Who will the next Archbishop of Canterbury be?

Readings:  Romans 14.7-12 and Luke 15.1-10 (the parable of the lost coin/lost sheep)

St Augustine of Canterbury's chair is empty. Some say it’s cursed. Others say it’s just vacant. But one way or another, no one’s been brave — or foolish — enough to sit in it yet.  This is partly for administrative reasons - because it has taken months for the church of England's democratic structures to grind into being.  But I suspect there's more to it than that.  Which of our small cadre of bishops would even want the job?

The job of Archbishop of Canterbury has never been easy. In fact, if William Temple were still around, he might well say: “I told you so.” He lasted barely two years in the job before dying of overwork — and that was during the Second World War. His friends said he burned too brightly. His critics said he meddled in politics. But no one ever accused him of sitting on the fence. He believed a bishop should be a theologian, a pastor, a statesman — and that the Church should speak not just to the faithful, but to the poor, the frightened, and the exploited. Which, I suppose, is still the job description. On paper.

But in practice, who in their right mind would want the job now? It’s a poisoned chalice, some say — and maybe they’re right. Whoever next puts on that mitre will be expected to hold together a Communion that’s already falling apart. They’ll be criticised if they move too fast and condemned if they move too slow. They’ll be mocked by the secular press, shouted at by the religious extremes, and dissected in real time on Twitter. So perhaps it’s no wonder the process is taking so long. What bishop in their right mind wants to be nailed to that particular cross?

And yet — and yet — someone must. Because, as Paul reminds us in that fierce, tender letter to the Romans: “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves.” The Church, in all her mess and muddle, is still called to be Christ’s Body. Still called to search and to serve. Still called to hold the line — not against the world, but for it.

And I think that’s what Jesus is getting at in the parables we’ve heard today. The sheep that goes astray — the coin that slips out of reach — these are not just metaphors for individuals who have wandered from God. They are metaphors for *value*. The shepherd searches not because he’s sentimental, but because that sheep matters. The woman turns her house upside down because the coin is worth something. That which is lost still has value — still has purpose — and still belongs.

If that’s true of individuals, it’s true of institutions too. It’s easy to scoff at the Church these days. Easy to throw up our hands at the bureaucracy, the indecision, the PR disasters. Easy to say the whole thing’s lost. But if Jesus still counts sheep and still counts coins — if nothing is too lost for him to bother with — then even the Church of England might just be worth saving. Even the see of Canterbury might still matter. Not because it’s powerful. Not because it’s perfect. But because it *belongs* to Christ — and so do we.

Another favourite bishop of mine is St Leonard - a sixth-century Frenchman who came the patron saint of prisoners. And that’s a curious detail, because Leonard was never a prisoner himself. He was a nobleman. He had the king’s ear. But he used that privilege to plead for captives. He intervened for their freedom. He turned his back on status and spent his life in service. In that sense, he and William Temple might have understood each other rather well.

And perhaps that’s the call to us too. Not to chase the mitre or flee from it, but to take seriously what we’ve been given. Privilege, freedom, faith — none of these are possessions. They are vocations. And just as Leonard used his position to plead for the imprisoned, so must we use our place — as Christians, as Anglicans, as members of this bruised and battling Church — to plead for those who still feel lost. Lost in systems. Lost in silence. Lost in shame.

So, yes — we wait. The Archbishop’s chair remains empty. The Church’s unity remains fragile. And the questions we face are many and real — about marriage, about mission, about meaning. But we do not face them alone. “Whether we live or whether we die,” says Paul, “we are the Lord’s.” Which means the burden is not ours to carry alone, and the future is not ours to control.

But we do have this moment — this calling — this little patch of the kingdom, in Havant entrusted to us. And maybe that’s enough. Enough to pray for wisdom. Enough to speak for the outcast. Enough to search for what’s been lost. Because in the end, the parables are not about the sheep or the coin — they are about the Seeker, the one who seeks, the relentless, rejoicing, ridiculous God who searches where we would give up, and who pardons where we would judge.

