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.

This is what love looks like...

 

 “Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me; and whoever receives me receives him who sent me.”

— John 13:20

 

This morning we drop into a scene that should make us slightly uncomfortable—but in a good way. Jesus has just knelt down and washed the feet of his disciples. It’s the kind of intimate, earthy, awkward moment that probably had the disciples staring at each other thinking, “Is this really happening?”

Let’s be honest: feet are not the most glamorous body part. And in first-century Palestine, they were not just smelly—they were practically a public health hazard. And yet, Jesus kneels with a towel, a basin, and no rubber gloves. He chooses the role of servant, and in doing so, turns the whole idea of power on its head.

“Servants are not greater than their master,” he says, “nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them.” In other words: if I, your teacher, am down here with dust under my fingernails, then you can’t exactly walk around acting like royalty.

Jesus seems to be saying, “Don’t get ideas above your station, folks. This is what love looks like—it looks like kneeling, like washing, like serving. It’s not flashy, and it doesn’t come with a loyalty card or performance bonus.”

And then, just as we’re starting to feel inspired by this beautiful act of humble love… he says, “I’m not speaking of all of you. I know whom I have chosen.” Cue ominous music. Jesus is aware that one of them—Judas—is going to betray him. “The one who eats my bread has lifted his heel against me.”

Now, there’s something deeply poignant about this. In the same breath as he teaches about love and service, Jesus acknowledges betrayal. It’s like he’s saying: even when we do the most loving thing, someone might still turn against us. And yet—he washes Judas’s feet anyway.

Let’s pause there. Judas gets his feet washed. Jesus doesn’t skip him. He doesn’t say, “Er, actually Judas, why don’t you just sit this one out?” No. Even betrayal doesn’t stop love from bending low.

There’s a whole sermon just in that: love that includes even the one who will hurt us. Now, I’m not saying you should go round inviting all your enemies over for a pedicure. But it does challenge us. It suggests that grace is not just for the deserving. It’s for everyone. Even the awkward ones. Even the ones who vote differently. Even your cousin who brings up conspiracy theories at Christmas dinner.

And then Jesus says something truly astonishing: “Whoever receives one whom I send receives me.” This is big. Jesus is saying: *When people receive you—the towel-bearing, foot-washing, grace-sharing you—they are receiving Christ. And when they receive Christ, they are receiving God.*

Which is quite a promotion, really. You may have thought you were just making soup for your neighbour, or volunteering at the food bank, or listening patiently to someone’s rather long-winded story—but according to Jesus, that’s divine work. Sacred work.

There is no such thing as *just* kindness. There is no *ordinary* love. When it’s done in the spirit of Christ, it becomes a way in which God is made visible.

Now, this doesn’t mean we suddenly need to get very pious about everything. “Behold, I bring thee a casserole, in the name of the Lord!” No, please don’t. That’s weird.

But it does mean that every act of compassion—every quiet, humble, loving thing—is an echo of what Jesus did on that floor with a towel and a basin.

In progressive Christianity, we often talk about how faith is not about believing six impossible things before breakfast, but about how we live. And Jesus affirms this here. He doesn’t say, “Blessed are you if you analyse these things correctly,” or “Blessed are you if you develop a sound theological framework for servanthood.” He says, *“You are blessed if you do them.”*

This is good news for us—those of us who have questions, doubts, and an occasional inability to remember where Leviticus is. (It’s near the beginning, if that helps.)

So let’s not overcomplicate things. The Christian life isn’t about perfection or performance. It’s about presence. Showing up. Bending down. Washing feet—not literally, unless you’re into that—but metaphorically: helping, including, lifting up.

You don’t need to be a saint or a scholar. Just bring your towel. Be willing to serve. And recognise the sacred in the ones you serve, too.

Jesus says, “Whoever receives you, receives me.” So go ahead. Be received. Be humble. Be slightly ridiculous in your generosity. And trust that somewhere in all that, God is being revealed.

Amen.

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