wide open to everything, soaking in the world, trusting each new day will bring something good. She doesn’t question if the light will come — she knows it will. That’s hope; that confident, childlike trust that the world will be beautiful again and seeing where it already is. If Kennie can wake to the world like that — so can we.

So as we begin a new church year, as Cecilia begins her priestly ministry, we commit again to being a people of hope.  Hope that rises early and learns to see. Hope that knows light is stronger than night. The world needs people who are awake —to beauty, to pain, to the nearness of God. So, let’s stay awake to what this world knows and offer more. Let’s stay hopeful in times of despair and kind when the world is cruel, because we are children of the Light. The night is far gone; the day is near. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Win, looking like you’re losing

Jeremiah 23:1-6       Benedictus                Colossians 1:11-20               Luke 23:33-43

Priests and preachers, the world over, hope and pray they say something memorable. But

they realise the sad truth that most of us – while maybe finding a sermon enjoyable or engaging at the time – barely remember more than 3 or 4, across a lifetime. We know this. Sometimes it feels depressing, other times it is a massive relief! But today’s gospel passage, reminds me of one of the sermons I really do remember from many, many years ago.

The preacher’s name was Steve. He was a Baptist minister, turned charity CEO, turned TV and radio celebrity, and he was preaching at a large Christian conference in the UK. It must’ve been around 2002, and he was talking about the great London landmark, Trafalgar Square.

Built in the early 19th century, with Nelson’s Column in the centre, it commemorates the victory at the battle of Trafalgar. Nelson’s Column stands over 50 meters high and is flanked by fountains and brass lions and in each of the four corners of the square are four other columns, each standing 5 meters high. Three of them have large statues atop – some the same height again. And until 1999 the fourth plinth stood empty, due to funding running out. And so, for 150 years the column stayed that way. Over that time there was much discussion, even plans drawn up, of which famous world hero might adorn the 4th plinth. Suggestions came and went but neither consensus nor funding was found.

Then, just before the turn of the 21st century, it wasproposed that the Fourth Plinth be used for temporary contemporary art, instead of another permanent statue. A huge competition ensued, and the winner was a relatively unknown artist, only 40 years old and not wildly experienced at the time. His name is Mark Wallinger and his piece of artwork is called Ecce Homo. Behold, the man — the phrase Pilate used when presenting Jesus, bruised and bound, before the people. Just before the crucifixion passage today. The one the lectionary chooses for Christ the King.

Now consider this. Wallinger’s Jesus is placed on a plinth 5 meters high, alongside Admiral Nelson, whose statue is 10 times bigger…45 meters taller. The other statues are made of brass and Ecce Homo is made of simple scrubbed resin – deliberately marked and streaked.

When Wallinger won the commission, he sat in his London bedsit and looked across at his housemate, an inch or two taller than me, and decided he was plain and ordinary enough to become the Jesus he wanted on this plinth. Using the bedsit’s bath he made a cast of his housemate and created his artwork from there. Less than 2 meters tall, alongside 50 meters of Nelson Grandeur.

The world’s press turned out for the grand unveiling – the first hero to be placed in Trafalgar Square for almost 200 years and they indeed saw an Ecce Homo – behold the man. Nothing but a man. One reporter summed it up perfectly and said, ‘he looks miniscule’. And that was the point.  It’s a piece about vulnerability and truth, set high on a plinth built for power.

And, as Revd Steve spoke about this to a crowd of 5000 Christians I was transfixed.

Jesus is our King. And his Kingdom is unlike any other. He refuses power and instead is vulnerable. And this is what his sermon said; the message of our God is that you win, looking like you’re losing. You win, looking like you’re losing. And that phrase has come back to me again and again over the last 2 or more decades. With the Kingdom of God, and with Christ as King, we win looking like we’re losing.

This man, this God-man, is beaten and whipped and tortured. He is spat at and stripped naked. He is wrongfully convicted, in some botched trial, deserted by his friends and taken out and killed. With criminals who mock him. And he is our King?

This man, this broken, humble, dominated man, to quote St Paul, is the image of the invisible God? What are we supposed to do with a King whose throne is a cross and who’s jewels are a crown of thorns? How do we follow and worship a King who looks like he’s losing rather than lording it over this kingdom? And what does it mean to be the citizens of this kingdom?

Christ, our King, is not a monarch enthroned over the world, but is Love enveloping it. Enveloping us. And that is what we are called to, too. To live as citizens of this upside-down kingdom means standing beside those the world overlooks, speaking peace into shouting places, choosing mercy over might. God keeps turning the plinths of power into stages for grace, and calls us to see holiness where the world sees failure.

And as I said last week, and many times before, every time we come to this table and break bread, we remember again that brokenness is not the end. Out of brokenness and death comes resurrection and life. And that changes everything, because death no longer wins, even though it looks like it won’t lose. We win, looking like we’re losing. Yet, actually, in this dimension, winning isn’t even the point. Loving is.

Outrageous grace and mercy is the currency of this Kingdom and, that changes everything, because when we fall on our knees before this King we look up and see He isn’t there looming over us, at all. He is alongside us, knelt too, in humility, washing the feet of his friends and offering to wash us.


When we call Christ “King”, we are not bowing to domination.
We are saying yes to a reign of love — to let kindness have authority, to allow forgiveness to rule our hearts, to let peace become our law.

And let’s face it — the world has tried the alternative. We have crowned domineering kings, obeyed despotic rulers, followed power-hungry presidents — and made a right mess of it.

So maybe what we need is something entirely different. And that is what our King offers.
This is the gospel.