So let us be foolish enough to keep seeking. Let us be brave enough to keep belonging. And let us be kind enough to keep the door open — for the new archbishop, for the prodigal, for the prisoner, for the one coin that no one else remembers.

Amen.

Doubting St Thomas!

Readings (from the NRSV):  

Ephesians 2:19–22 

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God,  built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.  In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord;  in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling-place for God. 

John 20:24–29 

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”  Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” 

__________________________________________________________________________

There are moments in life when someone says your name in a certain tone, and you know you’re in trouble. For me, that tone is “Thomas…” Usually accompanied by a sigh and some level of disappointment. And I confess, it’s a name that has a bit of baggage. We Thomases have a reputation: “Doubting,” they call us—as if that’s the worst thing a person could be.

I rather like Thomas. Not just because we share a name, but because he’s honest. Gritty. He doesn’t do groupthink. While the rest of the disciples are insisting that they’ve seen a miracle – the risen Jesus, Thomas says what many of us are thinking: “Unless I see the mark of the nails… I will not believe.” That’s not unbelief. That’s just a refusal to fake it. He needs to know the truth for himself – not just receive, uncritically, the truth of others.

And let’s be honest: the Church has spent far too long faking it..  We’ve become experts at acting as though belief is something we can tick off like a shopping list—Trinity? Check. Resurrection? Check. Virgin birth, heaven, angels, miracles, final judgement? Check, check, check. But faith is not a checklist. It’s a relationship. And like any real relationship, it has its moments of doubt, frustration, miscommunication and—yes—even absence.

Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus appeared the first time. No one knows where he was. Maybe he was off getting food for the others. Maybe he was off on his own, trying to make sense of what had happened. But here’s what matters: when they told him “we’ve seen the Lord,” he didn’t pretend to go along with it. He told the truth of his heart. And when Jesus appeared again, a week later, it was not to scold him. It was not to shame him. It was to offer exactly what Thomas had asked for. Proof.

Now I know, Jesus says “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” But I don’t think he’s rebuking Thomas. I think he’s blessing the rest of us. The ones who don’t get a private audience. The ones who wrestle with faith in the quiet corners of their lives, without visions or miracles or appearances behind locked doors. Jesus meets the doubter with grace. And he meets the rest of us too—with mystery.

And that’s where the reading from Ephesians comes in. Paul, never one for understatement, lifts our eyes with his thunderous prose... “You are no longer strangers and aliens, but citizens with the saints… built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ himself as the cornerstone.”

It’s tempting, especially today, to hear that and imagine a kind of spiritual fortress—strong, unshakable, closed to outsiders. But that’s not what Paul is saying. This isn’t about gatekeeping. This is about belonging. You are not strangers. You are not outsiders. You are part of the household. You belong. Doubts and all.

And so, dear friends, today we honour a saint who dared to doubt. A saint who didn’t settle for second-hand certainty. A saint who wrestled with the hardest truth of all: that death might not be the end. And—spoiler alert—he lost that wrestling match. Resurrection won. Life won. Love won.

Thomas may have doubted the resurrection, but when he finally saw the risen Christ, he didn’t just nod and say “OK, fair enough.” No. He fell to his knees and cried out the highest confession of faith in the whole Gospel: “My Lord and my God!” Thomas, the doubter, becomes Thomas, the believer—though not in the shallow sense of accepting doctrine. He becomes the one who knows, deeply and personally, who Jesus is. Not a ghost. Not a myth. But God-with-us.

Now, if I may, I want to say a word to Sandra, who begins, this week, her ministry as a priest. Sandra, do not fear the doubters. They are your allies. They will ask the hard questions that keep your theology honest. They will resist the easy answers that can so easily rot into slogans. And when you yourself have your moments of Thomas-like honesty—because you will—they will carry you. Because the Church is not built on certainty. It is built on grace.

