Jesus, the Universe, and a Baby Called Krystal

Well, what a day! Not only are we celebrating the baptism of little Krystal—beloved daughter of Paul and Maz, sister to the indomitable Adriana—but we are also witnessing something almost as momentous: Sandra, our Curate, is performing her very first baptism.

Now, there’s something quite wonderful about that. A baptism is always a team effort—God, baby, parents, godparents, church, slightly damp priest—but today, the team includes someone reaching a new milestone in her own ministry. And if you see Sandra doing a small jump at the font, don’t worry. It’s not a liturgical innovation. It’s just that the font is quite tall, and Sandra…well, isn’t.

But we have full confidence in her. What she lacks in height, she makes up for in grace—and we trust the Holy Spirit to ensure the water lands in the right place.

And what a joy this moment is. A new child welcomed into the family of faith. Promises made. Candles lit. Water splashed (on the baby, not the congregation, we hope). And of course, the rest of us—all of us—reminded of our own calling: to support, to teach, to nurture. Because raising a Christian child isn’t a solo sport. It’s a shared journey.

Our reading from Colossians may sound a little lofty for a family service—it begins with “He is the image of the invisible God,” which is a far cry from nappies and naptimes. But there’s something powerful in that cosmic scale. Paul is telling us that Christ is not just some helpful guru with good advice about sharing toys and saying your prayers. Christ is the beginning and the end, the head of the church, the one in whom all things hold together.

And then, just when we’ve soared to the rhetorical stratosphere, Paul brings us gently back to earth: “It is he whom we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone in all wisdom, so that we may present everyone mature in Christ.”

Mature in Christ.

That’s our goal—not just for Krystal, but for each of us. And we’re not born with it. Christian maturity isn’t automatic. It grows slowly, through the love of a family, the encouragement of a church, the patient teaching of godparents, and the occasional poorly attended PCC meeting. It’s a process. And it starts small—like a child sitting at someone’s feet and listening.

Which brings us to Mary and Martha.

You can picture the scene. Jesus pops in for a visit. Martha springs into action—rattling pans, fluffing cushions, laying the table, searching for that one matching plate that always goes missing just before a guest arrives. Meanwhile, Mary… sits, and listens. At Jesus’ feet. While Martha stews.

And when Martha complains—quite understandably—Jesus says, gently but firmly, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things. But only one thing is needed.”

Now, I don’t think Jesus is saying chores don’t matter. He’s not issuing a blanket ban on housework. Some of us quite like a well-fluffed cushion. But he is pointing to a deeper truth: that it’s all too easy to be busy about the wrong things. To forget what truly matters.

There’s a message here for every household—but especially for new parents. Because let’s be honest: raising a baby is hard. There are a hundred urgent things screaming for attention—feeding, changing, burping, laundry, locating the lost dummy at 2am. It’s very easy to become a Martha.

But in the middle of all the flurry, Jesus invites us to make space for the Mary moments. The listening. The learning. The quiet reassurance that we are loved, not because we’ve got everything under control, but because we belong to him.

And that’s what we want for Krystal. And for Adriana, as she grows into her role as big sister and co-adventurer in faith. And for all the children of this church. Not perfection. Not performance. But maturity in Christ. A life rooted in love and wisdom, shaped by prayer and kindness and courage.

So let’s make that our promise today. Paul and Maz, you are not alone. Godparents, this is your gig too. And church family, this is our shared calling: it’s your job and mine to surround these children with grace and laughter and faith.

Let’s be a Mary-minded community in a Martha-shaped world. Let’s make time for what matters. And let’s trust that the Christ who holds all things together can certainly hold this family—and this little church—together, too.

And if the font gets a bit splashy in the process… well, that’s baptismal abundance. Amen.

Whose Land Is It Anyway?

Readings

Exodus 3.13–20 (NRSV)

But Moses said to God, ‘If I come to the Israelites and say to them, “The God of your ancestors has sent me to you”, and they ask me, “What is his name?” what shall I say to them?’

God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM.’ He said further, ‘Thus you shall say to the Israelites, “I AM has sent me to you.”’

God also said to Moses, ‘Thus you shall say to the Israelites, “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you”: This is my name for ever, and this my title for all generations.

'Go and assemble the elders of Israel, and say to them, “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, has appeared to me, saying: I have given heed to you and to what has been done to you in Egypt.  I declare that I will bring you up out of the misery of Egypt, to the land of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, a land flowing with milk and honey.”

