God is with us? Really?

Text:  Acts 9.36-43

Preached on the occasion of commissioning a prayer ministry team.

There’s a story I love about a little boy who came out of church one Sunday with a very serious expression on his face. His mum asked him what was wrong. And he replied, “The vicar said God is everywhere. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And she said God is with us all the time?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“And God is here right now?”

“Yes!”  

He looked around anxiously and whispered, “Well, I wish he’d stop staring at me.”

It’s hard to be certain what we really believe about God’s presence in the world. We say “God is with us,” but it often feels more like a slogan than an experience. Especially when we read dramatic Bible stories like the one from Acts today—where Peter prays, says a few words, and a woman is raised from the dead. Really?

Now, let me be blunt. I do not believe that the job of the church today is to go around attempting resurrections. If you’ve come this morning expecting a literal raising of the dead, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken your preacher for someone from a Marvel film. And yet—and yet—there is something deeply holy in this story of Peter and Tabitha.

Luke tells us that Tabitha—also known as Dorcas—is a disciple, one of the few women in the New Testament to be called that explicitly. She is remembered for her good works and acts of charity. When she dies, the widows she has clothed weep and gather around her body. Peter comes, prays, and she lives again.

Now, I don’t know whether this story is historical reporting or holy storytelling. But what I do know is this: the early church remembered Tabitha not because of the miracle, but because of her love. They remembered her stitching tunics. They remembered her kindness. She brought life while she lived. She was, in her own way, resurrection-shaped.

The miracle, you see, is not just what happened in the upper room. The miracle is what happened before it—through years of faithful, quiet, loving service. And the miracle is what happened after it—when her life was remembered and her love became part of the DNA of the church.

Likewise, in John’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” This is not a promise of magical powers or invincibility. It’s a promise of presence. Intimacy. “No one will snatch them out of my hand.” That’s not a guarantee that bad things won’t happen. It’s a statement of ultimate belonging.

And here’s where I want to get controversial. I think we have trained ourselves to expect too little of God—and too much of religion. We say our prayers, go to church, do our bit, and hope that somehow, God is vaguely pleased and will avoid smiting us. But we do not expect transformation. We have lost the audacity of resurrection. We have made peace with death—not just physical death, but the death of hope, the death of courage, the death of compassion. We have settled for a polite church, rather than a living one.

But resurrection is not polite. Resurrection breaks things open. Resurrection stinks of the tomb and sings of eternity all at once. And it still happens.

Not with trumpets or spotlights. Not usually with the literal reversal of death. But in hospitals, when a nurse holds the hand of a patient and says, “You are not alone.”

• In community kitchens, where a man long dismissed as a drunk finds a sense of worth as he learns to cook for others.

• In the soft words of a prayer offered quietly at the communion rail, while bread is broken and wine is poured and someone dares to whisper to God again after years of silence.

• It happens in the laying on of hands. Not because we are magical. Not because the prayer ministers being commissioned today are better or holier than anyone else. They are not. If anything, they’ve simply agreed to make themselves vulnerable—to be channels of love, to hold the pain and longing of others, and to offer it to God with hope and humility.

And let me tell you, that is resurrection work. Because it takes more courage to stand beside someone who is suffering than it does to perform a miracle in a story. It takes more faith to pray for someone with no guarantee of outcome than to believe a tale of ancient wonders.

In a world addicted to spectacle, we need the quiet power of touch, of presence, of human connection infused with divine possibility.

We are not here to raise the dead in the way Peter did. But we are here to raise each other. To offer hope where there has been despair. To speak life where there has been shame. To clothe the grieving and listen to the lost and remember that no one is ever snatched out of God’s hand.

So let the laying on of hands be a rebellion. A small, sacred uprising against apathy, against numbness, against the idea that prayer is pointless or that love is weak. Let it be a sign that we still believe in healing—not always of the body, but of the soul, the memory, the heart.