And to the rest of us, let’s stop pretending that doubt is a problem to be solved. It is, more often than not, the sign of a living faith. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart… Try to love the questions themselves.” Thomas loved the questions. And Jesus loved Thomas.

So when people call us Doubting Thomases, let’s wear the name with pride. Because the world doesn’t need more people who pretend to know it all. It needs people brave enough to say: “I’m not sure. But I’m still here. Still hoping. Still reaching out.” Just like Thomas did.

Amen.

Becoming the Face of Christ

Texts:  2 Corinthians 3.15 – 4.1, 3–6 and Matthew 5.20–26

If you’ve ever tried to explain the state of your phone to some tech-savvy teenager, you’ll understand what Paul is getting at in today’s epistle. “We have this treasure in jars of clay,” he says elsewhere — but perhaps he should have said “in smartphones with cracked screens.” There’s glory in it — blazing, illuminating glory — but the battery’s always low, the screen's smudged, and the message only gets through if someone is really paying attention.

In this passage from 2 Corinthians, Paul is dealing with veils — not bridal veils, but spiritual ones. He’s writing to a community trying to squint through the mystery of God. “To this day,” he says, “a veil lies over their hearts.” But — here’s the good news — “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” The veil is lifted, and we see. We see — not because we’re clever, or especially holy, or better than anyone else — but because the Spirit blew through the room and gave us sight.  

Now, Pentecost, just behind us, was one great gale of Spirit. Tongues of fire, mighty winds, terrified apostles suddenly speaking with the confidence of archangels. But Paul reminds us that Pentecost doesn’t end. The Spirit hasn’t packed up her bags and gone back to Heaven. She’s still breathing down the corridors of the Church — occasionally setting fire to the upholstery.

But what is it we are meant to see when the veil is lifted? Is it a set of doctrinal propositions? A new way of hating the people we’re supposed to love, but with incense and a cassock? Or is it what Paul calls “the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ”?

Ah yes. The face. Not the rules, not the religion, not the law. The face. The face that turned to the leper. The face that wept at the tomb of Lazarus. The face that flickered in resurrection light by the lakeshore. That’s what we are meant to gaze upon with unveiled faces — not with judgement, but transformation.

And it is in this light that we turn to Matthew’s Gospel. Oh dear. You know you’re in trouble when Jesus starts a sentence with “You have heard it said…” and then immediately raises the stakes.

“You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’… But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.”

Well that’s no fun. Can’t we just be angry and righteous and fume quietly in our pews like decent churchgoers? But Jesus will not let us off so easily. He digs beneath the letter of the law and reveals the Spirit.  It’s not just about murder — it’s about the thousand little deaths we deal with our words. Don’t murder people’s joy with sarcasm. Don’t assassinate their character with gossip. Don’t strangle the possibility of reconciliation by letting a feud ferment for 20 years — like a bottle of wine that’s turned to vinegar.

Jesus, in his typically inconvenient way, insists that the kingdom begins in the heart. You might appear a shining saint on the outside —halo and everything — but if you’re seething with contempt, muttering “You fool” under your breath, then your candle’s blown out before it got to the altar.

This is dangerous stuff. Because it invites us not to control others — but to examine ourselves. The Spirit of Pentecost gives us boldness — but not to clobber the world with certainties. The Spirit gives us boldness to forgive. To admit wrong. To take the first step in reconciliation, even when the other person is still being an absolute horror.

This is not weakness. It is courage. It is prophecy. It is resurrection life breaking in, here and now.

So what do we do with these words in the week after Pentecost? We could start small. A phone call to the estranged brother or sister to whom we haven’t spoken in years. A prayer for the politician you cannot bear to watch. A conversation you’ve been avoiding for too long, carried out — at last — in the light, not the shadow.

We could remember that the Church was not founded on theological clarity, or bureaucratic elegance, or even moral purity. It was founded in a room full of frightened people, visited by wind and flame. The Spirit did not ask them to take an exam. She came anyway.

