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.