Let it be our version of Tabitha’s tunics. A work of love. A sign of grace. A practice of resurrection.  Amen.

Reflections on the 80th Anniversary of VE Day

VE Day is a strange kind of celebration, isn’t it? We use the word ‘victory’, and yet there should be nothing triumphalist about today. It’s a quiet, resolute kind of victory. Not the stuff of fireworks and ticker tape, but of poppies and silence. It’s the victory of people who did what had to be done—often at unimaginable cost—so that something worse would not prevail.

We remember today the ordinary men and women of Havant who rose to extraordinary courage. The ones who left these streets and fields to defend freedoms most of us hadn’t realised were quite so fragile until they were under threat. We remember the crew of HMS Havant, who helped rescue nearly 3,000 troops at Dunkirk before she was bombed and sunk just offshore. They were mostly young—many barely out of school—but they died as saviours. And we are still in their debt.

Now, when a preacher starts talking about war, there’s always a risk of sounding either sentimental or smug. I’ll try to avoid both. The Second World War wasn’t a simple story of good guys and bad guys, though the Nazi regime *was* unambiguously evil. It trafficked in hatred, racism, the machinery of genocide—and it needed to be stopped. But that doesn’t make war holy. War is always a sign of human failure. Necessary, sometimes. Noble, even. But holy? No. War is a consequence of sin, not a cure for it.           

So how does a preacher speak about God on a day like this?

Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t believe that God is the sort who chooses sides in battles, like some celestial football referee. But I do believe in a God who is stubbornly committed to bringing good out of evil. A God who never wastes suffering. A God who, even in the darkest trenches of human cruelty, plants seeds of hope and redemption. And some of those seeds did bloom.

After the War, something remarkable happened. Europe—bloodied and burned—chose not revenge, but reconciliation. Germans and Frenchmen, who had slaughtered each other twice in thirty years, decided to build something together instead. The European Coal and Steel Community—yes, it sounds like the most boring dinner party ever—became a foundation for peace. Christian Democrats, many of them devout Catholics, saw the moral need not just to avoid another war, but to live as neighbours. It was politics, yes, but it was also grace.

Here in Britain, too, there was a sense of moral reckoning. We had been through the fire together—rationing, bombings, evacuees, grief in every street—and somehow, the country came out of it with a bigger sense of “we.” Not just a nation of individuals, but a common life. From that, we saw the birth of the NHS, the expansion of welfare, the commitment to housing and education. Not perfect, but a real attempt to say: if we can fight and die together, perhaps we can live together a bit better, too.

Now, I’m a preacher, not a politician, so I won’t offer partisan applause. But I will say this: the Kingdom of God, as Jesus described it, is always found in the direction of healing, dignity, justice, and peace. And any time a society takes even a half-step that way—towards inclusion, towards compassion, towards fairness—we’re getting warmer. We’re aligning ourselves with God’s dreams for the world.

And even on the world stage, there were glimmers of light. Britain didn’t cling to empire with guns and garrisons. We saw the tide of history coming in and chose to wade out with some grace. India, Burma, Ceylon—independent not by war, but by negotiation. It’s not often history offers us a choice between conflict and dialogue. But when it does, blessed are the peacemakers.

So what shall we say in anxious times such as ours? When once again, populism is rising, and history seems to be stammering instead of singing? We say this: the world *has* changed. Not enough, not yet—but the seeds planted in the ashes of war are still growing. There *has* been real peace. There *has* been progress. And that is not naïve to say—it is faithful.

We honour the dead best not by polishing their medals but by living their legacy. We don’t worship their sacrifice—we *receive* it. As gift, as responsibility, as a summons to be better stewards of the world they helped to save.

So today, as we sing our hymns and lay our wreaths, let us also pledge ourselves anew to the things that make for peace. Let us renounce hatred, in all its forms—whether it wears a swastika or hides behind polite nationalism. Let us build again, not bunkers, but bonds. Let us trust, not in swords, but in the better angels of our nature, and in the God who calls us—still—to love our enemies, to welcome the stranger, and to beat our swords into ploughshares.