And the same Spirit now lifts the veil — not so that we can stand around saying, “Isn’t that a nice bit of glory?” — but so that we can reflect it. So that we, too, can become the face of Christ to one another.  Even to those we’d rather glare at across the top of our pews.

Because here’s the thing. In the end, the Christian faith is not about being right. It’s about being transformed. And transformation doesn’t happen when we dig trenches and hurl theological grenades. It happens when we dare to love as Christ loves — fiercely, foolishly, and without a checklist.

So let the veil fall. Let the anger fall. Let the Spirit breathe. And may we — unveiled, unarmed, and utterly unqualified — reflect the glory of God, with cracked screens, smudged lenses, and hearts turned toward mercy.  Amen.

Pentecost 2025 – Renewing the face of the earth.

 Texts:  Psalm 104. Acts 2.1-21 and John 14.8-17 (& 25-27).

_____________________________

NOTE:  I'd LOVE to know what you think about this sermon!  Do take a moment to post a comment at the end!

_____________________________

They were all together in one place. That’s how it begins — and we might as well start there, because already, it’s a minor miracle. In a world as fragmented as ours, the idea of all God’s people being together in one place — mentally, spiritually, or even geographically — sounds like the kind of thing only the Holy Spirit could pull off.  But what really happened on that first Pentecost?

Luke gives us a rousing account: a sound like a rushing wind, flames dancing on heads, a wild outburst of languages no one had taught, and a crowd amazed — not just that the disciples were speaking foreign tongues, but that they were understood.  And that detail is key. Pentecost is not just about noise and spectacle.  It’s about the Spirit of God making sense out of chaos — creating connection across difference — renewing the face of the earth, not with a magic wand, but with understanding, with truth.

But let’s be honest: have you ever heard a crowd suddenly shout out a complete list of nationalities? “Parthians! Medes! Elamites!” It’s as if a press officer from the tourist board got hold of the script. No, something deeper was happening. This wasn’t a journalism report. It was a poetic moment.  Luke is doing theology, not reportage.  He is attempting to describe the indescribable, to name the effect of what happened more than the mechanics.

So perhaps we imagine it differently. Perhaps the disciples, still blinking at their own boldness, began to speak — maybe falteringly at first — to the strangers around them. And as they spoke, the words landed. They hit home. And people who’d never met before found that they were, in some strange way, known. Understood. Drawn together. For a moment, the world wasn’t a Babel of confusion — it was a communion of spirit.  One traditional way of understanding this key moment, this birthday of the church, is that at Pentecost, the disruption of the common tongue at the Tower of Babel is, for a glorious, poetic, but brief moment, undone.

Our Psalm, just now, had the lovely refrain, ‘Send forth your spirit, O Lord, and renew the face of the earth’.  Pentecost gives us the first hint at how the Spirit might still renew the face of the earth: by restoring understanding. In our fragmented world of echo chambers, fake news, tribal politics and international distrust, the Spirit’s whisper is one of truth, of clarity, of connection. Jesus said the Spirit would “lead us into all truth” — not “my truth” or “your truth” or “the truth according to the algorithm” — but into the truth, the deep truth that flows from the heart of God. Truth that humbles, truth that frees, truth that shines like sunlight through a dirty window — suddenly revealing all the smears and streaks we’d rather not see.

And yes, that might be uncomfortable.

But truth-telling is one of the Spirit’s great gifts. It’s why the Spirit so often shows up among the prophets — those inconvenient people who tell us what we’d rather not hear. That our lifestyles are killing the planet. That our politics serve the powerful. That our faith, sometimes, is more about our comfort than our calling.

Still, the Spirit doesn’t come only to confront. The Spirit also inspires, strengthens, consoles. The word “spirit” in Hebrew — ruach — means breath, wind, life-force. That rushing wind of Pentecost wasn’t just theatrics. It was the sound of creation being stirred up again. A divine defibrillator shocking the church into life.

And how we need that breath now!  We are winded — by war, by climate breakdown, by injustice, by despair. And too many of us — in our churches, in our politics, even in our own hearts — are gasping for breath. Pentecost is a reminder that we are not alone, not abandoned, not powerless. There is breath for us still. There is life for us still. And not just for us, but for the world.

