Learning to Walk in the Light—Without Tripping Over One Another

 

A sermon for the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity - 1st Service of the Week

Readings: Isaiah 58:6-11, Ephesians 4:1-13, John 12.31-36

We are a curious gathering this evening.  Not curious as in odd—though that may apply in places—but curious in the older sense: people drawn together by interest, by desire, by choice.  Nobody here has wandered in by mistake, thinking this was a parish coffee morning or a rehearsal for Songs of Praise.  We are here because we believe, in some form or another, that Christian unity matters.

And that already tells us something important.  Unity, at least at the start, is not imposed.  It is chosen.  Or perhaps more accurately, it is responded to.  Because long before any of us decided that unity was a good idea, God had already decided it was necessary.

St Paul reminds us of that with his characteristically blunt insistence:  “There is one body and one Spirit… one Lord, one faith, one baptism.”  Not six bodies, divided by worship style.  Not twelve spirits, divided by churchmanship.  One.  Singular.  Undeniable.  Unity, Paul says, is not an aspiration on the Church’s to-do list.  It is the underlying reality we spend most of our time trying to avoid.

Which may sound harsh, but let’s be honest—British Christians have become quite good at avoiding one another.  We do it very politely, of course.  We smile.  We form committees.  We hold joint services once a year in January.  And then we retreat, slightly relieved, back to our familiar buildings, our familiar liturgies, our familiar ways of doing things “properly”.

We reassure ourselves that separation is simply a matter of preference.  Some like robes, some like guitars.  Some like silence, some like choruses with hand actions.  Some like bishops, some like strong coffee and a flipchart.  And all of that is true—up to a point.  Diversity is not the enemy of unity.  Paul is very clear about that.  The Body grows precisely because it has many parts.

The problem begins when difference stops being gift and starts being justification.  When it becomes the reason we don’t have to listen too carefully, or walk too closely, or bear too much with one another.

That’s why Paul’s advice is so disarmingly practical.  He doesn’t say, “Sort out your ecclesiology.”  He says, “Walk in a manner worthy of your calling, with humility and gentleness, with patience.”  In other words, unity does not begin with a theological breakthrough; it begins with the cultivation of character.  With learning how not to roll our eyes when another Christian prays in a way we find slightly embarrassing.  With resisting the urge to mutter “well, that’s very them” under our breath.

And into that very British, very human reality comes this extraordinary Armenian gift:  a service soaked in light.  Light from east to west.  Light kindled, shared, passed from hand to hand.  It is impossible to sit through this liturgy and remain entirely cerebral.  The theology arrives through the body.  Through flame.  Through warmth.  Through movement.

Which is exactly what the Gospel insists upon.  “Walk while you have the light,” Jesus says.  Not “admire it”.  Not “write a position paper about it”.  Walk.  Because light, in the Christian imagination, is not a spotlight exposing error.  It is a path that makes forward movement possible.

That matters in a country like ours, where the Church often feels tired, diminished, slightly unsure of itself.  We are tempted to think that unity is a luxury for better times—something we can return to once we’ve sorted out attendance figures, safeguarding policies, and the small matter of the roof.  But the Armenian Church tells a different story.  Unity there has been forged not in comfort, but in survival.  Not in cultural dominance, but in vulnerability.  And still the light has been shared.

Paul knows why this is hard.  Unity requires effort because love requires effort.  “Bearing with one another” is not romantic language.  It is workshop language.  It implies weight.  Strain.  The kind of love that does not always feel rewarding in the moment.  And yet this, Paul says, is how the unity of the Spirit is maintained—not created, but maintained.  Like a fire that must be tended, not assumed.

And here’s the gentle irony of our gathering tonight.  We are already more united than we often realise.  We have prayed the Lord’s Prayer together without footnotes.  We will confess the Nicene Creed without caveats.  We will receive light from the same flame.  The foundations are already there.  The question is not whether unity exists, but whether we are willing to trust it enough to live differently because of it.

