Dinghies, Dukes and Dinner parties

Readings: Hebrews 13.1–8, 15, 16 and Luke 14.1, 7–14.

Imagine you’re at a dinner party. You’ve been carefully seated—well away from Uncle Derek, who voted Brexit and loves Tommy Robinson, and Auntie Edna, who thinks Covid was invented by Bill Gates to sell microchips. But then, someone more important arrives. Suddenly, chairs scrape back, people shuffle up, and you’re left clutching your bread roll at the far end of the table, squeezed between the dog and the radiator. That’s the scene in Luke’s Gospel. A first-century dinner party, but it feels suspiciously like Christmas with the in-laws.

Jesus, as usual, ruins the party by pointing out the obvious: “Why are you all elbowing for the best seats? Stop it. You look ridiculous.” And then he turns to the host: “Oh, and while we’re at it, why did you only invite your mates and people who’ll invite you back? If you want to throw a proper feast, invite the people who can’t pay you back. Invite the poor, the lame, the blind. Make your life one big risk in favour of people who’ll never return the favour.”

That’s not etiquette advice. That’s not the New Testament guide to ancient banqueting. That’s revolution.

And then Hebrews piles on: let mutual love continue. Show hospitality to strangers, because some have entertained angels without knowing it. Remember those in prison (like detention centres) as if you were there yourself. Remember the tortured, as if it were your body.

That’s radical. It’s not “be polite to strangers,” or “offer them a nice cup of tea if they look lost.” It’s treat the stranger as if they were Christ himself.

Now, let’s name the elephant in the room—or rather, the dinghy in the Channel. Immigration. The word that makes even the politest dinner party feel like a Question Time audience. At the moment, our nation is doing what we Brits do best: hand-wringing. Nobody wrings their hands like the British. We’ve got a national PhD in it. We wring them about the weather, about how our queue at Tesco is moving slower than the other one, about how “you can’t get a plumber these days.” And right now, we’re hand-wringing – and flag-waving - about immigration.

On one side: people rightly and properly concerned that our schools, hospitals, and housing can’t cope. On the other: people saying that anyone who voices those fears must be a swivel-eyed far-right extremist. And like all family arguments, the truth is stuck somewhere between Uncle Derek shouting about dinghies and Auntie Edna ranting about billionaires.

Because the pressures are real. This tiny island has only 10% of its land available to build on. Meanwhile, about 25,000 people—roughly the crowd at Fratton Park—own and control the other 90% of it. Just imagine that for a moment: the whole of Britain, controlled by one football crowd. 

So yes, if we’re going to talk about pressures on housing, services, infrastructure—we have to talk about land, wealth, and who’s hoarding it. But it’s much easier for politicians to point at the strangers in the dinghies than the dukes, church commissioners or royalty in their estates. It’s always easier to blame the powerless than challenge the powerful.  It’s easier to metaphorically shoot the stranger, so that the actual shooting of grouse can continue unabated.

And here’s where the Bible becomes dangerous. Because some people do the old trick of shoehorning Scripture into their politics. You know the type: one verse, ripped out of context, slapped on a banner, marched through London, job done. The truth is: Jesus never had to worry about planning permission in Havant, or argue with the drugs companies about the price of medicine, or worry about the budget to train new teachers. It would be dishonest to say the Bible gives us a ready-made immigration policy. That way lies madness—and the kind of religious football match where everyone claims God’s on their team.

But what the Bible does give us is a mirror. It asks: what kind of people are we? When we look at the stranger, do we see a threat—or do we dare to glimpse an angel in disguise? When we think about prisons and detention centres, do we shrug—or do we imagine ourselves in the cell? When we plan our guest list, do we only invite people who’ll bring pudding—or do we take a risk on people who’ve got nothing to bring?

That mirror is uncomfortable. It reflects our fears as well as our hopes. It reminds us that hospitality is costly, and that loving the stranger will sometimes stretch our patience. (Especially if they sing karaoke at 2am. Which, to be fair, is also true of Uncle Derek.) But it also reminds us that without the stranger, our table is incomplete.