“Send forth your Spirit, O Lord, and renew the face of the earth.”

That refrain is not just poetic — it is a plea, and it is a programme. It means we need to become participants in the Spirit’s work. And we can start small. We renew the face of the earth when we care for creation — plant a tree, skip a flight, fight for green policies and an Eco-church. We renew the face of the earth when we speak truth with love — in the pulpit, the pub, or the family WhatsApp group.  We renew the face of the earth when we refuse to give in to cynicism, and instead bear witness to joy.

And we renew the face of the earth when we make space for the Spirit in our own souls. That may mean silence, prayer, listening — and yes, perhaps some holy courage. Because the Spirit, once invited, has a habit of making demands. Of sending us out to speak uncomfortable truths. To cross borders. To forgive enemies. To hope against hope.

The Spirit doesn’t always make things easy — but he does make things possible.

And before we finish, let me leave you with this one whimsical thought. I sometimes imagine the moment just before Pentecost, when the disciples are sat nervously in that upper room. Peter is pacing and Thomas is already halfway out the door, muttering something about “foolish optimism.” And someone — probably Mary — says, “Just wait. Something’s coming.”

And it did.

And it still does.

The Spirit still comes — not usually with fire and wind, but more often with a nudge, a whisper, a breath.

So let’s be ready. Let’s be expectant. Let’s be inspired.  Let’s open our hearts to the Spirit of God — the One who renews, the One who leads into truth, the One who reminds us that no matter how broken the world may seem, the story is not finished. Because when God sends forth his Spirit, the face of the earth is renewed.  Amen.
________________________________________________
DID YOU ENJOY THIS SERMON?  DID YOU HATE IT?  PLEASE take a moment to make a comment, so that I can get better at this sermon-writing lark!

Boniface: on vocation (not vacation)

Sermon for the Feast of St Boniface

Texts: Luke 10:1–11 & Acts 20:24–28
Preached by a fellow son of Devon

There’s a story I like about a vicar in rural Devon who, one Sunday, stood before his congregation and solemnly declared: “My dear friends, I have received a call from God to be a missionary... to the Bahamas.”

A long silence followed, until a voice from the back pew muttered: “Funny, God never calls them to Barnstaple in January, does He?”

Now I begin with that bit of whimsey not to mock missionary zeal, but to highlight its cost. For most of us, the idea of being "sent out like lambs among wolves" is more terrifying than inspiring. And yet today we honour a man from my own beloved Devon—Crediton, no less—who did just that. Not to the Bahamas, sadly for him, but to the much chillier forests of Germany. He could have had a safe and comfortable ecclesiastical career in England. He was a brilliant Latin scholar, poet, teacher. Exeter would have suited him just fine. But Boniface—born Wynfrith—chose danger, uncertainty, and hardship. And we ought to ask: why?

Let’s be clear: this isn’t just the tale of a man who left home to spread the gospel. It is the story of someone who grasped what Paul meant when he said, “I do not count my life of any value to myself, if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus.” Boniface was a man who took the Church seriously—more seriously than comfort, more seriously than success, and certainly more seriously than safety.

Boniface saw that mission was not a vacation, but a vocation. He didn’t travel across the Channel for the bratwurst and beer; he went with a heart on fire for Christ, determined to bring light into the dark woods of Frisia and Bavaria. And it was no picnic. He faced resistance, confusion, political chaos—and trees. Yes, trees.

There is that famous story—half historical account, half heroic legend—of Boniface marching up to a great sacred oak at Geismar, an oak so revered by the local pagans that even the idea of trimming a branch might get you into serious trouble. But Boniface? He didn’t just prune it. He chopped the whole thing down. Timber! And then, nothing happened. No lightning bolt. No thunder. No wrath of Woden. Just a very surprised crowd of now slightly worried pagans watching their sacred oak fall like a Devon beech tree in a winter storm.