In the UK, that might look gloriously ordinary.  Churches learning to share space rather than compete for it.  Christians speaking generously of one another in public rather than defensively.  Ecumenism not as an event, but as a habit.  Not dramatic gestures, but steady faithfulness.

Because “one hope of our calling” does not mean one strategy, one structure, or one way of being Church.  It means one destination.  That Christ is drawing all things—slowly, patiently, sometimes painfully—towards himself.

So as the candles are lit tonight, let us resist the temptation to see this as a symbol only.  It is also a rehearsal.  A practice run for a Church that chooses to walk in the light together, even when the path is unfamiliar, even when we would rather take a route we already know.

Light from Light, for light.  May we have the courage not only to admire that light, but—very Britishly, very imperfectly—to follow it, side by side.

A bonfire of cassocks?

Reading: John 1.29-42

There is a great deal of movement in this morning’s service, if you listen for it carefully enough.  Not just in the Gospel — though that is where it is most obvious — but in the hymns we sing, the prayers we pray, and even the notices we skim on our way to coffee.

“Jesus calls us, o’er the tumult of our life’s wild, restless sea.”

That hymn doesn’t begin with certainty.  It begins with turbulence.  With restlessness.  With noise.  And it insists — rather cheekily — that the call of Christ is still audible even there.  

Let’s ponder, for a moment, how the Gospel describes a process of transformation within the restlessness of its main characters.  First, John the Baptist, who is doing what he does best: pointing away from himself.  “Look,” he says.  “There he is.” — pointing to Jesus.  And two of his disciples do something quietly radical.  They move.  They don’t denounce John, or reject him.  They simply walk after Jesus.

They move past and beyond a framework that had done its job.  John’s preaching was full of dramatic imagery — valleys filled in, mountains laid low, axes poised at the foot of trees.  Powerful metaphors of judgement, upheaval, and political transformation.  Necessary words, for a time.  But Andrew and Simon sense that something new is happening.  They lay down a language that no longer quite fits, and walk instead after the reality of the Messiah, Jesus himself.

And notice this: Jesus does not give them a lecture.  He doesn’t say, “here is what you must understand before you proceed.”  He asks a question.  “What are you looking for?”  And then he offers an invitation that has echoed down the centuries ever since: “Come and see.”

Andrew accepts the invitation — and immediately becomes a bridge.  He goes and finds his brother Simon and draws him into the momentum of that moment of change as well.  And before Simon has said a word, Jesus renames him.  Not because Simon has earned it, but because Christ can already see who he is becoming.

That is Epiphany faith.  Not God revealed as a solved problem, but God revealed as a summons.  A light that moves us on.

And that brings us — very deliberately — to where we are today as a church.

This morning we are launching a process of discernment about our Mission Development Plan for the next five years.  You will hear more about the practicalities shortly, during the notices.  But before it becomes a set of meetings, working groups, and documents, it is first and foremost a spiritual question.  The same one Jesus asks in the Gospel: “What are you looking for?”

Not “What can we realistically afford?”

Not even “How do we maintain the growth of recent years?”

But this question: “Where is the life of God drawing us now?”

The material we’ve produced at the back of the service sheet speaks about welcome, inclusion, spiritual searching, community engagement, and financial integrity.  All very sensible.  All very necessary.  But underneath them all lies something deeper and more demanding: a willingness to move when Christ moves.

Because here is the uncomfortable truth the Gospel insists upon.  Faithfulness sometimes requires us to let go of ideas, habits, and assumptions that once served us well.  Simon does not stop being a disciple when he follows Jesus — but he does stop being only what he was.  He discovers that God is larger than the framework that first brought him to faith.

Churches struggle with that.  We are very good at mistaking familiarity for faithfulness.  Later we will sing, “Great is thy faithfulness… thou changest not.”  And God doesn’t.  But we are not God.   God’s unchanging faithfulness very often shows itself by calling us to change.