Now, let’s have a bit of fun with this. Imagine the heavenly banquet. Most people picture something like Downton Abbey, all polite waiters and orchestral music. But I reckon it’s more like a church bring-and-share supper. You know the kind: 48 quiches, three people brought trifle, one mysterious casserole that nobody touches, and at least one bottle of Blue Nun hiding at the back.

Everyone’s there: the ones we like, the ones we don’t, the ones we thought God would never invite. The awkward cousin. The bloke who sings out of tune. Even Uncle Derek. Imagine trying to rearrange the seating plan of heaven! “Sorry, Lord, could we just move Auntie Edna down a bit? I really don’t want to sit next to her.”

The truth is, we don’t get to choose who God invites. We just get to decide whether we’ll join in.

And here’s a very British thought: heaven will have to have a queue. There has to be. We Brits would all be too nervous without one. And in that queue, you’ll be standing next to people you never imagined. The refugee, the single mum, the duke with his 12,000 acres, the Daily Mail reader, the Guardian columnist, and—yes—Uncle Derek. And God will hand us all the same plate, the same welcome, the same love.

So what does that mean for us now? It means when the news is shouting about dinghies, and the pub is full of theories, and the dinner table is getting heated again—we might remember this: Jesus says the best parties are the ones where you’re surprised by the guest list. Hebrews says: don’t be shocked if the stranger turns out to be an angel.

Yes, the pressures are real. We need homes, schools, hospitals, and honest politics. But let’s not make the mistake of blaming the wrong people. Because if Scripture is a mirror, it shows us a God who is reckless with love, indiscriminate with mercy, and stubbornly determined to fill the table with strangers. And that’s the only kind of feast worth going to.

So… shall we stop elbowing for the best seats, and make some room? Because the table is bigger than we think, and the host is far more generous than we dare imagine.

Why am I here? (And Other Dangerous Questions). A sermon for the Feast of Saint Augustine of Hippo.

Feast of St Augustine of Hippo

Ecclesiasticus 38.34b–39.10
How different the one who devotes himself
to the study of the law of the Most High!
He seeks out the wisdom of all the ancients,
and is concerned with prophecies;
he preserves the sayings of the famous
and penetrates the subtleties of parables;
he seeks out the hidden meanings of proverbs
and is at home with the obscurities of parables.
He serves among the great
and appears before rulers;
he travels in foreign lands
and learns what is good and evil in the human lot.
He sets his heart to rise early
to seek the Lord who made him,
and to petition the Most High;
he opens his mouth in prayer
and asks pardon for his sins.
If the great Lord is willing,
he will be filled with the spirit of understanding;
he will pour forth words of wisdom of his own
and give thanks to the Lord in prayer.
The Lord will direct his counsel and knowledge,
as he meditates on his mysteries.
He will show the wisdom of what he has learned,
and will glory in the law of the Lord’s covenant.
Many will praise his understanding;
it will never be blotted out.
His memory will not disappear,
and his name will live through all generations.
Nations will speak of his wisdom,
and the congregation will proclaim his praise.

Matthew 23.8–12

Jesus said to his disciples, ‘But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all students. And call no one your father on earth, for you have one Father—the one in heaven. Nor are you to be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Messiah. The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.’

Sermon

It’s always a bit awkward when today’s Gospel gets read in church. Jesus says, “Call no one Father on earth, for you have one Father in heaven.” And then we look around at a church stuffed with Fathers, Mothers, Reverends, Very Reverends, Venerables, Right Reverends, Canons, Deans, Bishops, and Archbishops – called Most Reverend, or ‘Your Grace’!  Honestly, it sounds less like a church and more like an episode of Downton Abbey.

And I say this as someone who occasionally gets called “Father.” Personally, I prefer Tom. Or Rector, or Canon if you must. But “Father” always makes me twitch a little, because of this very reading. Titles aren’t evil, but they are dangerous. They can puff us up, and Jesus says, “Don’t.”

