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.