Let me offer you a small example that has been exercising my questioning brain in recent months.  I recently met someone who told me that they were very interested in the Christian faith, and that they liked our inclusive and liberal attitude to matters of doctrine and tradition.  “But why,” they asked, “do you have to wear those silly robes?  They make you look old‑fashioned, out of date, and frankly laughable to modern people.  Like something from a comedy show, a horror film, or a cultish rite.”

Now please be re-assured.  I’m not announcing a bonfire of cassocks.  But it is always illuminating to see ourselves through other people’s eyes.  And that question is one I shall be asking the Worship Group to wrestle with as part of our Mission Plan discussions.

Which is why it matters that today also marks the beginning of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity.

The prayer at the preparation of the table puts it starkly.  We will ask God to “draw the scattered flock of Christ into a visible unity.”  Not an invisible, theoretical unity.  A visible one.  The kind that requires humility, generosity, and the courage to recognise Christ at work beyond our own theological comfort zones.

Christian unity is not achieved by pretending differences don’t exist.  Nor by insisting that one tradition has finally got everything right.  Unity begins when we accept that no single church, no single style of worship, no single set of dogmas can contain the fullness of Christ.  That, too, is movement.  And it can feel unsettling.

At the end of the service we will pray that through us “the light of God’s glory may shine in all the world.”  Not be hoarded.  Not be kept local.  But carried outward — into our community, into our partnerships with other churches, into the shared work of love and service.

Andrew didn’t persuade Simon with arguments.  He didn’t demand agreement.  He simply said, “Come and see.”  That remains our calling — in our mission planning, in our ecumenical life, and in our own discipleship.

So perhaps the question to carry with us today is this.

As we begin this shared journey of discernment, do we trust Christ enough to move forward with him? Amen.

When the Light won’t stay local…

Readings: 1 John 4.19 – 5.4 and Luke 4.14-30.

“We love because God first loved us.”  I’ll say it again: “We love because God first loved us.”  John offers that sentence, from our first reading, not as a comforting slogan but as a theological fact. Love, in Christian terms, is never something we initiate. It is always a response. God moves first. We follow — sometimes eagerly, sometimes cautiously, sometimes only once we are sure it will not cost us too much.

That, in many ways, is the logic of Epiphany itself. Epiphany is not about us discovering God by cleverness or effort. It is about God choosing to be seen. Light breaking in. Truth revealing itself, sometimes gently, sometimes uncomfortably.

Luke shows us one of those moments of revelation when Jesus returns to Nazareth. He reads Isaiah’s great vision — good news for the poor, freedom for captives, sight for the blind — and then dares to say, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

This is not just a sermon. It is an unveiling. Jesus is not offering commentary on Isaiah; he is identifying himself with it. This is who he is. This is what God looks like when God speaks in a human voice.  And at first, the revelation is warmly received. They speak well of him. They are proud. The local lad has done good. This, they think, is a Messiah they can recognise — hopeful, articulate, reassuring, and crucially, one of their own.

But Epiphany has a habit of deepening as it unfolds.  Jesus knows what they are expecting next. “Doctor,” they will say, “heal yourself. Do some of the miracles we’ve heard you did elsewhere.” Prove it. Perform. Start at home. Make this revelation work in our favour.  And it is precisely now that Jesus reveals something more.

He recalls a story about Elijah - sent not to an Israelite widow, but to a foreign woman in Sidon. He tells of Elisha healing not one of God’s chosen people, but Naaman the Syrian — an enemy general. These are not random illustrations. They are moments when Scripture itself reveals the true character of God: mercy that crosses borders, grace that refuses to be domesticated, love that will not be claimed as a local possession.

In that moment, the revelation sharpens — and the mood turns. Admiration curdles into rage. The people who welcomed him now try to destroy him. Not because they have misunderstood who he is, but because they have begun to understand all too clearly.  Epiphany, it turns out, is not always comfortable. Sometimes the light reveals truths we would rather keep in shadow.