For the war is over. But the work is not.

Amen.

Come - whoever you are

Text: John 6.35-40

Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away, for I have come down from heaven not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me but raise it up on the last day. This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day.”

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“I am the bread of life,” says Jesus. And we nod, because we’ve heard it before. We’ve got it printed on banners, carved into tables, stitched onto kneelers, maybe even tattooed somewhere we wish we hadn’t! “Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

It sounds beautiful. It is beautiful. But it also sounds like the kind of promise that might raise a few eyebrows if you’ve lived through a bit of real life. Because here’s the thing: there are people who come to Jesus and still feel hungry. Still feel thirsty. Still feel restless, uncertain, weary. Some of us have prayed the prayers, sung the songs, read the books, said the words — and yet we find ourselves still longing, still aching, still wondering if there’s more.  So what is Jesus really offering here?

He’s not offering us a never-ending lunch, of course. He’s not repeating the miracle of Elisha and widow whose oil never runs out.  Nor is he offering a solution to the theological questions in which some of us get tangled.  Rather, Jesus is offering himself. He’s offering presence. Not packaged answers or easy fixes, but something deeper — something nourishing. Something that gets into your bones and makes you live again.

But let’s be honest: this idea of “believing” in Jesus has gotten a bit tangled over the years.  For some, belief means signing up to a list of doctrines — a checklist of truths you agree to. And don’t get me wrong — truth matters. But Jesus never said, “Whoever recites all the correct theological positions shall never be thirsty.” He said, “Whoever believes in me.”  And that sounds more like ‘trust’ than ‘textbook’. More like ‘relationship’ than ‘recitation’.  Salvation is not offered as a reward for believing the right things about Jesus.  Salvation is a process – an ongoing journey of being changed from glory into glory, or of becoming more like the Master we claim to follow.

When I was young, we used of collect Top Trump cards.  Do you remember them?  They were collections of cards about a particular subject – maybe motorbikes, or cars, or superhero characters.  The object of the game was to trade your cards with others, until you had the complete set.  For some of us, following Jesus can be a bit like that.  We try to collect all the right opinions, the right teachings – so we can feel secure in our salvation.  But, it turns out, Salvation is not about collecting the right ideas, like Pokemon cards. It’s about leaning into Jesus. Coming to him. Living as though what he says about love, mercy, grace, and resurrection might actually be true — even when we’re not quite sure.

And that’s the real tension, isn’t it?

You see, we’ve been trained to want certainty. Certainty feels safe. But the bread of life isn’t a brick of certainty. You don’t build walls with bread. You feed people. You tear it, pass it round, get crumbs on the floor. Bread doesn’t control. It nourishes.  And that’s what Jesus does. He nourishes. He gives of himself. He welcomes the hungry without checking their credentials.  Just as I know you do in the Bus Stop Café.  You don’t check people’s credentials before feeding them.  You don’t give them a theological exam to make sure they believe the right things before you feed them.  And nor does Jesus.

He says, “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”  That line should stop us in our tracks.  Because there are those who’ve been made to feel like they don’t belong. Like they’re too messy, too complicated, too unconventional, too full of questions – or in some of the worst cases of Christian pharisaism, too female!  Like God might just quietly back away from them and prefer someone a little neater, a little more well-behaved.

But Jesus says the opposite. “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”  Not “whoever gets it all right”. Not “whoever has a perfectly tidy testimony”. Just… “whoever comes…”

That means the door is wide open. And not just open — welcoming.  And that brings us to this table.  Because here, today, we’re not celebrating theological perfection. We’re not celebrating moral achievement. We’re celebrating grace. The kind of grace that says, “You are welcome.” The kind of grace that doesn’t wait for you to be certain, or clean, or calm. The kind of grace that comes running when all you’ve got is hunger and hope.