And there you have it—the moment when gospel courage met pagan superstition, and gospel courage won.

I love that image. Not because I’m against trees—I’m quite fond of them, and I’ve been known to hug one or two in my time—but because Boniface recognised that symbols matter. He knew that unless someone made a stand—unless someone showed that God is not to be trifled with, nor mocked, nor sidelined by superstition—then the gospel would never take root.

And take root it did. Not just in conversions, but in culture. Boniface founded monasteries that weren’t just religious centres but beacons of learning and stability. He championed the Rule of St Benedict, which gave the Church a backbone. He reformed wayward churches, crowned kings, consecrated bishops, and spent his final days waiting—not for retirement, but for more baptisms.

And then—let’s not skip over it—he died. Brutally. At the hands of those who rejected Christ, while waiting to confirm new believers. He literally died with a gospel book in his hands. That’s what it means to follow Christ with your whole life.

Now, you might think that’s all very inspiring, but also very far away—both in geography and in time. But remember this: Boniface was not born into greatness. He wasn’t raised in Rome or Jerusalem. He came from the green hills of Devon, just like I did. He would probably have enjoyed Wurzel songs, just like me.  Which means that extraordinary faith is not confined to special people in special places. It is planted in ordinary soil—Crediton clay, Exeter stone—and made fruitful by the Spirit of God.

So the question for us, when we consider the lives of so many saints, is not “How marvellous Boniface was!” but “What am I doing with the gospel that has been entrusted to me?” The call of Christ still echoes across the land: “Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.” Most of us are not called to fell oaks or face martyrdom. But we are all called to go. Whether that means speaking truth in the club room, showing kindness in a hostile meeting, forgiving when it costs us pride, or standing firm when it would be easier to fold; we are all part of this apostolic band. Boniface is not just a saint to be admired—he’s a pattern to be followed.

And to be honest, I think the Church today could use a bit more of his steel. Too often we’ve settled for being nice instead of being holy. We’ve trimmed the gospel into something polite and inoffensive, forgetting that the good news often begins with an axe to the sacred oaks of our culture. The oaks of consumerism. The oaks of selfishness. The oaks of complacent faith.

Friends, if an old monk from Devon could shake half of Europe awake with nothing but a Bible and a bishop's crook, then surely we, too, can do something for Christ in our time. May God give us Boniface’s courage, his conviction, and yes—even his stubborn West Country grit. Amen.

Chains, Chickens, and the Kingdom of God

Sermon for the 7th Sunday of Easter (Sunday after Ascension)

Texts: Acts 16:16–34; John 17:20–26

They say that a chicken and a pig once decided to open a restaurant. The chicken said, “Let’s call it Ham and Eggs!” The pig paused, looked her square in the eye, and replied, “That’s easy for you to say—you’re just involved. I’d be fully committed!”

Most of us, when it comes to faith, are somewhere between involved and committed—between chicken and pig, if you will. We like our spirituality free-range, cage-free, and preferably not too messy. But our two readings today, sandwiched as they are between Ascension and Pentecost, refuse to let us off the hook. They tell a tale of radical commitment: chains falling, jail doors flinging open, and a vision of unity so daring it might make even the most seasoned churchgoer squirm in their pew.

Here’s Scene One: Paul and Silas, Singing in the Slammer

In Acts 16, we have Paul and Silas—preaching good news, liberating a slave girl from exploitation, and then promptly getting the stuffing beaten out of them for disrupting the local economy. That’s right—liberation is bad for business. The owners of the slave girl weren’t exactly thrilled when their profitable little spiritual sideshow got shut down. So Paul and Silas end up in prison, shackled, bleeding, and—wait for it—singing hymns at midnight.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I’d just been flogged, wrongfully imprisoned, and had my feet locked in stocks, I’d probably be composing a strongly worded complaint to the Magistrate’s Office, not a choral arrangement.