And this is where John’s letter speaks directly into the moment. “Those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.” Not as an optional extra, but as the necessary consequence of encountering the God who has been revealed.

Because once God is revealed as love without borders, faith can no longer be used to protect our sense of superiority, identity, or entitlement. In every age — including our own — there are those who try to enlist Christianity in the service of nationalism or cultural dominance. But the Jesus revealed at Nazareth will not cooperate. His own Scriptures refuse to let him.

Which is why Epiphany is always a season of decision. Not just Who is Jesus? but What kind of world does he reveal? And who do we become if we take him seriously?

Here, at St Faith’s, we already know some of the answer.

Because the Christ revealed in Nazareth looks remarkably like the Christ quietly at work in this parish. In church doors opened daily without interrogating those who enter. In candles lit, prayers whispered, and space made for those who simply need to sit and breathe.

He is revealed in pastoral visits that offer presence rather than platitudes. In the Pallant Centre he is revealed in hosting lives that may never appear in pews but nonetheless matter deeply to God. In repair cafés, choirs, dementia groups, recovery meetings, youth theatre — places where dignity is restored one conversation at a time.

He is revealed in Little Lambs on a Friday morning, when toddlers are welcomed with mess and laughter, when exhausted parents are met with warmth rather than judgement.  He is revealed in the houses we provide, when local and refugee families are housed not as symbols but as neighbours.

None of this is accidental. It is Epiphany lived out. Light refracted through ordinary faithfulness. Isaiah’s vision taking flesh in Havant.  And yet — John will not let us stop at recognition alone.

Revelation always invites response. Love that is only observed is not yet complete. Love that is only received but never shared has stalled. And love that never stretches us beyond what is familiar risks shrinking into a faith that admires Jesus without following him.  Some among us give astonishingly of themselves. This is not a word of reproach to you — only gratitude.

But some of us are still standing at the doorway of Epiphany, content to watch the light without stepping fully into it. We come, we are nourished, we are comforted — and then we retreat to safer ground.  Luke’s Epiphany story will not let us stay there.

The love revealed in Christ leans forward. It looks for hands, time, courage, availability. It asks not, “How does this affirm who I already am?” but “Where is this light asking me to go next?”

And the grace is this: there is no single answer. There is room to hover. Room to grow. Room to step in gently. But there is no version of Epiphany that leaves us unchanged.

Nazareth wanted a Messiah they could claim. Epiphany revealed a Christ who could not be contained.

And the same Christ still walks through the crowd and goes on his way — drawing light, love and life wherever people are willing to follow.

“We love because God first loved us.”

And in this season of Epiphany, the question before us is not whether Christ has been revealed.  The question is whether we will live as though what we have seen is true.  Amen.

If You Want to Make God Laugh…

 

Text:  Matthew 2.1-12

The trouble with the first Sunday of a new year is that everyone arrives carrying invisible luggage. Not suitcases — far worse. Resolutions!  Expectations. Grand plans already wobbling slightly at the knees. January is full of brave intentions and new beginnings. “I’m going join that gym”.  “I’m going to cut down on the wine”.  “I’m definitely doing that diet”. But, if your resolutions are anything like mine, they are always subject to the golden rule of resolutions:  “I’ll start again tomorrow!”.

The Church, as ever, responds by doing something rather different to what the world would have us do.   Instead of “new beginnings”, we get Epiphany. Instead of resolutions, we get revelation. Instead of asking what we are going to do this year, the Church asks a more unsettling question: what might God choose to show us? What might the light to lighten the gentiles reveal?

The Epiphany story begins, not with insiders, but with travellers. The wise men are not Jewish. They are not local. They are astrologers — which already puts them in the category of ‘a bit odd’. And yet they are the ones who notice that something new is happening.

They see a star at its rising. Not a static beacon, not a fixed theological statement, but something that is in motion…something that suggests direction rather than certainty. And so they set off…to find out what’s going on.