God shows us a different kind of majesty — the kind that bends low, carries the cross, meets us where we are and calls us beloved. May we choose, again and again, to be faithful citizens of this kingdom, to whom all glory and worship and Kingship belongs, now and forever, Amen.

Falling…and getting up again

Malachi 4:1-2a   Psalm 98   2 Thessalonians 3:6-13        Luke 21:5-19

Gosh, Jesus must’ve been fun to hang out with, eh? You’re wandering through a deeply impressive, hugely sacred space, admiring the temple; the stones, the beauty. And Jesus says: Not one stone will be left upon another. It’s not the kind of thing you say in polite company. No one wants to hear that the things we’ve built might crumble. But Jesus goes right to the heart and names the truth: everything built by human hands will one day tremble, might even be completely destroyed.

The disciples must’ve been more than a bit dismayed and they ask for a sign, ‘Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to happen’ and Jesus says something that could be straight out of 2025 news, just as easily as it could be out of 1st century Palestine; ‘there will be wars…Nation will rise against nation, kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, … famines and plagues; and …they will arrest you and persecute you’. Sound familiar?

We can hold this passage in one hand and our own world experiences in the other. Our own world is shaking. There’s wars and rumours of wars. The planet is heating beyond its limits. The gap between rich and poor yawns wider every year. We scroll and we grieve, caught between fury and fatigue, and we whisper, what on earth can we do?

And Jesus’ advice is very clear then, and still applies today, and it is this:

Do not be terrified…simply endure.  Do not be terrified. Be aware, but not scared. And press on. By your endurance you will gain your souls. This current time might be characterised by destruction and anxiety, or stress and despair, but keep going. Endure. New life is always on its way.

On Wednesday night, some of us were in the council chambers listening to the councillors talking about this place. One of them described wandering through our grounds and being amazed by the beauty and inclusion of the place. Time and again, at weddings and funerals and random other times, people stop and say ‘I had no idea this was all here. It’s incredible’, as they admire it.

And I thought of this gospel passage as I heard those things this week. And then I thought of you lot and how many of you have come and joined this community, much more recently, and might not know our own remarkable story of destruction and rebuild, because there was significant temple trembling right here.

Now forgive me for the haziness and hyperbole of this storytelling, but when this church was first built the war interrupted the bricks and mortar and the guys got called up to fight. A temporary wall was erected here, at this east end, and the horrors of war meant those men never came home to finish this work. By 2010, with the temporary wall still in place, almost, there was a gaping space between wall and wall – so much so I am told you could stretch your hand through it to see if it was raining!

Some canny churchwardens or priest called an architect, and they didn’t quite say ‘As for this wall that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down’. But they said something like, ‘if you don’t do something, now, that wall is going to fall, and it will fall inwards, right on the people’.

It was sobering. The beloved building was in danger; the trusted stones were failing. But from that warning came something extraordinary. You dared to imagine what could rise from the risk — and slowly, prayerfully, this new space was born: the light-filled chapel, the amphitheatre open to the sky, with such stunning acoustics, the meeting rooms and gardens that have become places of welcome and renewal. A community living on site.

What could have been collapse became creation. Out of fear grew faith. Out of stone came space. What could have been destruction became resurrection. Our own buildings tell God’s own resurrection story, right here, in brick and timber and faith and courage. It’s what happens when people refuse despair, refuse to be terrified and dare to dream again.

So maybe it is true that when Jesus speaks of falling stones and raging nations, he isn’t describing the end of everything. He’s describing labour. Something ending — and something being born. And I’m told that the pain of birth always feels like the end, until the cry of new life is heard.

And perhaps this is the pattern of all true faith: to hold our grief and still choose to plant, to build what will bless generations we may never meet. To continue to create and co-create with the One who is always creating. To speak into the horror and the darkness, Let there be light. Let there be life. God’s first commandment is still God’s last.

Faith is not pretending everything is fine. It is planting gardens and communal spaces beside cracked walls. It is believing resurrection is always God’s rhythm. It is living and retelling and demonstrating the Christian story, because that begins again and again in the rubble — in the ruins of Jerusalem, in a borrowed rock-hewn tomb, in every broken heart and ruined life.

And that image of broken, destroyed, restored, re-storied, brings me, once again, to this table, to our holy meal. And maybe it explains why, every time we gather, we take bread — and we break it. The body of Christ, broken. The world’s pain, named and held. And from the breaking comes blessing. From the fragments, food. From the ruins, resurrection. What is shattered becomes shared. And somehow, by grace, the broken body becomes life for the world.

So, when the walls shake, and stones fall, we remember: this is not the end.
This is the moment God begins again.
And maybe our calling, in this world of shaking stones, is not to predict the end — but to midwife the new beginning. To live as if God’s kingdom is already breaking in — because it is. May it be so, amen.

Blessed are YOU…

Daniel 7:1-3; 15-18                         Psalm 149                 Ephesians 1:11-23             Luke 6:20-31

All Saints’ Day always makes me laugh, because often we talk about saints like they’re solemn, glowing figures who float gracefully through life like spiritual ballerinas. But the actual communion of saints — the one that includes us — and those we have loved and lost, who we remember today – the real communion of saints is much messier and funnier than that… I mean, have you *met* the saints? They are wild. 

So, this year’s contenders for Saint of the Year… First up; St. Drogo, the patron saint of coffee and unattractive people. Then, St. Joseph of Cupertino, who levitated so often during mass his brothers had to tie him down. And St. Christina the Astonishing, who literally floated up to the rafters at her own funeral because she said she couldn’t stand “the stench of sin.”   And then my current favourite, St. Guinefort the dog. An actual French dog who was venerated as a saint for saving a baby’s life.