'They will listen to your voice; and you and the elders of Israel shall go to the king of Egypt and say to him, “The LORD, the God of the Hebrews, has met with us; let us now go a three days’ journey into the wilderness, so that we may sacrifice to the LORD our God.” I know, however, that the king of Egypt will not let you go unless compelled by a mighty hand.  So I will stretch out my hand and strike Egypt with all my wonders that I will perform in it; after that he will let you go.

 

Matthew 11.28–30

‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’

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"Whose Land Is It Anyway?”

When Moses stands before the burning bush in the wilderness, he is not an ideal candidate for leadership. He is a fugitive, a stammerer, and a man with more questions than answers. “Who shall I say sent me?” he asks, and God replies with the most curious name of all: “I Am who I Am.” Not a tribal deity, not a divine mascot, not the god of conquest or empire, but simply Being itself—dynamic, ungraspable, uncontainable. Tell them, says the voice from the flames, “I Am has sent you”.

And then comes the promise—the same promise once whispered to Abraham beneath a starry sky, repeated now to Moses: that God will bring the people out of bondage in Egypt and into a land “flowing with milk and honey.” It is an old promise, one bound up with hope and longing, but also—let us be honest—one that has caused centuries of bloodshed.

Because when the land becomes the prize, when divine promise is confused with political entitlement, the name of God is too often taken in vain. The claim to sacred land—made in God’s name—has led generation after generation to war. And today, the world watches in horror as that same strip of earth, sacred to Jew, Christian and Muslim alike, becomes a battleground of suffering and siege. We see in real time the consequences of centuries of theology twisted into nationalism: promises forged into weapons; faith manipulated to justify occupation, retaliation, and erasure.

Now, I am not naïve. I know that the Bible is full of land promises. The Book of Joshua tells of conquests, Ezra and Nehemiah tell of purifying the people of foreign wives and influence, of rebuilding not just the walls of Jerusalem but the walls of identity—rigid, exclusive, sometimes cruel. These texts were written by a people traumatised by exile, desperate to recover a sense of purpose and belonging. But trauma has a way of hardening boundaries. The post-Exilic writers saw holiness as separation; they painted foreigners as threats, and purity as the pathway to peace. Scholars today—at least the honest ones—recognise that these texts are not historical reportage but theological memory. They are attempts to explain survival, not blueprints for divine real estate.

And yet, that memory lives on—in slogans, in settler movements, in policies that demolish homes and expel communities, all in the name of ancient mandate. As Christians, we must not be complicit in that misuse of Scripture. We must not remain silent when our sacred texts are used to sanctify apartheid. If God is truly “I Am”—the One who is Being itself—then God does not belong to any nation or border. God cannot be owned, weaponised, or colonised.

The Hebrew prophets knew this. Jeremiah, writing amid political disaster, refused to preach easy comfort. He called instead for justice, for repentance, for humility. He told the people that the Temple would not save them unless they learned to care for the widow and the orphan. He warned against putting trust in walls, whether of stone or ideology. “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you,” he wrote to the exiles in Babylon. In other words: bless the nations, don’t dominate them. Be a light to the world, not a torch of vengeance.

And Jesus, a son of that prophetic tradition, takes it even further. In Matthew’s Gospel, he stands among the weary and the crushed, and says: “Come to me, all you who are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” Not rest in the sense of laziness or retreat, but shalom—wholeness, harmony, peace. He doesn’t speak of conquest or inheritance. He doesn’t promise land or power. He promises a way: “Take my yoke upon you… for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Now there’s a strange thing. The yoke, in rabbinic tradition, was often used to describe the law—the whole weight of religious obligation. Jesus, it seems, is offering a different law. Not one etched in stone, but one etched in mercy. Not a code of exclusions, but a Gospel that stretches outward. And when, after resurrection, he gathers his ragtag followers and sends them into all the world, he does not tell them to claim the earth, but to bless it—to teach, to baptise, to serve.

We must be honest, friends. There is no such thing as divinely mandated land ownership. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. What we are given is not dominion, but responsibility. The earth is the Lord’s—not ours. And the people who dwell in the land—Israeli and Palestinian, Jew and Muslim and Christian alike—are not pawns in a scriptural drama, but beloved children of God, aching for peace.