And here’s the first revelation of Epiphany: despite not knowing everything, wise men go anyway.  They commit to the journey, even though they don’t know how it will end. 

When they arrive in Jerusalem, the wise men do what sensible people do when looking for a king. They go to the palace. They assume powerful Herod will welcome the new power of the Messiah.  Which turns out to be wildly optimistic.  Herod is deeply alarmed. Not curious. Not reflective. Revelation, for him, is not good news but competition. He is the kind of ruler who likes the world exactly as it is — with himself firmly at the centre. Any new light feels like an accusation.

That’s the second revelation of Epiphany: light reveals what we cling to.  Herod consults Scripture, summons experts, deploys religious language — and remains completely unchanged. It is possible, Epiphany reminds us, to know all the right answers, theologically-speaking, and still miss the point entirely.

The Magi, meanwhile, leave the palace and follow the star again. And this time it does not lead them to somewhere impressive. It stops over a house. Not a court. Not a temple. A home. A child.

Matthew says they are “overwhelmed with joy”. Not because everything suddenly makes sense, but because it finally makes contact. God is no longer abstract; no longer a theory in dusty manuscripts. God is not safely distant. No…he is close enough to kneel before.  He is here.  In a child.

That’s the third revelation of Epiphany: God chooses smallness.

And then come the gifts. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh — which sounds very romantic until you imagine the reaction you’d get by turning up to a baby shower with embalming fluid. These are not polite, practical presents. They are symbolic. They acknowledge kingship, divinity, and mortality. In other words, they recognise that this child is going to change everything — including suffering.  The fourth revelation is that Epiphany is not sentimental. The light that shines also casts shadows.  God arrives in fragility, with the reality of death and suffering baked in. 

And then, finally, comes the most easily overlooked line in the story: having been warned in a dream, the Wise Men return home by another road. No speeches. No fanfare. Just a quiet decision not to go back the way they came.

That is the final revelation of Epiphany: that encounter leads to change.  Not necessarily dramatic. Not instantly visible. But real. 

And that brings us, rather neatly, to the beginning of our new year.  Epiphany does not ask us to reinvent ourselves. It does not demand heroic resolutions or flawless spiritual performance. It simply invites attentiveness. To notice where light appears. To recognise when our assumptions — about God, about power, about success, about ourselves — might need adjusting.

The star does not show the Magi the whole route in advance. It gives them enough light for the next step. Which is probably just as well. If God showed us the entire year in January, most of us would politely decline and run away! 

Very soon, our PCC is going to ask us to think and pray about what the next five years of our journey together might look like.  And that’s good, its healthy.  We need to follow a star.  But, rather than a definite, final route-map, the Epiphany story offers us trust; trust that God is already on the move; that revelation is not something we manufacture, but something we receive. Epiphany reminds us that we are not required to have everything worked out before setting off.  As a good example, our last five year plan, drawn up in 2019, contained no inkling of the covid pandemic, which ended up reshaping many of the ideas and desires we had written down in our naivety.  How does the old saying go?  ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans!’ 

The liturgical prayers in our service today keep circling the same theme: God is a light that guides rather than blinds. His light draws rather than drives. His light meets us in ordinary places — houses, streets, tables, bread and wine — and sometimes quietly changes direction.

So as this year unfolds — with its hopes and its fears, its routines and its interruptions, and yes with its new mission plan — perhaps the Epiphany invitation is simply this: stay curious. Stay open. Pay attention to what unsettles you and what gives you joy.  And be prepared, when the time comes, and if God asks, to take another road. Not because we’ve failed. But because we’ve encountered something true.  The star’s light has revealed a new direction.

And that, for the first Sunday of a new year, is more than enough to be going on with.  Amen.

