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.

Stepping over the sick

 

Text John 5.1-9

There was once a little country church, very traditional, with a leaky roof and a loyal congregation of about 12. One Sunday, just as the service began, a huge clap of thunder shook the building and in through the back doors burst a man dressed head to toe in red, with horns, a cape, and a trident. It was the Devil himself.

People screamed and scattered—diving behind pews, leaping through windows, knocking over flower arrangements. Within seconds, the church was empty… except for one old fellow sitting calmly in the front row.

Satan stomped down the aisle and growled, “Do you not know who I am?”

The old man said, “Yup.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” roared the Devil.

The man leaned back in the pew and said, “Been married to your sister for 48 years.”

That’s the kind of story I like—surprising, funny, and, if we’re honest, just a little bit close to home. Because many of us have lived through a few hellish seasons ourselves. We’ve endured things that would’ve sent lesser folk running for the hills—or at least out the side door of the church. And that’s exactly the world into which today’s Gospel reading speaks.

Jesus arrives at the Pool of Bethesda, near the Sheep Gate in Jerusalem. It’s a well-known healing site—people believed that every now and then, the waters would stir, and the first person in would be healed. It was like divine hopscotch for the desperate. Around the pool lay a crowd of invalids—blind, lame, paralysed—each hoping they’d be quick enough, lucky enough, to get their turn.

And into this sea of suffering walks Jesus. He sees one man—just one—who’s been there, waiting, for 38 years. That’s not just a long time to be ill; that’s a long time to be overlooked. And Jesus asks him: “Do you want to be made well?”

The man doesn’t even say yes. He offers a well-practised complaint: “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool. Others always get there first.” And Jesus, with no further ceremony, simply says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” And the man does.

But what about everyone else?

It’s a hard question, especially for those of us who have sat beside our own pools of disappointment for many years. Bad knees. Failing eyesight. Loneliness. Grief. Unanswered prayers. Why didn’t Jesus heal the others that day? Why that one man, and not the rest?

Now, as a progressive Christian, I’ll admit I don’t get too hung up on the historicity of the miracle. I’m not terribly worried about whether or not this event happened exactly as John describes it. What intrigues me more is the meaning of the story—what truth it holds for us today, especially for those of us who haven’t experienced a miracle, who’ve not leapt from our metaphorical stretchers.

First, notice this: the man is healed not because of his great faith or virtue. He doesn’t make a beautiful declaration of belief, confess his sins and ask Jesus into his life.  He doesn’t even say thank you! The healing is sheer grace. Unearned. Unexpected. And that, I think, is part of the point. God’s grace is not a reward for good behaviour. It is not limited to the fast, the strong, or the pious. It comes—even now—as a gift.

Second, John calls miracles “signs”—and signs always point beyond themselves. This one, I believe, points to something deeper than physical healing. It points to Jesus’ refusal to accept a system where healing is a competition—where the sick are left to fight each other for a single shot at wellness. Jesus doesn’t help the man get into the pool. He abolishes the need for the pool altogether.

Which brings us to Acts, and to Lydia—the first recorded convert in Europe. Lydia, a woman of means and influence, uses her new faith not to polish her spiritual credentials but to open her home. She creates space. She welcomes the apostles. She builds community. That’s the new miracle. Not water stirred by angels, but people stirred by compassion. A Church where healing is not a prize for the quickest, but a shared calling to care.

So what does this mean for those of us still waiting?

Well—perhaps healing won’t always look like a cure. Perhaps it looks like dignity. Like being seen. Like someone noticing your pain instead of stepping over it. Perhaps it looks like other church members taking the trouble to learn your name, or phoning you when you're lonely, or sitting beside you when the news is bad.  Perhaps healing means you’re not alone anymore.

And perhaps this story reminds us that even if our bodies are still aching, our spirits can be lifted. Because grace does not depend on our strength or speed or even our faithfulness. It just comes. Sometimes it comes through a friend. Sometimes through laughter. Sometimes through a moment of stillness when we realise we are loved.

So today, let’s not get stuck asking why Jesus didn’t heal everyone at the pool. Let’s ask: how can we be the sign now? How can we be the ones who stop stepping over each other and start lifting each other up?