So we must ask ourselves, what is our role now? What does it mean to be people of promise? It means we stand not with those who claim divine backing for missiles or checkpoints, but with those who mourn. It means we amplify the voices of peace—Jewish, Muslim, Christian—who call for justice, not vengeance. It means we reject any theology that turns God into a landlord and turns our faith into a deed of ownership.

Moses stood before the burning bush and learned that God is not contained in one place or name. Jesus stood before a weary crowd and offered not territory, but rest. Let us, then, be people who carry that message—into our politics, our pulpits, and our prayers. The world does not need more crusades. It needs more courage. It needs more shalom.

Amen.

Who will the next Archbishop of Canterbury be?

Readings:  Romans 14.7-12 and Luke 15.1-10 (the parable of the lost coin/lost sheep)

On the Feast of St Leonard and the Commemoration of ++William Temple

St Augustine of Canterbury's chair is empty. Some say it’s cursed. Others say it’s just vacant. But one way or another, no one’s been brave — or foolish — enough to sit in it yet.  This is partly for administrative reasons - because it has taken months for the church of England's democratic structures to grind into being.  But I suspect there's more to it than that.  Which of our small cadre of bishops would even want the job?

The job of Archbishop of Canterbury has never been easy. In fact, if William Temple were still around, he might well say: “I told you so.” He lasted barely two years in the job before dying of overwork — and that was during the Second World War. His friends said he burned too brightly. His critics said he meddled in politics. But no one ever accused him of sitting on the fence. He believed a bishop should be a theologian, a pastor, a statesman — and that the Church should speak not just to the faithful, but to the poor, the frightened, and the exploited. Which, I suppose, is still the job description. On paper.

But in practice, who in their right mind would want the job now? It’s a poisoned chalice, some say — and maybe they’re right. Whoever next puts on that mitre will be expected to hold together a Communion that’s already falling apart. They’ll be criticised if they move too fast and condemned if they move too slow. They’ll be mocked by the secular press, shouted at by the religious extremes, and dissected in real time on Twitter. So perhaps it’s no wonder the process is taking so long. What bishop in their right mind wants to be nailed to that particular cross?

And yet — and yet — someone must. Because, as Paul reminds us in that fierce, tender letter to the Romans: “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves.” The Church, in all her mess and muddle, is still called to be Christ’s Body. Still called to search and to serve. Still called to hold the line — not against the world, but for it.

And I think that’s what Jesus is getting at in the parables we’ve heard today. The sheep that goes astray — the coin that slips out of reach — these are not just metaphors for individuals who have wandered from God. They are metaphors for *value*. The shepherd searches not because he’s sentimental, but because that sheep matters. The woman turns her house upside down because the coin is worth something. That which is lost still has value — still has purpose — and still belongs.

If that’s true of individuals, it’s true of institutions too. It’s easy to scoff at the Church these days. Easy to throw up our hands at the bureaucracy, the indecision, the PR disasters. Easy to say the whole thing’s lost. But if Jesus still counts sheep and still counts coins — if nothing is too lost for him to bother with — then even the Church of England might just be worth saving. Even the see of Canterbury might still matter. Not because it’s powerful. Not because it’s perfect. But because it *belongs* to Christ — and so do we.

Another favourite bishop of mine is St Leonard - a sixth-century Frenchman who came the patron saint of prisoners. And that’s a curious detail, because Leonard was never a prisoner himself. He was a nobleman. He had the king’s ear. But he used that privilege to plead for captives. He intervened for their freedom. He turned his back on status and spent his life in service. In that sense, he and William Temple might have understood each other rather well.

And perhaps that’s the call to us too. Not to chase the mitre or flee from it, but to take seriously what we’ve been given. Privilege, freedom, faith — none of these are possessions. They are vocations. And just as Leonard used his position to plead for the imprisoned, so must we use our place — as Christians, as Anglicans, as members of this bruised and battling Church — to plead for those who still feel lost. Lost in systems. Lost in silence. Lost in shame.

So, yes — we wait. The Archbishop’s chair remains empty. The Church’s unity remains fragile. And the questions we face are many and real — about marriage, about mission, about meaning. But we do not face them alone. “Whether we live or whether we die,” says Paul, “we are the Lord’s.” Which means the burden is not ours to carry alone, and the future is not ours to control.

But we do have this moment — this calling — this little patch of the kingdom, in Havant entrusted to us. And maybe that’s enough. Enough to pray for wisdom. Enough to speak for the outcast. Enough to search for what’s been lost. Because in the end, the parables are not about the sheep or the coin — they are about the Seeker, the one who seeks, the relentless, rejoicing, ridiculous God who searches where we would give up, and who pardons where we would judge.