But here’s the punchline: their singing—this countercultural act of joy in the face of brutality—literally shakes the foundations. An earthquake hits, the doors fly open, and their chains fall off. This isn’t just geology; this is theology. It’s a metaphor with muscle: when people choose hope over fear, liberation over silence, the very ground beneath oppression trembles.

Here’s Scene Two: Jesus Prays—for Us

Then we pivot to John 17. Jesus, knowing he’s about to leave, offers what we might call his valedictory prayer. He prays not just for the disciples, but “for those who will believe in me through their word”—in other words, for us. And what does he pray? “That they may all be one.”

Now, let’s be honest—church unity is often more of a punchline than a prayer. There’s a reason someone once quipped, “Where two or three are gathered in my name… there will be at least five opinions.” And yet Jesus doesn’t ask for uniformity or doctrinal lockstep—he prays for oneness, for a communion that reflects the mutual love of the Trinity.

This unity isn’t about being the same—it’s about being committed to each other in love, across our differences. It's a holy resistance to the tribalism that infects religion and politics alike.

Now, here we are—on the Sunday after Ascension. Jesus has ascended, leaving his ragtag band of misfits staring at the sky, wondering what to do next. And we might be tempted to do the same—stare upward, waiting for some divine fireworks, while the world aches below.

But Ascension isn’t an abandonment—it’s a handing over. Jesus entrusts his mission to us. Not just the apostles. Us. And he doesn’t send us out with swords or slogans, but with a prayer and a promise: that love is stronger than hate, that unity is possible, and that the chains we think are permanent can, in fact, fall away.

So, how are we doing, friends?

Are we singing in our prisons—literal or metaphorical—or are we sulking in silence? Are we standing up for the exploited, even when it costs us social capital or economic comfort? Are we praying for unity—or are we hoarding purity?

Let’s be honest: Progressive, liberal Christianity can be just as prone to smugness and superiority as any other tradition. We like to think we’re the enlightened ones, the inclusive ones, the ones with better coffee and better politics. But Jesus doesn’t pray that we’ll be right. He prays that we’ll be one.

And unity doesn't mean pretending we agree. It means refusing to let our disagreements define us. It means breaking bread with people who voted differently, who sing differently, who understand Scripture differently. It means choosing love when it would be easier to walk away.

Let me end with a story from the early church. There's a tale—probably apocryphal—about St. Laurence, a deacon in 3rd-century Rome. When the authorities demanded he hand over the church's treasure, he brought them the poor, the sick, and the marginalised, and said, “Here are the treasures of the Church!”

They were not amused. He was executed shortly thereafter—on a grill. And reportedly, partway through the ordeal, he called out, “Turn me over—I’m done on this side.”

Now that is commitment.  And that is our calling—to live lives of such subversive joy, stubborn hope, and courageous love that even in the fire, we can crack a joke and call it witness.  So, dear friends, whether you’re a chicken or a pig, a Paul or a Silas, a believer with doubts or a doubter with hope—remember this: 

·        Christ has ascended, not to escape us, but to empower us.

·        The Spirit is coming, not to comfort the comfortable, but to shake the walls.

·        And we? We are not called to be correct. We are called to be one.

Amen.

Ascension Day - contemplating the Triple-decker Universe

 Texts: Luke 24.44-53 and Acts 1.1-11

Ascension Day

When I was a boy chorister, Ascension Day was always very exciting.  We used to get up early, before school, and climb to the top of the tower of St Michael’s church, Kingsteignton – in Devon where I grew up.  There, at the top of our lungs we would sing one of the great Ascension hymns.  It was always a memorable day…made all the more so, one year, when a chorister who wore some of the first contact lenses dared to look down from the roof of the tower, only to watch one of her contacts leave her eye, and spin slowly to the ground!  We spent the rest of the time before school hunting for her contact lens in the gravel below the tower!