This bread and wine — symbols of Christ’s body and blood — are not just reminders of a death long ago. They are signs of life now. They are tokens of a truth that still holds: Jesus feeds the hungry. Jesus welcomes the thirsty. Jesus does not turn people away.

And so, if you come today with doubts, come.  If you come with joy, come.  If you come with failure clinging to you, come. If you come with questions that won’t go away, come.  If you come just because you need to believe that love is real and that hope has not died, come.

Jesus is the bread of life. Not a rulebook. Not a membership card. Not a distant deity with a clipboard and a raised eyebrow.  Bread. Nourishment. Welcome. Life.

So come to the table. Bring your hunger. Bring your heart. Bring your whole, unfinished, glorious self.  And let’s eat.  Amen.

Why do I believe?

 Why do I believe?

Honestly, some days I don’t know. Some days belief feels like trying to nail jelly to the wall – messy, frustrating, and ultimately doomed to failure unless you cheat and use Blu-Tack.  It’s such a tough question that, knowing I had to answer it today, I reached out to my Facebook followers for their answers as to why they believe.  They are the Blu-Tack for my theological jelly.  Some of their responses will be found in what follows.

But first, let’s reflect on where we are – we’re in Eastertide, celebrating resurrection and transformation, and the Nicene Creed, that great, ringing declaration of faith, forged in theological fire and imperial politics 1700 years ago. And our Precentor wants me to stand up and explain why I believe?

Let me start by saying this: I don’t believe because of the Nicene Creed. Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful for it. It’s an extraordinary document. But it’s not where I begin.

I believe because – in the words of Facebook friend and fellow priest Caroline Sackley – “love is always there… a relationship that’s not transactional, but just present.” I believe because, over and over again, I have experienced a presence that is deeper than understanding and more constant than emotion – a presence that I might dare to call “God”.

And when I try to picture that love, to make sense of it, it is Jesus – Jesus of Nazareth – who gives it flesh and blood. As Pope Francis (may he rest in peace) once said, there are many paths to the mystery of God – but for me, Jesus is the clearest lens through which I glimpse the divine.

Now – let me be clear – I don’t believe about Jesus in quite the way the Creed insists. Yes, I’ll say it, or sing it with gusto.  But what draws me, what keeps me, is not a list of doctrinal statements. It is him. The man who cooked breakfast for his friends by the lakeside in today’s Gospel. Who met them in their grief, their betrayal, their confusion – and fed them. Who didn’t ask for a confession of sin, or demand a theology exam. Just “Come and eat.”

You see, I don’t believe because of arguments. Or proof. Or metaphysics. Or creeds. I believe because he is believable.

Take today’s readings. Saul, who becomes Paul, is quite literally knocked off his high horse. (It’s not actually in the text, but I like to picture him landing unceremoniously in the dust, robes all akimbo, spectacles askew – if he wore them – and thinking: “Well that was unexpected.”) His belief isn’t the result of a careful Bible study. It’s a collision. A divine ambush. An experience of presence that leaves him changed forever.

Then there’s the psalmist, in Psalm 30, giving thanks because somehow, after darkness and weeping and despair, joy has come in the morning. That sounds a lot like faith to me: not certainty, but the memory of survival. Not knowing everything, but discovering that God was there even when we couldn’t see.

And in Revelation, the vision is cosmic – angels and elders and living creatures singing in wild praise. It’s not subtle. It’s not rational. It’s overwhelming, bewildering, excessive – like God sometimes is.

Of course, belief isn’t always easy. As Sarah McCarthy-Fry put it on my Facebook feed with bracing honesty: “To be honest, it’s because the alternative is scary and empty… I’d rather believe than not.” That’s not cowardice; it’s courage. The courage to choose hope in the face of fear. The courage to live as if love is stronger than death, even when we’re not sure.

And let’s not pretend the Church has always made belief easy. As Pam Wilkinson so rightly warned on Facebook: “‘Belief’ is one of the slipperiest and most weaponised words in religion.” How often has belief been policed rather than nurtured? Used to exclude rather than embrace? Sometimes I want to say: “I believe – but please don’t ask me to prove it by ticking a box!”