Walking in the darkness...looking for the light

 

In the stillness of this hour, when the day has finally loosened its grip on us, the Church insists on a strange claim. Not at noon, not at rush hour, not when we are at our most efficient or impressive — but now, in the small hours, when we are tired enough to stop pretending — now, says the Church, this is when God chooses to speak most clearly.

Isaiah puts it with disarming confidence: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Not the people who solved the darkness. Not the people who explained it away. But the people who walked in it. Christmas does not begin with answers. It begins with honesty.

Most of us here tonight know the story well. We know where the shepherds will appear, when the angels will sing, and exactly how many verses of O Come All Ye Faithful we can manage before our voices give out. And yet, if we are honest — and midnight invites honesty — we also know that the world this story addresses does not feel especially sorted. War has not obligingly taken a Christmas break. Anxiety has not politely waited until January. Many of us carry private griefs that no carol quite manages to touch.  The sheer number of loved ones’ names hung on our Christmas trees tell us that much.  Even joy, at Christmas, often arrives laced with exhaustion.

And into that world — not a tidy one, not a victorious one — God does not send an argument, or a system, or a set of instructions. God sends a child. Vulnerable. Wordless. Dependent. A child who cannot yet explain himself, but who already reveals something essential about the heart of God.

Luke is careful to anchor this birth in the machinery of empire. Decrees are issued. People are counted. Power is exercised from a distance. And somewhere on the edges of all that control, a young woman gives birth in borrowed space, because there is no room. That detail should never become sentimental. It is a theological statement. God arrives without privilege, without protection, without leverage. The Prince of Peace is born into a world that does not rearrange itself for him.

Which means — and this matters — that if you have come here tonight feeling slightly out of place, uncertain, unconvinced, or just quietly longing for something you can’t quite name, then you are not late to the story. You are right on time.

The angels say, “Do not be afraid.” Which is always a clue that fear is present. Fear of loss. Fear of change. Fear that the world is slipping beyond our control. Christmas does not mock those fears. It meets them. But it refuses to let them have the final word. Peace, in the biblical sense, is not the absence of trouble; it is the presence of God in the midst of it.

And that is why this service does not rush. We light candles. We sing old songs slowly. We wait in small moments of silence. We break bread. We allow ourselves to be gathered, rather than driven. Midnight Mass is the Church’s quiet rebellion against a world that tells us our worth lies in productivity, certainty, and noise.

For those of us who are here often, Christmas is a gentle but firm reminder that faith is not something we manage. It is something we receive. And for those who are here rarely, or cautiously, or simply because this night still pulls at you for reasons you can’t fully explain, the Church dares to say this: you are not required to have everything worked out in order to belong here. The shepherds didn’t. Mary didn’t. Even the wise men, still on their journey, were not sure what they would find, or precisely where to go.

In a few moments, we will come to the table. Some of us confidently. Some of us hesitantly. Some of us choosing a blessing instead of bread. And all of that is held. Because this is not a reward for the certain. It is food for the hungry.

The God we meet tonight does not stand at a distance. He lies in a manger. He places himself into human hands. He entrusts himself to a fragile world. And in doing so, he tells us something astonishing: that the darkness has not won; that love has taken flesh; that peace has a pulse.

So take this night gently. Let the light linger. Carry it with you into whatever tomorrow brings. And whether you return here next week, next year, or simply carry this moment quietly in your heart, know this: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Amen.

 

What are you doing here?

 

In the name of the God who meets us in candlelight, questions, and quiet longing. Amen.

Tonight, the place is full. That matters. It tells me something important about you. Because nobody drags themselves out on a cold December evening out of habit. Not in 2025. Not when there’s a warm sofa, a glowing screen, and plenty of Christmas viewing already queued up on iPlayer. Something has drawn you here. Something quieter than nostalgia, deeper than tradition, and—if I may suggest—more stubborn than logic.

For if we’re honest, the story we tell tonight is a strange one. Virgins. Angels. Stars that behave suspiciously like GPS systems. Shepherds receiving divine messages while minding their own business. If this were submitted as a Netflix pitch, it would be sent back with a polite note saying, “Interesting, but totally implausible.”