Because the real miracle might just be this: that a tired, imperfect, leaky-roofed Church like ours could become the very body of Christ—carrying healing, not as magic, but as mercy. And the pool we’ve waited beside for so long? Maybe, just maybe, it’s already stirred.  Amen.

Who is in and who is out of God's kingdom?

Texts: Acts 15.7–21 and John 15.9–11

John 15:9-11

As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.

Let’s be honest. For too long, the Church has been obsessed with who’s in and who’s out. It’s been a bouncer at the cosmic nightclub, checking IDs, squinting at dress codes, making sure no “undesirables” slip past. We’ve spent centuries drawing lines in the sand, building fences, and crafting intricate theological obstacle courses. All in the name of God, of course.  But what about Jesus? What did he say?

 Before we answer that questions, let’s look first at Acts 15. The Jerusalem Council. A bunch of earnest, well-meaning folks, scratching their heads, arguing, debating. “Do these Gentile newbies need to be circumcised? Do they need to follow all the old rules?” A serious question, right? For them, it was everything. Purity. Identity. Who belongs to God’s chosen people?

 And then Peter stands up. Old Peter, impulsive Peter, the one who denied Jesus three times and then wept bitterly. He speaks with an authority born of grace, not rules. “God made no distinction,” he says. “He purified their hearts by faith.” No hoops. No hurdles. Just faith. Just love.

 And James, wise James, quotes the prophet Amos: “that all other peoples may seek the Lord.” All peoples. Not just the ones who look like us, talk like us, or believe exactly like us. Not just the ones who fit our carefully constructed theological boxes.

 They landed on a few practical guidelines. Don’t eat sacrificed meat, don’t eat blood, don’t eat strangled animals, and keep yourselves from sexual immorality. Practical stuff for living together, not obscure rituals for proving your worthiness. It was about making space, not building walls. It was about loving acceptance. It was about being the kingdom, not just debating its entrance requirements.

 Now, let’s turn to John 15. Jesus. Our Jesus. The one who walked among us, ate with outcasts, touched the untouchable. What was big message? Was it a detailed blueprint of salvation mechanics? A forensic analysis of sin and atonement?

 No. He says, plain as day, “Abide in my love.” Not "Understand the intricacies of my atonement." Not "Debate the timing of my return." "Abide in my love." And how do we do that? “If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love.”

 And what are his commandments? Are they the 613 intricate laws, that the Pharisees loved? No. He boiled it down to two. Love God. Love your neighbour as yourself. And then he gave us a new one: “Love one another as I have loved you.”  This is not rocket science, people. It’s heart science.

 For too long, we’ve made Christianity about believing the right things about Jesus, rather than living the way Jesus lived. We’ve majored in theological propositions and minored in compassion. We’ve built magnificent cathedrals to complex doctrines, while the hungry still starve, the lonely still yearn, and the marginalized still suffer.

 Yes, Christian tradition rightly points to the cross. Jesus’ ultimate act of self-giving love. A profound mystery. A powerful symbol of radical grace. But Jesus himself, in his own ministry, emphasized how we should live. He showed us the way. He is the way. The way of radical, extravagant, inclusive love.

 So, here’s the rub. Are we going to keep arguing over who’s in and who’s out, just like those earnest folks at the Jerusalem Council almost did?  Or are we going to follow their lead, and Jesus’ lead, and focus on expanding the circle?

 Are we going to get bogged down in theological gymnastics, or are we going to get on with the business of loving? Loving our God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength. And loving our neighbour, all our neighbours, especially the ones society labels as “other” or “stranger,” just as Jesus loved us.

 This is where the joy is. This is where the abundant life is found. Not in proving our righteousness, but in pouring out our love. Not in being right, but in being light. 

 So, let’s go forth, not as bouncers, but as welcomers. Not as gatekeepers, but as bridge-builders. Let’s live out Jesus’ commandments of love. Let’s abide in his love. And in doing so, let the joy of the Lord be our strength, and a beacon to a world desperate for true, unconditional love. Amen.