Christine Bennett offered a wonderful insight: she said that at some point, “I found that I knew that… it was true, independently of whether or not I believed it.” That’s not wishful thinking. That’s faith. That’s trust. It’s what the ancient Hebrews meant when they used the word emunah – a kind of steadfastness, a holding-on. Not intellectual assent, but faithfulness.

And speaking of intellectual adventures, we mustn’t overlook Franceska Dante’s majestic satnav theology. She compares the voice of God to “Dozy Doris,” the chaotic voice inside her phone’s GPS – except with more wisdom, less driving into fields, and an actual interest in your well-being. I think that’s marvellous. Because, yes, sometimes faith does lead us into strange fields. But unlike Doris the satnav, God doesn’t abandon us there. God walks with us. Challenges us. Grows us. And always – always – calls us back to the road that leads to love.

Bob – our Acting Archdeacon – summed it up beautifully in a message to me: “God chooses people like us, and still manages to achieve wonderful things!” What a miracle that is. That God chooses us. Not saints or sages or experts – but people like Peter, who denied Jesus three times and still got asked to feed his sheep. Like Saul, violent and self-righteous, transformed into a witness. Like you and me, muddled and inconsistent, yet somehow… chosen.

And finally, via Facebook, the wonderful Clare Amos reminded me of Augustine: “Our hearts are restless till they rest in Thee.” Even that restlessness, that longing – that, too, is part of belief. We are made for more than we can name. There’s a homing instinct in the human soul – and belief is not the cage that traps it, but the path that gives it direction.

So yes, I believe. Not always confidently. Not always coherently. But I believe.

I believe because Jesus shows me what God looks like: vulnerable, just, compassionate. I believe because love has met me in the dark and stayed. I believe because even when I didn’t believe, others carried the flame for me. I believe because faith is not a set of answers but an invitation to a journey – and the journey is worth it.

As we give thanks for the Nicene Creed, let’s remember it’s not a gate to keeps people out – it’s a signpost that points toward mystery. A poem of its time, yes – but one that still sings of the astonishing claim that this – this confusing, wounded, shimmering world – is not abandoned. That God is with us. That love wins.

So: why do I believe? Because I must. Because I can’t not. Because – in the end – it’s true.  Amen

The forgotten disciples...Philip and James

Sermon on the Feast of Philip and James

Texts: Ephesians 1.3–10 and John 14.1–14

It’s not often that Philip and James get top billing. They are what we might call the “understudies” of the apostolic cast—frequently confused with others of the same name, occasionally mistaken for more prominent players, and, let’s face it, usually relegated to the footnotes. James even gets the delightful moniker “the Less.” Not because he was of less faith or passion—he may well have been full of both—but probably because he was shorter. That’s right: two millennia of Christian memory, and he’s remembered as “the little one.” It seems even the communion of saints isn’t free of unfortunate nicknames.

Yet here they are, front and centre, celebrated together on this day—not because they were a dynamic duo in life, but because the church in Rome happened to place their relics in the same place. Ecclesiastical practicality meets holy coincidence. But perhaps that’s a gift to us: a reminder that sainthood does not always begin in glory or celebrity, but in ordinariness, in faithful friendship, and in stumbling attempts to follow the Christ who walks just ahead.

Philip, we’re told, was one of the first to be called, and he promptly went to tell Nathanael. He didn’t draft a doctrinal statement or take a theology degree first. He just said, “Come and see.” Simple. Human. Honest. And maybe that’s where the faith begins, not in answers but in invitation—in the stubborn hope that what we’ve seen of Christ is worth sharing. The Church might do well to remember this today, in an age when it too often acts like it’s in the business of defending Jesus rather than following him.