The saints are ridiculous and radiant, human and holy, just like us. They remind us that sainthood is not about perfection — it’s about grace leaking through the cracks, because Heaven isn’t a hall of fame — it’s a family photo. A bit blurry. Slightly chaotic. Utterly dysfunctional. And somehow, still beautiful. And we are in the picture too.  So, when Jesus says, “Blessed are you,” he’s not blessing the shiny people. He’s blessing the messy ones. The poor. The grieving. The hungry. The ones who cry themselves to sleep and still get up the next day. The ones who keep forgiving when it would be easier to quit. The ones who doubt, who break, who start again.

When Jesus looked out over that hillside, he didn’t see the perfect ones.  He saw the ones barely hanging on — the poor, the grieving, the hungry, the ones who’d been told they didn’t belong anywhere holy.   And he said, “Blessed are you.”  He didn’t start with demands or doctrine. He began with blessing.  He noticed the pain, the courage, the rawness of being human — and he called it holy.  That’s the scandal of the Beatitudes: they aren’t advice or expectations. They’re a declaration of love. They’re Jesus saying, *I see you. Right in the thick of it — and God is in it with you.*

Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.  Blessed are you who hunger for justice, who keep showing up even when you’re tired. Blessed are you who have nothing left to give — because grace still finds you.

And then — more scandalous still – and before we can get too comfortable — Jesus flips it.  Woe to you who are rich.  Woe to you who are full.  Woe to you who laugh when others cry. Not as punishment. Not as threat.  But as warning — as mercy, even.  As another expression of love, actually. Because comfort can make us forget compassion.  Privilege can make us numb.  And laughter, when it’s too loud, can drown out someone else’s cry.  The woes are Jesus’ heartbreak for us when we settle for shallow joy.  They’re his way of saying: Don’t harden your heart. Don’t miss the miracle happening at the margins. Because the kingdom isn’t up there somewhere — it’s breaking out in the cracks of our lives right now. Right here. All around us. Even in the space left by the one we loved so much and felt like their death might kill us too.

So, if Jesus were preaching today, his words might sound like this:

Blessed are you who are exhausted from caring for everyone else, 

and blessed are you who can finally admit you need care yourself. 

Blessed are you who cry in the car, who weep in the shower, and keep loving people who are gone. 

Blessed are you who laugh too loud at the wake, and remind us that joy and sorrow share a table. 

Blessed are you who are angry about injustice, and blessed are you who don’t yet know what to do with that anger, nor even where to find it.

Blessed are the ones who doubt but still show up, the ones whose prayers have run out,  the ones who can’t say the creed but still light a candle. 

Blessed are the addicts, the anxious, the overworked, the underpaid, the burnt-out carers, the single parents, the ones barely hanging on. 

Blessed are the saints whose halos are dented and tarnished,  and blessed are the souls who thought they’d lost their faith entirely. 

Blessed are you — 

in your tears and your laughter,  in your weariness and your wonder,  in your holding on and your letting go. 

Because you belong.  You belong to the great communion of saints and to the God who calls every one of us beloved.

And maybe the woes would sound like this — not as curses, but as encouragement for more, for better. Not better for God, but better for us – God’s beloved children: 

Woe to us when our comfort dulls our compassion. 

Woe to us when we confuse abundance with worth. 

Woe to us when our laughter becomes defence, not delight. 

Woe to us when we polish our halos instead of washing feet. 

Woe to us when we are too busy to be kind, too right to be humble, too safe to be brave.

Because the saints — the real ones — didn’t live safe or polished lives. 

They loved until it cost them something. Until it cost them everything. They let their hearts stay breakable.  They chose tenderness over certainty, mercy over pride.

So as we light our candles today, and whisper names that still ache in our chests — remember this:  The same God who held them, holds us.  And holds them still. The same Spirit that burned in their hearts still burns in ours.  And one day, when someone lights a candle for us, may it be said that we loved well. That we blessed more than we cursed. That the light shone through us and others learned more about love, and life, and all that is good and human and divine, through us. May that be our prayer. Until then — may we remember:  there’s a great communion gathered around us — saints and souls, angels and ancestors — whispering in our ears and hearts the same truth Jesus spoke first on that hillside:

You are loved.  You are seen.  You are blessed.  Exactly as you are.  Amen.

Be More Kennie…

Luke 18:15–30 – The Gospel According to Kennie

Yesterday I took Kennie to her first dance class.

I was two – the same age Kennie is now – when my mum first took me and my sister to dance classes. I can still see the enormous staircase we had to walk down – just 3 or 4 steps, but it felt huge to 2 year old me – and I remember the fear and excitement I had about those first dance routines. So as Kennie went dancing yesterday, I knew, somewhere in her heart and mind, memories were being stored up for future Kennie to enjoy. As we were instructed to go around in a circle, Kennie listened intently, watched with interest and then broke rank. She ran into the middle of whichever circle had been formed and did her own thing, unashamed, proud. She spun and swirled and jumped and reached up high and touched down low. She took two ribbons when the invitation was for one and she positioned herself in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors, enjoying her own reflection, with no sense of having to hold her stomach in, or being critical about her appearance. She was free and happy and secure. And my heart was full.

And when I hear this morning’s gospel, I can’t help imagining this is what Jesus is speaking of.

Let the children come to me. Do not stop them.

The kingdom of God belongs to such as these.

I often think I can learn a lot from our little girl. ‘Be more Kennie’ is a good life lesson. And Jesus seems to be saying the same. He sternly orders his disciples not to stop the children, not to silence them, not to keep them away. Maybe we should approach Jesus that way too – not waiting until our clothes and hands and hearts are clean. Just coming as we are, confident that we will be warmly welcomed.