I imagine that many of you are sitting here thinking, I love the carols. I love the atmosphere. But I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do with all the supernatural bits. And if that’s you—let me say this clearly—you are very welcome here. You are not a second-class Christian. You are not a failure of faith. You are, in fact, standing in a very long and honourable tradition.

Because the Bible itself is stuffed full of people who respond to God not with instant belief, but with raised eyebrows. Mary herself asks, “How can this be?” Joseph assumes something has gone badly wrong. The shepherds are terrified. Even the wise men, by setting off on an epic journey across deserts, seem to be saying, We’ll believe it when we see it. Doubt, it turns out, is not the opposite of faith. It is often the doorway into it.

So what if—just for tonight—we loosen our grip on the question of whether Jesus’ birth really happened like that? And instead ask a deeper one: why does this story refuse to let us go?

I think it’s because, at its heart, the Christmas story is not really about unlikely human reproductive methods, or astronomy. It’s about where God chooses to be found. Not in palaces, but in borrowed rooms. Not in strength, but in vulnerability. Not in the centre of power, but on its margins—perhaps in a space no larger than this chapel.

This is a story that quietly but relentlessly challenges our assumptions about power. God does not arrive as a general, or a billionaire, or a social media influencer with perfect lighting. God arrives as a child—dependent, fragile, carried by ordinary people doing their best under difficult circumstances. If that sounds unconvincing, that may be precisely the point.

Christmas suggests that the sacred is not hidden in the spectacular, but woven into the ordinary. That holiness does not shout—it whispers. That love does not conquer by force, but by persistence. And that God’s way of changing the world begins not with fear, but with invitation.

You might not believe in angels with wings. But I suspect you believe in moments that break in unexpectedly. A word spoken at just the right time. A kindness that changes the course of a life. A sudden clarity that arrives when you weren’t looking for it. Call them coincidences if you like. The Bible calls them messengers.

You might have trouble believing in virgin births. But perhaps you can believe that new beginnings still happen. That something genuinely fresh can be born in places that seem exhausted or closed down. That history does not have to repeat itself forever, but can still be interrupted by hope.

You might not be sure what you believe about God at all. But something has drawn you here—to the light, to the music, to this ancient, stubborn hope that refuses to die. And maybe faith, tonight, is not about signing up to a set of supernatural claims. Maybe it’s simply about allowing yourself to be addressed. To be nudged. To be invited into a different way of seeing the world.

Because if Christmas is true—at any level—then it says this: that love is stronger than fear, that light still shines in dark places, and that the ordinary stuff of human life is precisely where God chooses to dwell.

And whether you call it belief or not, that is good news worth coming back for.

The Politics of Christmas

(Preached at the annual Community Carol Service, with members of Havant Rotary, the local Member of Parliament, the Deputy Mayor and other local politicians and charity leaders present.)

Just in case you were wondering: no partridges were harmed in the singing of that carol. 

‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ is one of those songs that begins with confidence and ends with mild panic.  Everyone starts well.  By day six, half the congregation is bluffing, a third has given up entirely, and one person is still confidently singing “five gold… something!”  It’s chaos.  Festive chaos.

And yet — it’s also rather perfect.  Because Christmas itself is a bit like that.  We spend weeks preparing for it.  We rehearse it (or at least our choirs do!).  We plan it.  We wrap it.  We over-cater for it.  And then, when it actually arrives, it doesn’t behave quite as wonderfully as we had hoped.  Children get over-excited.  Adults get over-tired.  Families are wonderful and difficult in roughly equal measure.  Christmas, when it finally turns up, is not neat.  It’s noisy.  It’s crowded.  It’s gloriously imperfect.