On Ascension Day, we recall Jesus’s rather dramatic departure from the earthly scene. Our readings, both from the same author – the illustrious Luke – present us with two slightly different versions of events. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus pretty much wraps things up in Jerusalem with a blessing, and then poof, he’s gone. A quick and dignified exit. But then, in Acts, we get the cloud, the staring disciples, and the two rather stern-looking chaps in white who essentially say, “Right, lads, stop gawping, he’ll be back.” It’s a bit like comparing a party balloon with a glitter cannon. Both get the job done, but one is undeniably more theatrical.

But why the discrepancy? Did Luke just wake up one morning and think, "I know what this story needs? More clouds! And less Jerusalem!"?  Or perhaps, and this is where a more progressive interpretation comes in, Luke (being a rather clever fellow) understood something about storytelling and evolving theology.

The Gospel account, written earlier, likely reflects a more immediate, personal understanding of Jesus’s final moments. But by the time he wrote Acts, Luke had had more time to reflect, to shape the narrative into something that spoke more powerfully to the nascent Christian community. He was doing theology, not journalism. He was painting a picture, not taking a photograph. And sometimes, to truly grasp a deep truth, you need a bit of glitter and a cloud or two.

And let’s not forget the worldview these stories emerged from. For our biblical ancestors, the universe wasn’t a vast, expanding cosmic soup with black holes and nebulae. Oh no. It was a neat, tidy, three-tiered affair – a bit like the Harry Potter Night-bus, or a triple decker sandwich.  There was heaven above, where God and the angels dwelled, perhaps on rather plush celestial sofas. Earth in the middle, our somewhat messy domain. And below, the world of the dead, Sheol, a rather gloomy basement apartment, not quite hell in the fiery sense, but certainly not a place you’d choose for a holiday. So, for Jesus to "ascend" literally meant he was going up to God’s domain. It made perfect sense in their spatial understanding of reality. It was a cosmic elevator ride to the penthouse suite.

But for us, living in an age of space telescopes and quantum physics, a literal ascent through the atmosphere feels… well, a bit quaint, doesn't it? Do we imagine Jesus zipping past the International Space Station, giving a little wave to the pilots of UFOs that might be circling the earth?  No, that’s not how we read it. The deeper meaning of the Ascension - what it still has to communicate to us today - isn’t about astrophysics; it’s about metaphysics. It’s about the nature of God’s presence in the world.

The Ascension isn't Jesus abandoning us; it's Jesus permeating us. It’s not about him going away; it’s about him being everywhere. When we say Jesus is "at the right hand of God," we’re not picturing a heavenly throne room with Jesus perched on a golden stool next to the Almighty. We’re talking about a theological shorthand for divine authority, power, and ultimate presence. It means that the divine, as embodied in Jesus, is now fully integrated into the very fabric of existence.

The Ascension is a cosmic inhale. It’s the breath of God drawing all that is good, true, and beautiful into the divine heart. It’s a profound affirmation that humanity, in its highest expression as Jesus, is not separate from the divine but intimately connected, indeed, inseparable. Jesus, fully human, ascends into the fully divine.  He shows us that our humanity, when fully lived in love and compassion, is also part of the divine dance.

So, how do we read this story in a way that is relevant and sensible to our modern world? We read it not as a historical documentary of a celestial journey, but as a myth in the truest, deepest sense of the word. It’s a myth that reveals profound truths about reality. The Ascension tells us that God is not a distant, absentee landlord, but an indwelling presence. It tells us that the spirit of Christ, that radical love and transformative power, is not confined to a single historical figure but is now accessible to all, within all, and through all who seek it.

It means we don't have to look up to find Jesus; we look around. We look at the marginalized, the suffering, the joyful, the courageous. We look at the beauty of creation, the resilience of the human spirit. We look within ourselves, at the stirrings of compassion and justice. Because if Jesus is ascended, if he is truly "at the right hand of God," then he is immanent, present, and actively working through each one of us, right here, right now.

So, let us not stare gawping at the sky, waiting for a dramatic return. Let us rather look to our hands, our feet, our hearts. Let us embody the Christ that has ascended into all things, and in doing so, bring a little bit of heaven, here on earth. Amen.