When I pick Kennie up from nursery it doesn’t matter if she is knee deep in the sandpit or paint, she sees me and her face lights up and, even across the playground I can lip-read as she says ‘it’s my mummy’ and she runs and leaps at me, knowing I will catch her and be pleased to see her and will cover that mucky sticky face in kisses. We should approach Jesus like that – be more Kennie.

A few weeks ago, I was in church on a Saturday, getting things ready for Sunday worship and Kennie came with me. As I pottered around, I heard her call out ‘I need the body of Christ’. As I turned round, she was approaching the altar rail, with her hands outstretched and she said it again – ‘me need the body of Christ’. So, I gave it to her, of course. We should approach Jesus like that. Always wanting more. Always ready to ask and receive, mucky sticky hands outstretched. Definitely be more Kennie.

And then our gospel passage takes an interesting turn, and we go from those upturned faces of the children, with their hands outstretched, desperately willing and waitng to be blessed and we meet this guy who comes to Jesus with a question – good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life. And they have this exchange; why do you call me good; no one is good but God alone. Don’t commit adultery, don’t murder, don’t steal, honour your father and mother. And he says, I’ve done all those. He’s trying really hard, and then Jesus says ‘sell everything, give it to the poor and come and follow me’. And the man is sad because he is very rich.

He’s not like Kennie at all. He really cares about what he has.

Sure, when Kennie sees something she wants she boldly demands, ‘MINE’, so they are alike in that way, but when she comes running across the playground to me, or hears that music start up at her dance class, she doesn’t give two thoughts about what she does or doesn’t have, nor how she looks, nor anything else…she just ups and runs, or twirls or jumps. She is single-minded and I’m sure that is what Jesus is asking of this rich guy – don’t focus on all that, on all you have and how important you are. Drop all that and come and throw yourself into my arms. I’ll catch you and I’m so pleased to see you.

Jesus doesn’t care if we have everything right and in order, or everything wrong and entirely out of place. He just wants us. Entirely. Wholly, sticky fingers and all.

In my Sunday school days I remember hearing about that rich young ruler. About how sad he was and how he went away defeated and how he never entered the kingdom of heaven. But how my thinking has changed now. How much more grace I now heap on him. Jesus doesn’t send him away. He goes away sad, but he still has all the time in the world to respond to Jesus’ invitation. And I imagine him going home and looking at all he has and all he’s done and realising it’s worth absolutely nothing.

Imagine him thinking back over his encounter with that Christ man and being inspired. Imagine him picturing those kids and how they approached him and being encouraged to be like them. Maybe he became more Kennie, left his wealth, came running back, and followed Jesus. I’ve rewritten his ending to be that way because I think it’s far more likely; grace is always available to us and it never runs out. And yes, following Jesus is costly, but its also so compelling. Having been face-to-face with God, why wouldn’t he go from there, reflect, leave it all behind and rush back?? Maybe his heart and his wealth cracked open and he found his own purpose right there in its centre.

It’s no coincidence that these stories sit side-by-side; the children and the rich man. Both come to Jesus. One comes empty-handed; the other with hands full of everything. Both are loved. Both are invited. But only one can receive, because only one has room in their hands. And that’s the invitation offered to us too.  To let go — to be more Kennie. Because when we loosen our grip, we make room for grace. We make room for, as verse 30 promises us, ‘very much more’…including…’eternal life’.

So today, in the name of Christ and on behalf of the church, I invite you too. I invite you to this table, hands and hearts full, but with the intention of laying it all down here, and becoming empty handed, in exchange for the body and blood of Jesus. Then leave from this table with freedom and hope in place of all that you currently carry. Don’t be like the rich young ruler and turn away sad, instead, be more Kennie… Amen.

The dawn is on its way…

(Genesis 32:22–31 & Luke 18:1–14)

When I was little, the highlight of my year was Whitsun week.
My Nan and Granddad would take my sister and me on holiday to a site in Devon. My beautiful Nana always entered the “Glamorous Granny” competition — and always won — while Granddad took us to the penny arcades.

We’d stand at those two-penny slot machines for ages, feeding in coin after coin, waiting for the satisfying moment when the pennies finally tipped over the edge and came tumbling out.

I used to think prayer was like that. If I just fed in enough coins — enough prayers, enough patience — something good would eventually fall out.

And if I’m honest, I still sometimes wish it worked like that.

Because life is full of long nights and unanswered questions, and the prayers that start strong sometimes trail off into silence.

In today’s readings we meet two people who know what that feels like:
Jacob, wrestling by the river through the dark night;
and the widow, pounding at the door of an unjust judge.

Both refuse to give up. Both stay in the struggle until the light comes.

Jacob wrestles — with a stranger, with God, with his own past — we’re not quite sure.
But he doesn’t let go. He holds on through the night, even as he’s wounded, even as he’s exhausted. And when the dawn breaks, he limps away, changed.
He calls the place Peniel — “the face of God” — because he’s seen God, and somehow survived. That image — holding on until the light comes — feels true for so many of us. Faith is not about having the right answers; it’s about refusing to let go when the night is long.

The widow, too, refuses to let go. She’s not powerful. She’s not connected. She has no lawyer, no status, no leverage — only her voice, her persistence, her faith that justice still matters. And Jesus says he tells this story “so that we might pray always and not lose heart.”

It’s easy to hear that as “just keep praying,” but I think Jesus means something deeper.
Prayer isn’t about wearing God down — but it might be about letting God wear us down.
Letting God soften our hearts until we start acting with the same persistence, the same compassion, the same refusal to give up on the world that God has.

And maybe that’s what prayer really is — the place where we keep wrestling with God until something changes. And maybe sometimes what changes… is us.

