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.