And it’s Philip again who dares, at the Last Supper, to ask the question everyone else is probably thinking: “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” A bold, honest question. And Jesus responds with what sounds like frustration—“Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me?” But isn’t that the heart of the spiritual life? That tension between proximity and mystery. Between walking alongside the Holy and still not fully recognising it. Philip doesn’t get a theological treatise in return. He gets Jesus himself: “If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen the Father.”

This is the daring claim of our faith—not that God is hidden behind the veil of mystery, but that God has chosen to be known in the dirt and drama of human life. In laughter and in protest. In bread broken and stories told. And if we really believe that, then it has to change everything about how we live and love and do church.

Ephesians gives us the wide-angle lens. It opens with a cosmic hymn, reminding us that we have been “blessed in Christ with every spiritual blessing,” that we are “chosen,” “adopted,” “redeemed.” But this isn’t prosperity gospel. Paul isn’t saying “you’re special” in the Instagram sense. He’s saying that God’s grand purpose—the whole sweep of time—is aimed at unity. All things, in heaven and on earth, gathered up in Christ. And that’s not just a poetic flourish. That’s a mission. That’s a rebuke of every system that divides us—race, class, gender, orientation, ability, creed. If Christ is gathering everything together, then we don’t get to draw lines and say who’s in or out.

But let’s not romanticise the apostles too much. These weren’t spiritual superheroes. They were confused, inconsistent, often fearful. James the Less? He barely makes a headline. And yet here we are, celebrating him. Because it turns out that the kingdom of God does not depend on your fame, your charisma, or your flawless theology. It depends on your presence, your persistence, your willingness to keep showing up. And that might be the best news we’ve got.

You don’t have to be Peter, the rock. You don’t have to be Paul, the theologian. You can be Philip, the inviter. James, the quiet one. You can be unsure, questioning, “less.” And still be part of the divine story.

And let me say this clearly: in an age when Christianity is often known more for exclusion than inclusion, for condemnation more than compassion, we need a Church that takes Philip’s approach—“come and see.” Not “come and conform.” Not “come and be fixed.” Just: “Come and see.” See what love looks like. See what grace tastes like. See what community means when it welcomes the ones the world forgets.

But of course, that kind of invitation demands something of us too. It means we can’t keep Jesus trapped in stained glass or trapped in our own assumptions. It means that if someone asks, “Show us God,” we have to be ready to say, “Look here—at love in action. Look here—at justice rolling down like waters. Look here—at meals shared, debts forgiven, strangers welcomed.” That’s a terrifying thing to claim. But Jesus said it to Philip, and by extension, to us: “If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen the Father.” And now the body of Christ is us.

So today, let’s thank God for these two saints—not for their greatness, but for their willingness. For Philip, who brought his friends to Jesus and dared to ask the questions. For James, the lesser-known, who reminds us that obscurity is no barrier to grace. Let their witness nudge us away from the need to be impressive, and toward the calling to be faithful.

And if the Church today is to be anything more than a relic museum, it must be a place of gathering, of invitation, of unity. The mystery hidden for ages is this: God is not far away. God is among us, in us, calling us always further into love.

So let’s do what Philip did. Invite someone. Ask the awkward question. Be okay with not knowing everything. And like James, be content sometimes just to stand near the cross, quietly witnessing, while others run away. Because God is weaving even that quiet faithfulness into the story of redemption.  Amen.

Easter Hope in a time of death

 Texts: Acts 5.27-32 and  John 20.19-31

So, here we are; the Second Sunday of Easter. The initial joy of Easter morning and a surfeit of chocolate has perhaps subsided a little.  We settle into this new season, trying to grasp what it means to live as people of the resurrection.

And as we gather, we do so with a complex mix of emotions. There’s the persistent echo of Easter joy, yes, but also the very real presence of sadness. We continue to remember John Boulton, whose celebration of life was only two days ago and whose absence is still so tangible in our community. We hold his family and friends in our thoughts and prayers, acknowledging the gap his passing leaves.  And we do so along with the passing of other loved members of our community and families.

