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).

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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.
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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.