Which is, of course, exactly how the first Christmas was.  No carol service.  No rehearsal schedule.  No reserved seating.  Just a young couple, far from home, caught up in a census they didn’t ask for; a birth in borrowed space; surrounded by straw, animals, and rather a lot of smelly brown stuff — and visitors who turn up unannounced.

First, the shepherds.  Not the sort you’d normally put on a guest list.  Shepherds were outcasts in their society.  Their work meant they couldn’t keep ritually clean, and they even worked on the Sabbath.  Outsiders.  Not quite respectable.

Then the wise men — how many, we don’t know.  What we do know is that they were from the East.  Foreigners.  Not Jews.  Carriers of strange ideas and mystical notions about astrology — something Jewish law rejected.  And yet, somehow, they too find a welcome.

And into all of that chaos — the mud, the animals, the shepherds, the foreigners — God chooses to arrive.  Not in power.  Not in control.  But in vulnerability.  In dependency.  In the middle of real, messy, human life as it actually is.

Which is why Christmas still matters — even, perhaps especially, to those who wouldn’t describe themselves as religious.  Whether you believe the events of Christmas happened literally, or whether you see them as a myth with a message, the message at the heart of this season isn’t “be impressive”.  It isn’t “have it all sorted”.  It isn’t “get everything right”.  The message is this: ‘you matter — even here, even now, just as you are.

That’s why the angels don’t appear to emperors, but to outcast shepherds and weird foreigners.  Why the birth happens not in a palace, but in a stable.  Why the story keeps nudging our attention away from status, success and power — and back towards kindness, service, generosity, and care for the vulnerable.

Which is also why it feels so natural that this service is shared with Havant Rotary.  “Service above self” is not just a neat slogan with good alliteration.  It’s a Christmas principle.  It’s written into the story itself.  It’s the God who appears not to be served, but to serve.  It’s the story of quiet, persistent people who don’t seek the spotlight, but simply notice where help is needed — and step forward.  Just as Rotary does: with every penny raised, every shoebox filled, every food parcel delivered, every local family supported this Christmas.

Rotary — and charities like the Rowans, for whom we will raise funds tonight — remind us that Christmas charity is never about obligation, or ticking a seasonal box.  It’s about recognising that the world doesn’t magically pause its pain just because we’ve put tinsel on it.  Loneliness doesn’t take a holiday.  Illness doesn’t reschedule itself.  Poverty doesn’t suddenly find money for turkeys and presents.  Grief doesn’t politely wait until January.

The Christmas story shows us what it looks like for love to enter in — not just into our homes and hearts, but into the wider world: into our communities, and yes (let me say this gently, with professional politicians sitting in front of me) into our politics too.

Politics, at its best, is about the life of the people — the polis — it’s the shared work of shaping how we live together.  So what might that look like when it is infused with the Christmas message of love and service?

Love-filled politics doesn’t mean everyone suddenly agrees — that would be a Christmas miracle of quite a different order.  It doesn’t mean difficult decisions disappear, or budgets magically balance themselves.  Real love isn’t soft-headed or naïve.  But it does invite us to change the tone of the debate.

¾   It means refusing to treat opponents as enemies, but rather as people like us, living by the light they have received so far.

¾   It means speaking truth — always truth — without spin or convenient half-truths.

¾   It means remembering that behind every statistic is a human being, with a name, a story, a family, and fears very similar to our own.

¾   It means asking not only “is this popular?” or “is this efficient?” — both good questions in a democracy — but also “who might this hurt?” and “who might this help?”

¾   It means choosing listening over shouting, restraint over outrage, service over self-interest.

In other words, it looks rather a lot like the values we celebrate at Christmas.  So tonight, whether you came for the carols, the candles, the singing of our fabulous choirs, or simply because it’s what Havant does on this night of the year — I hope you take this with you:  Christmas is not about escaping the mess of the world.  It’s about discovering that love chooses to enter it.

And if that is true, then peace on earth doesn’t end with angel voices in the sky.  It continues — and must continue — with us.  Here in Havant.  Today, and every day.  Amen.