Our thoughts also turn naturally to the events of yesterday in Rome – the funeral Mass for Pope Francis. His death on Easter Monday was sudden, and yesterday's farewell brought together world leaders and ordinary faithful in a moment of global remembrance and reflection. It feels significant, perhaps, that just a day after the world formally marked the end of his papacy, we gather here for our own Annual Meeting, reflecting on our small part in the life of the Church Universal.

So, we stand in this space holding local grief for a beloved neighbour and reflecting on the recent farewell to a global spiritual figure, all while trying to live into the Easter message: that mysterious, powerful claim that love is stronger than death, that hope endures beyond loss.

Our readings today meet us right here. In John's Gospel, we find the disciples huddled behind locked doors. It's the very first Easter evening. Resurrection has supposedly happened, but fear and grief are the overwhelming emotions. They've lost their leader in a brutal way, their hopes seem shattered, and they are terrified. The doors are locked fast against a hostile world.

And into that room, saturated with sorrow and fear, Jesus enters. Not breaking down the door, but simply being there among them. His first words? "Peace be with you." Shalom. It's a profound blessing, a deep wish for well-being and wholeness poured into their fractured reality. He acknowledges their state, shows them his wounds – proof that suffering is undeniably real, yet not the ultimate reality – and then breathes his Spirit upon them, commissioning them, turning their grief-stricken huddle into the nascent Church.

We might also remember that profound moment, yesterday, when world leaders gathered around the coffin of the Pope, also shared peace with one another.

But, back to that first Easter day: Thomas wasn't there. Good old Thomas – my namesake, I know! He often gets the label "Doubting Thomas," but perhaps "Honest Thomas" or "Needs-to-see-it-for-himself Thomas" might be fairer. He missed the experience the others had. Is it so wrong that he wanted the same assurance? He wasn't rejecting Jesus; he was articulating a very human need for personal encounter, voicing the doubt that others perhaps felt but kept quiet.

And that honesty, that questioning, is surely part of a real faith journey. It's interesting, isn't it, that Pope Francis, whose life and ministry the world was reflecting on so intently yesterday, often spoke about doubt not as a failure of faith, but as a sign of a living faith – one that seeks and wrestles and grows. He's reported to have said something to the effect that "A faith without doubt is a dead faith." He understood that engaging honestly with our questions is often how we move deeper into relationship with the mystery of God. Thomas models that for us.

And how does Jesus respond to Thomas's need? With utter grace. He appears again, invites the searching questions, offers the very proof Thomas requested: "Put your finger here... reach out your hand..." Again, the greeting is "Peace be with you." It's in that moment of gracious encounter that Thomas makes his great declaration: "My Lord and my God!" Doubt, met by understanding love, blossoms into profound faith. And Jesus’ gentle blessing extends to all of us: "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."

This encounter transforms people. We see the result in Acts. Peter and the apostles, once hiding in fear, are now standing boldly in public, facing the very authorities who condemned Jesus. They are filled with the Holy Spirit Jesus breathed on them. When told to be silent, Peter's response is unwavering: "We must obey God rather than human beings!" They have become witnesses – not because they have all the answers, but because they have encountered the Risen Christ and know that death is not the end.

We see that witness lived out in countless ways. We saw it in the steady, faithful service of John Boulton right here in our community, making a difference in the lives he touched. We saw it on a global scale in the long ministry of Pope Francis, to whom the world formally bade farewell just yesterday – a ministry marked by efforts to follow God's call amidst the complexities and challenges of our time. Both men, in their unique ways, sought to live as witnesses.

And that brings us to our APCM today. Our look back at the past year is more than just reports and accounts. It's our chance to discern where we have been part of that same ongoing story of witness. Where have we, inspired by the Spirit, chosen to "obey God" in small or large ways? Where have we tried to embody Christ’s peace? Where have we wrestled honestly with our faith, like Thomas, and found God meeting us? Where have the fingerprints of the Spirit been visible in our common life, perhaps inspired by the faithfulness we remember – the local faithfulness of John, the global faithfulness of Pope Francis?