Two years ago at Synod, I spoke passionately about modern slavery. Everyone agreed with me. We passed the motion. The Archbishop asked me to lead on training clergy — and I said yes. And then life filled up, and I did… nothing.

Yesterday we were at Synod again, and it fell on Anti-Slavery Day, and that stung — because I had to admit that I’d failed to do what I had said I would.

And maybe that’s where this gospel meets us — in the space between conviction and persistence. Between what we said we’d do and what we’ve actually done.

Jacob wrestled through the night and limped into the dawn.
The widow knocked and knocked until justice came. And faith looks a bit like that:
Not polished, not triumphant, but faithful, bruised, limping, still refusing to let go.

When Jesus tells this story, it’s just before he turns toward Jerusalem. The shadow of the cross is already falling across the page. He knows what it means to persist in love when the outcome looks hopeless. To keep forgiving, to keep healing, to keep loving people who will betray and abandon him. He knows what it is to wrestle in the dark garden, saying, “Not my will, but yours.” And still he holds on until the light comes —until dawn breaks over an empty tomb.

The psalm today said:
“My help comes from God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps.”
That’s the heartbeat of this whole story:
Even when we grow weary, even when we lose heart, God does not.
God stays awake beside every person still enslaved, still forgotten, still crying out.
God stays with us in the struggle, whispering, Hold on. Don’t let go. The light will come.

When I look back at my own faith, I can see all the nights I’ve let go too soon —
But I can also see the people who’ve taught me what holding on looks like. The survivors of slavery, rebuilding their lives with fierce courage. The widows of the world, still knocking on doors that should have opened long ago. They are the face of God to me. They are the ones who teach me to keep wrestling. Faith, at its simplest, is holding on. Holding on when we don’t see the outcome. Holding on when the promises of God seem far off. Holding on when our hearts are heavy and our hope is thin. And when the light finally comes — when the dawn breaks over the wrestling ground, or the courtroom, or the cross — we discover that God was never the opponent. God was always the one holding us. So if you are weary today, if your faith feels more like a limp than a leap — take heart. You’re in good company. You’re in the company of Jacob, and of the widow, and Jesus himself. Keep holding on until the light comes.
And when it does, let it find you still wrestling, still hoping, still loving. Amen.

Let’s pray…

God of the long night, when our prayers feel unanswered
and the darkness seems to stretch on forever —
teach us to hold on until the light comes.

Give us courage to wrestle for justice, patience to wait with those who weep,
and hearts that do not grow weary in love.

Stand beside all who cry out for peace this day —
in Gaza, in our own streets, in every place of fear —
and let your dawn come swiftly.

Through Christ, who wrestled and rose, and lives to bring light to all. Amen.

Luke 17:5–10 – The Feast of St Francis

As I have said before, I lived in a monastic community for two years during ordination training and it had a profound effect on me. I was amazed by the commitment these brothers had to one another and to God; how they signed over their own rights, gave up so much, and committed to living, working and worshipping together for the rest of their days. Their commitment was akin to marriage, despite them not knowing who would come after them, nor whether they would be loved down the line. So inspired was I that I knew my Christian journey, going forwards, needed a religious community to fully sustain it. So I began my search for that community.

A year ago this month, after much exploration, study and discernment, I became a member of the Order of the Mustard Seed. I knew I’d found my tribe when I discovered that some members mark their vows with a tattoo — a sign carved into their skin that faith is embodied, not abstract, permanent, not transient. The vows are simple: be true to Christ, be kind to people, and take the gospel to the nations. Nothing spectacular. Just mustard-seed commitments, planted in ordinary life. As a member of the Order of the Mustard Seed, I have been waiting for this gospel passage to come up, but now it has, I feel like I’ve never read it in my life, even though I clearly have.

The disciples come to Jesus with a very reasonable request: “Increase our faith!” They want more. I recognise that request. Increase my faith Lord – it seems like a good thing to ask. I’m sure they thought if they had more faith, bigger faith, they could really follow him, really make a difference. But Jesus shows them they’ve missed the point. Faith isn’t about size. It isn’t something you can measure or accumulate, like coins in a jar. You don’t need more faith. You need to plant the faith you already have. Ground it in action, love, compassion, and let God bring it to its fullness. We don’t need to do anything other than plant the seed. And then it grows. Seeds are like that.

And then Jesus sharpens the lesson with the parable of the servant. And this is the bit I’m sure I’ve never read… A servant comes in from the fields and is expected to prepare the meal. No thanks. No reward. Just more service. Faith is about simple, humble obedience: doing what is ours to do, doing it fully and to the best of our abilities – humbly and without fanfare – and leaving the rest to God.

And St Francis of Assisi, who the church remembers today, knew this in his bones and embodied this so deeply that his life reads like a commentary on today’s gospel. Francis didn’t wait until he felt like a saint. He planted the small seeds of compassion he had. Early in his faith journey, way before he was Saint Francis, he met a man with leprosy. Instead of running away, he embraced him — and in that moment he discovered Christ. That one act changed everything. The leper changed Francis. And Francis, in turn, became a seed of change for countless others. One simple act, one tiny seed of faith, and the growth and spread and fruit from it resulted in a worldwide movement that inspires and sustains the faith of many. Seeds are like that.

Early on in my discernment process to join the Order of the Mustard Seed I remember really battling with one of the principals of the order. We had to commit to radical hospitality. I recall sharing with my cohort how challenging I found that. That week a few of our unhoused neighbours were causing some mischief and testing my patience and I told my group that hospitality was the area I struggled with the most. We made ourselves feel better by justifying that we didn’t all need to do all things well, we just had to be willing to be used by God, maybe to have the seed of hospitality sown and grown in us, for the benefit of others. Within a month of swearing my oaths with my fellow OMS group we had opened our home to Kennie, and hospitality became something that had taken root and taken over rectory living. Seeds are like that.