So let us be foolish enough to keep seeking. Let us be brave enough to keep belonging. And let us be kind enough to keep the door open — for the new archbishop, for the prodigal, for the prisoner, for the one coin that no one else remembers.

Amen.

Doubting St Thomas!

Readings (from the NRSV):  

Ephesians 2:19–22 

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God,  built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.  In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord;  in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling-place for God. 

John 20:24–29 

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”  Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” 

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There are moments in life when someone says your name in a certain tone, and you know you’re in trouble. For me, that tone is “Thomas…” Usually accompanied by a sigh and some level of disappointment. And I confess, it’s a name that has a bit of baggage. We Thomases have a reputation: “Doubting,” they call us—as if that’s the worst thing a person could be.

I rather like Thomas. Not just because we share a name, but because he’s honest. Gritty. He doesn’t do groupthink. While the rest of the disciples are insisting that they’ve seen a miracle – the risen Jesus, Thomas says what many of us are thinking: “Unless I see the mark of the nails… I will not believe.” That’s not unbelief. That’s just a refusal to fake it. He needs to know the truth for himself – not just receive, uncritically, the truth of others.

And let’s be honest: the Church has spent far too long faking it..  We’ve become experts at acting as though belief is something we can tick off like a shopping list—Trinity? Check. Resurrection? Check. Virgin birth, heaven, angels, miracles, final judgement? Check, check, check. But faith is not a checklist. It’s a relationship. And like any real relationship, it has its moments of doubt, frustration, miscommunication and—yes—even absence.

Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus appeared the first time. No one knows where he was. Maybe he was off getting food for the others. Maybe he was off on his own, trying to make sense of what had happened. But here’s what matters: when they told him “we’ve seen the Lord,” he didn’t pretend to go along with it. He told the truth of his heart. And when Jesus appeared again, a week later, it was not to scold him. It was not to shame him. It was to offer exactly what Thomas had asked for. Proof.

Now I know, Jesus says “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” But I don’t think he’s rebuking Thomas. I think he’s blessing the rest of us. The ones who don’t get a private audience. The ones who wrestle with faith in the quiet corners of their lives, without visions or miracles or appearances behind locked doors. Jesus meets the doubter with grace. And he meets the rest of us too—with mystery.

And that’s where the reading from Ephesians comes in. Paul, never one for understatement, lifts our eyes with his thunderous prose... “You are no longer strangers and aliens, but citizens with the saints… built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ himself as the cornerstone.”

It’s tempting, especially today, to hear that and imagine a kind of spiritual fortress—strong, unshakable, closed to outsiders. But that’s not what Paul is saying. This isn’t about gatekeeping. This is about belonging. You are not strangers. You are not outsiders. You are part of the household. You belong. Doubts and all.

And so, dear friends, today we honour a saint who dared to doubt. A saint who didn’t settle for second-hand certainty. A saint who wrestled with the hardest truth of all: that death might not be the end. And—spoiler alert—he lost that wrestling match. Resurrection won. Life won. Love won.

Thomas may have doubted the resurrection, but when he finally saw the risen Christ, he didn’t just nod and say “OK, fair enough.” No. He fell to his knees and cried out the highest confession of faith in the whole Gospel: “My Lord and my God!” Thomas, the doubter, becomes Thomas, the believer—though not in the shallow sense of accepting doctrine. He becomes the one who knows, deeply and personally, who Jesus is. Not a ghost. Not a myth. But God-with-us.

Now, if I may, I want to say a word to Sandra, who begins, this week, her ministry as a priest. Sandra, do not fear the doubters. They are your allies. They will ask the hard questions that keep your theology honest. They will resist the easy answers that can so easily rot into slogans. And when you yourself have your moments of Thomas-like honesty—because you will—they will carry you. Because the Church is not built on certainty. It is built on grace.

And to the rest of us, let’s stop pretending that doubt is a problem to be solved. It is, more often than not, the sign of a living faith. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart… Try to love the questions themselves.” Thomas loved the questions. And Jesus loved Thomas.

So when people call us Doubting Thomases, let’s wear the name with pride. Because the world doesn’t need more people who pretend to know it all. It needs people brave enough to say: “I’m not sure. But I’m still here. Still hoping. Still reaching out.” Just like Thomas did.

Amen.