The Easter message isn't just a historical event; it's a present reality, empowered by the Spirit. The Risen Christ continues to meet us – in our joys, our griefs, our certainties, and our doubts. He met the disciples in their locked room; he met Thomas in his searching; he meets us here today.

So, as we prepare for our meeting, let's hold these threads together. Let's give thanks for the lives and witness of John Boulton and Pope Francis. Let's embrace the honesty of Thomas, trusting that our questions are welcome. Let's look back with gratitude for the signs of God's work among us this past year. And let's look forward with hope, asking for the Spirit's courage to continue being witnesses to the resurrection, sharing the peace we have received, and living fully as Easter people. For we, with all Christian people, have the confidence to say “Alleluia!  Christ is Risen!  He is risen indeed, Alleluia!”

A Sermon for John Boulton

 Text:  1 Corinthians 15. 51-58

There’s a profound sense of loss hanging in the air today, isn’t there? It’s like the silence after the final note of a beloved jazz melody. We are here to say farewell to John (Boulton), a man whose very name conjures up images of laughter, community spirit, and an unquenchable zest for life.

We have heard the powerful words of St Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians: “Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.” These are words that have echoed through centuries, words that speak of a transformation beyond our earthly comprehension, a victory over death itself.

But what does this transformation mean for us, here today, as we mourn the passing of our dear John? How do we reconcile the sting of his absence with the promise of imperishability? Perhaps the key lies not just in a future resurrection, but in the very real and tangible transformation that John brought about in our lives, in our community.

Think for a moment about Langstone and Havant without John. Imagine a village event without his infectious enthusiasm, a Monday Club gathering without his warm welcome, a street party lacking his mischievous grin – perhaps even a monkey suit appearing when least expected, just to break the ice and bring a smile to our faces. John was the heartbeat of Langstone, and latterly of St Faith’s too.  He was the organiser, the instigator, the one who effortlessly wove the threads of individual lives into the rich tapestry of community.

 In so many ways, John embodied the spirit of Christ that Paul urged the Corinthians to embrace. He loved without reservation, he served without seeking reward, and he brought people together, fostering connection and belonging. He showed us, in his own unique and wonderfully eccentric way, something of the boundless love and inclusive spirit that lies at the heart of the Christian message. He was, dare we say it, a little Christ in our midst, his life a testament to the power of love in action.

And so, as we grapple with the mystery of death and resurrection, let us consider the legacy John leaves behind. It is not etched in stone or confined to the pages of a book, but it lives on in the countless acts of kindness he inspired, in the friendships he forged, in the memories he created. The joy he spread, the laughter he provoked, the sense of community he nurtured – these are the imperishable fruits of his life. These are the ways in which we, and Langstone itself, have been changed by knowing him.

For Cecily, for John Jnr and Billy, and all of John’s family and closest friends, the pain of loss is immeasurable. But I urge you to also hold onto the profound truth that John’s love did not die with him. It lives on in you, in the values he instilled, in the memories you shared. And it lives on in this community, which is stronger and more vibrant because of the man he was.

Paul’s powerful words conclude: “Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labour in the Lord is not in vain.” John’s life was a testament to this truth. His labour of love in this community was most certainly not in vain. It has enriched our lives immeasurably.

The sting of death is real, the grief we feel is profound. But let us also remember that the power of love, the bonds of community, the joy of connection – these are forces that even death cannot extinguish. John showed us that. He lived that. And his legacy calls us to continue that work, to keep building the kind of loving and connected community that he so cherished.

So, as we say our earthly farewells to John, let us do so with gratitude for the gift of his life, for the laughter he shared, for the love he gave. And let us carry forward his spirit, ensuring that the transformation he brought to Langstone and Havant continues to ripple outwards: a testament to a life lived fully, a life that truly made a difference. Amen.