Then, on Friday, the 106th Archbishop of Canterbury was announced and the current Bishop of London, Bishop Sarah Mullally became archbishop elect. I am amazed and delighted that there will be a woman leading the more than 85 million members of the worldwide Anglican communion and I can’t imagine the weight of that calling. But I keep considering the simple seeds she planted; when she was ordained priest there was zero chance that women could be bishops, let alone Archbishop. She was a nurse who heard the call to extend her care for others into ordained ministry and she simply said yes. With faith the size of a mustard seed – that the holy God was inviting her into this plan – she stepped across that threshold and had no idea which way the road would lead. She said yes, planted that seed, and God grew God’s next archbishop from it.

From her mustard-seed faith she is doing what is hers to do, and God is doing the rest.

From Francis’ mustard-seed faith he rebuilt the church, encouraged others to come alongside him and help him; he recognised the kinship of all things – preaching to birds and taming wild wolves and crossing battle lines in the crusades to offer peace to the other side. Always simply, always humbly, always just a tiny seed, but planted under the care of the divine gardener, and huge, holy, lifegiving things would grow and spread. Seeds are like that.

And tonight, when we gather in the chapel for our peace vigil, we are also planting mustard seeds. Our prayers may feel small and insignificant against the violence of the world. But so did each of Francis’ actions, I expect. Each step we take feels small; as small as a seed, but small steps, born of love, can change everything, because they grow into so much more.

So, what about us? Like the disciples, we might wish for “more faith.” But Jesus says we don’t need more. We just need to plant what we already have. To ground it in love and compassion. To take the next faithful step — blessing, serving, peace-making, caring for creation. And then let God bring it to fullness. That’s what Francis did. That’s what soon-to-be Archbishop Sarah is doing. That’s what the Order of the Mustard Seed is about. And that is our calling too. Do what is yours. Allow others to do what is theirs. Work together, interconnectedly – us, the world, the created order and the One who creates. All together, in harmony. Each doing our own small acts, planting our own seeds, in love, and together we might just change the world. and while we try, while we join the line of saints who planted their seeds of faith in their own generation, for the benefit of the next, may St Francis pray for us. Amen.

Do not be afraid…

Genesis 15:1-6        Psalm 50:1-7                      Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16       Luke 12:32-40

Growing up in a pretty conservative evangelical context, I remember my Sunday school days being concerned with getting our ticket to, what was called, the angel train. This angel train was bound for glory and my ticket would – hopefully, but not certainly – get me into heaven. I was genuinely disappointed (before being relieved) in early adulthood to learn there was no angel train in scripture. There was a lot of fear involved back then. A lot. Maybe you had some theological unwrapping to do and there’s almost certainly more to come, to gain greater engagement with scripture and realise we know less and less about God and that to swim in that mystery is the real gift of grace.

My suggestion, as you unravel, learn and relearn, is always to keep hold of a few core truths that crop up repeatedly in scripture and weigh all other concerns against them. The most important, is God is love. Always. And if the message isn’t love, it isn’t God. Keep hold of that and let it inform everything. The second is found in both our OT lesson and our gospel reading today and is just 4 little words… do not be afraid. Don’t be afraid. It’s going to be ok. God has got this. God has got you. Don’t be afraid. 365 times that phrase appears in scripture. It’s a big deal.

I got lost down rabbit warrens in reading this week. I studied the top ten fears people face. I researched surveys on fear (interesting that in 2018 and 2023, American people most feared – more than anything else – their government being corrupt). I spent a whole load of time focussing on fear, looking for a message for you all, this morning. And I missed the point, because the message for Abram and those first disciples and for us, is very clear. Don’t be afraid.

In these verses from Genesis, we meet Abram in the long, slow middle of God’s promise.
The call had come years earlier — “Leave your country… I will make of you a great nation.”
But time had passed, and there is still no child, no sign that the promise was any closer to reality. And into that, God says: “Do not be afraid, Abram.”

Abram is honest in his response: “What will you give me, for I remain childless?”
There’s no pretending. Abram names the gap between the promise and his reality.

And God takes him outside, points to the stars, and says: “So shall your descendants be.”
And then, those beautiful words: Abram believed the Lord; and the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness. His righteousness wasn’t in having all the answers, or even in seeing the promise fulfilled. It was in living as though the promise was already true. Trusting God in the waiting, and living in faith, not in fear.

Centuries later, Jesus says something strikingly similar: “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

That’s not a future maybe — that’s a present gift. The kingdom is already yours.
No waiting for that angel train. The Kingdom is yours now. And because it is yours, it requires a different way of living… “Sell your possessions… give alms… keep your lamps lit.”

Why? Because faith is not simply agreeing with a set of ideas about God — it’s living today in the light of the promises God made for tomorrow.

If we believe God’s promise that the kingdom is ours, then we start acting like kingdom people now. We hold our resources with an open hand, we respond to need with generosity, we keep our hearts and lives ready. This is not about passively waiting for heaven one day. It’s not a case of having our ticket for eternity in our hand and then waiting out the rest of life until we get to the real bit, the bit we’ve been waiting for. It’s about actively living heaven’s values here and now — even when we can’t yet see the fullness of the promise.

Last Sunday we had our peace vigil. We heard sobering truths about life in war zones in the past week. We discovered that bread, in Gaza today, is 300 times more expensive than before the genocide. And then we shared communion together and prayed for peace. And as we ate a morsel of bread we considered it to be food for the journey in our quest to feed the hungry, be peacemakers, live out the promises that the kingdom of heaven is already here. We ate the bread of life that is free for all, costs nothing, yet costs absolutely everything – Christ’s whole body, and now ours too.

On Monday we celebrated the life of our dear Ivy and we shared the eucharist together. Increasingly, at times of death and bereavement, I get the sense that we eat a tiny fragment of what our loved ones now enjoy fully at the heavenly banquet. We live today in the light of the promises God made for us about tomorrow, and because we choose to trust those promises, we don’t need to be afraid.

Do not be afraid, God says to Abram

Do not be afraid, Jesus says to his disciples.

Do not be afraid, the pages of scripture say to us.

As people of God, it is our call to be a glimpse of what lies ahead for others. A glimpse of the reason why this fearful, fretful world doesn’t need to be afraid. To live now as though the banquet has already begun.

And that’s not always easy because, like Abram, we live in the tension between promise and fulfilment. We still see hunger, injustice, and heartbreak. And it would be easy to retreat into self-protection, to build bigger barns for our own security, to hoard and keep our hands and hearts closed. But Jesus is clear. He says no to that way of living; Keep your lamps lit. Stay dressed for action. Live as if the promise is certain — because it is.

I have recently restarted journalling. Each day I am given just one question to ponder and scribble about, and it is a useful practice so, in the coming week, I invite you to hold this question close, maybe even journal if you can. The question is this: If I really believed God’s promises, how would I live today?

Would I give more freely?

Speak more hopefully?

Forgive more quickly?

Stand up more boldly?

Because faith is not just believing about God — it’s trusting God enough to start living now in the light of what God has promised for tomorrow. The kingdom is yours. It is yours now. You don’t need to wait for it. And because of that, little flock, we don’t need to be afraid.  Amen.

Come and be healed…

Isaiah 58:9b-14       Psalm 103:1-8         Hebrews 12:18-29          Luke 13:10-17

I have spent some time with the woman in this morning’s gospel passage in recent months. Let’s call her Sally.  She was living in one of the elderly care homes I visit. Her daughter had called to ask if I could visit her mum. She felt Sally was reaching the end of her life and, to use her words, she ‘needed some help to get there’.

The first time I met her she was bent over, on the lounge in her dining room… Her neck was elongated, contorted, and her face was turned right inwards, to the floor. She couldn’t raise her head. I wondered how long she had sat like that. I didn’t get the warmest of welcomes that first visit! She offered one-word answers, and I wasn’t sure if she was glad I visited or not. As I left I asked if she would like to be brought to our next communion service and she decided she would.

I talked at length with Sally’s daughter, who wasn’t surprised by the curt replies. I assumed her head was bowed low because of her dementia, or another medical condition, but I discovered it occurred after the death of her husband and was, in part, due to grief and shame and memories she carried heavily on her shoulders. Literally laid low, bent double.

Sally was there at our next holy communion service, and the one after, and, she began to open up. She would hold my hand and slightly lift her head. In the last few days I saw Sally often and she told me she was scared of dying because she didn’t know how, nor what would happen. We spoke about her capacity to choose, and about how beautiful I believe death will be. And then, she looked me in the eye and asked me, ‘you promise?’ and I could confidently say, yes, I promise.

The day after I saw her for the last time she looked up, right up, at the corner of the room she had only seen the floor of, for many years, and with an undeniable look of bright recognition on her face she smiled as she transitioned to her eternal life. Fully healed, and free. For someone who said she was fearful, because she didn’t know how to die, she managed it beautifully and with such dignity. And many of these words are those I shared at her funeral.

I thought of Sally a lot when I read this morning’s gospel reading, and those verses from Isaiah have been significant on my faith journey many times. But when we read them together, as our lectionary allows us to today it makes me ask, Why on earth did this woman walk crippled over for eighteen long years. How had help not been extended to her before, when Isaiah’s words are so clear?

Her community knew those words from Isaiah. They would have read his words week after week in the synagogue. “Break the yoke, feed the hungry, satisfy the afflicted.” They could quote the scroll. They believed it. And yet — for eighteen years, she remained bent double. And that really challenges me, really unsettles me. They did know. They just didn’t act on it. Their heads knew it but their hands didn’t do it.

And, the unsettling thing is, aren’t we quite similar? We know the words of Jesus. We know the call of Isaiah. We know what love looks like. And still, we walk past people weighed down with poverty, grief, injustice, isolation. Still, we find excuses for delay. We might even dress it up as being the right or wrong thing to do, like the people in the temple that day.

It took eighteen years… but it didn’t need to. Isaiah’s writings are clear: do it now. And then Jesus puts flesh on them and shows us: do it now. Set free the ones who are bent down. Lift the burden. Repair the breach. Don’t wait. Because the good news is this: however long the shadow has lasted, God’s light can rise in an instant. That is the gospel.

And the gospel is clear: where there is brokenness and pain, or exclusion and isolation, be the one to carry the freedom and healing and wholeness of Christ into that situation. Don’t argue about the law or wait for a committee. Don’t say, “Perhaps in eighteen years things will be different.” Christ lays his hands on her, and she is set free. And that is what we are called to do.

Friends, it is so easy for churches to say: “One day. When the time is right. Not today”. And, meanwhile, another 18 years pass. Another generation. Another war, another death by suicide, another child taken into care, another thing that we might have been able to rescue or help or stop or heal, if only we had reached out our hands and offered healing and wholeness. The hungry are waiting. The oppressed are waiting. Creation itself is groaning, waiting. The bent over, weighed down woman is waiting. It has been eighteen years. It does not need to be nineteen. May we never be the ones who choose law over love and doctrine over grace.

Maybe some of us feel bent low today. Not necessarily with a physical affliction, but with burdens you can hardly carry — anxiety, grief, exhaustion, loneliness. Maybe the weight of the world’s pain has you stooped over, unable to lift your eyes. Maybe you have waited a long time for healing, or for the healing of your family. Maybe your prayers feel unanswered, unheard even.  The good news is that Christ is coming. However long the shadow has lasted, God’s light can rise in an instant.

So, my friends, let’s not wait another eighteen years.

Isaiah says: do it now. Jesus shows us: do it now.
So that is what we are going to do.

For the next few minutes, as the choir sings, I invite you to come to this rail and receive healing. Healing from whatever it is that bends you low, weighs you down. You don’t need to say what it is, just receive an anointing from God and the invitation to be set free. It doesn’t need to take another 18 years – not for you, or your family, or this world – not for the causes and situations that lie heavy across your shoulders. Come and bring whatever it is and lay it down and then stand, lift up your head and see the face of Christ shining on you. Amen.

Store your grain in the bellies of the poor…

Ecclesiastes 1:2,12-14, 2:18-23        Psalm 49:1-12        Colossians 3:1-11    Luke 12:13-21

Hearing this morning’s parable, about food and grain and greed, it is impossible not to think of the images in the media about the starving poor, particularly those we have seen coming out of Gaza. It is hard to process the vast numbers, when we hear from the United Nations that nearly 320 million people face acute hunger and almost 2 million face, what is called, catastrophic hunger primarily in Gaza and Sudan. Our minds don’t allow us to imagine what those numbers mean.

But last week, a UK newspaper printed a horrific photo on the front page of tiny Muhammed al-Matouq, weighing barely 6 kilos at 18 months of age, in his mother’s arms, bones poking through his paper-thin skin, sat outside their tent that resembles a tomb. The stark reality of the starvation and war that is all this child has ever known is complex, but it boils down to greed. Greed and the quest for ownership and power, which is also greed.

‘Take care’, Jesus says, ‘be on your guard against all kinds of greed’ and then he told them a parable.  And this parable is an interesting one.

Usually, in parables we have characters representing someone else, and we might try to put ourselves or God into the story. Am I the prodigal? Is God the good Samaritan? Which of us is the seed on the path or among the thorns, and who is the sower? Is it God? Should it be me? And on it goes. But in this parable, like, I think, only one other, we have God, named as God’s self. There is no confusion. It is definitely God who appears to the rich man.

There is a rich man who produced a whole lot of grain; so much that he didn’t know what to do with it. He sits and considers his crops, but really all he considers is himself.

Listen again: What should I do?  I have no place to store my crops. I will pull down my barns and store my grain and my goods and say to my soul you have ample. 

And God calls him a fool.  And he is a fool. 

He’s alright, but he has only served himself. 

And when he dies, all he has done will die too.  He set his mind on earthly things only, with no care or concern for anyone else.  And that is foolish. God is right. This man really is a fool.

St Augustine, one of the early church fathers, back in the third century, commented that the rich man was ‘planning to fill his soul with excessive and unnecessary feasting and was proudly disregarding the empty bellies of the poor’. He went on to make possibly the greatest comment about this parable when he said ‘[the rich man] did not realize that the bellies of the poor were much safer storerooms than his barns’.

This rich man could have made a huge difference with his huge stores of grain.

And instead, he was a self-centred fool.

So what about us? In the world’s terms we are among those who are the rich. And we have the privilege and ability of making change for those who are facing famine, hunger, poverty and death. We have the means to bring life and light to places of death and darkness. We can do that. We really can and we absolutely must. Because, as the parable says our life is being demanded of us today.  Our life is demanded of us every day.  God doesn’t just demand our life of us on the day we die.  God demands our life of us every single day.

In Paul’s letter to the Colossians, that we heard just now, he reminds those who have chosen to follow Christ – us included – that we need to set our minds on bigger, greater things. Things that will outlive our own lifetimes. When we said yes to following Jesus, we gave up our rights, our own life died, and we committed to showing Christ wherever we went. We said yes to a new way of living – leaving behind greed, deceit and control, and trying to keep to a new path that reflects the ways of the one we tentatively try to follow.

That is what we promised when we said yes to Jesus; that our life was now his, not ‘mine’, and we will do what we can to live it, fully, in his ways. And that is a life’s work, our primary purpose, and everything else, as the writer of the proverbs reminded us, is ‘vanity of vanitys’.

The wealthy landowner had huge barns; the best anyone could hope for; but he filled them with things for him, so that HIS soul could rest, and HIS life could be relaxing and HE could eat, drink and be merry.  He kept his barns for himself instead of taking the opportunity to store his grain in the bellies of those who were poorest and most hungry. He put himself first, and screw everyone else.

Isn’t that what we see modelled and magnified, again and again on the world stage, in horrific technicolour? Political landowners, rich barn owners, with barns the size of countries, filling and hoarding and grabbing and gloating, while millions of starving eyes and empty bellies watch on, as they die??? Isn’t this parable 21st century world news? Have we learned nothing?

As followers of Jesus, we have given up all rights to behave like that. 

As followers of Jesus, our primary concern can no longer be me. 

As followers of Jesus, we must live lives that give out to others. 

We can no longer sit idly by and say nothing.  This very day our life is being demanded of us; your life is being demanded of you.

Please God, may we take this seriously and may our lives be those of love, joy and peace. May our lives make the lives of others better. May our choices impact positively on others. May our lives even change the world and bring glory to God’s holy name.  And may we store our grain, our wealth in the bellies and pockets of the poor. Amen.