Now, part of it is just human awkwardness, isn’t it? We’re not very good with titles in this country. You meet a doctor at a party — do you call them “Doctor” all night, or just “Colin”? Is a judge always “Your Honour” at the pub? And have you noticed how some people can’t bring themselves to use “Father” in church at all, so they end up saying things like “Excuse me… er… Vicar… sir… Reverend… thingy?” Titles are a minefield.

My own Dad had a row with a new Vicar once, at our home church.  The new chap insisted that everyone should call him ‘Father’.  My dad, who was never shy of telling people exactly what he thought, decided to leave the church saying ‘I only call one man Father, and he’s dead’.

But Jesus’ point is simple. Titles don’t make you wise. Wisdom is not about where you sit at the table, or what people call you. Wisdom is about humility.

And that’s where Ecclesiasticus comes in. He talks about those who work with their hands — the smiths, the potters, the ploughmen — and then those who spend their time searching for wisdom, pondering the hidden meaning of things. Both roles matter. But those who seek wisdom, he says, will be remembered for generations.

Now, that doesn’t mean only philosophers and bishops count. Wisdom is not a monopoly of the clever. It’s something all of us are called to. Which is why I love that image from a book on philosophy by Jostein Gaarder, called Sophie’s World.  Gaarder says: imagine the world is a rabbit being pulled out of a magician’s hat. Most of us live buried deep in the rabbit’s fur. Nice and cosy, caught up in the shopping lists and GP appointments. But a few scramble up through the fur, right to the tips of the hairs, and they peer out. They look into the magician’s eyes, trying to work out how the trick is done. That, says Gaarder, is philosophy: asking the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is the world for?

And if you want to see that in action, just watch a child. Children are natural philosophers. They don’t live down in the fur. They climb. They ask. They prod. They question. My seven-year-old grandson Lucas is a perfect example. Spend half an hour with him and you’ll be interrogated like a suspect on Line of Duty. “Why’s the sky blue? Why do dogs bark? Why can’t I have another biscuit? Why do you wear those funny clothes at church? And — the killer — why are you so old?” Children don’t stop asking questions, because they haven’t yet accepted the fur as their permanent home.

We, on the other hand, get comfortable. We stop asking. And that’s dangerous, because the big questions don’t go away. They just lurk beneath the surface.

Let me put it another way: most of us live life like it’s Tesco. We go in, grab a trolley, get what we need, and get out. Milk, bread, petrol points. Done. But every now and again, someone stops in aisle five and says, “Hang on a minute… who built Tesco? And why are we all wandering round this fluorescent cathedral with our plastic baskets? Is this a new kind of church, where we make our offering at the altar of the checkout, and receive blessings in the form of groceries.  And come to think of it, who am I? And why do I need twelve tins of beans when I only came in for milk?”

That’s what philosophy does. It’s Tesco-shopping with your eyes open.  Augustine of Hippo knew all about that. He had all the titles, the swagger, the career. But he was restless. Deep down, he was asking those childlike questions. And eventually, he scrambled up through the fur and glimpsed the Magician’s eyes. And from then on, he never stopped reminding people: wisdom is not about cleverness, it’s about humility. He once said: “The first thing in religion is humility. The second thing is humility. The third thing is humility.” He realised that only when we approach life humbly, like children, do we start to see clearly.

And that’s exactly what Jesus is getting at when he says, “You are all siblings.” Titles don’t matter half as much as whether we’re humble enough to keep asking questions, to keep seeking God’s wisdom.

So here’s the challenge. Don’t just live buried in the fur. Don’t just do the shopping, pay the bills, watch Strictly, and call it a week. Ask the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is this world for? And don’t just ask them in the pub, because you’ll get someone telling you aliens built the pyramids. Ask them in prayer. Ask them with humility. Because then you might just glimpse the Magician’s eyes.

So yes, you can call me Rector, Canon, Tom — or even “Oi, you” if you catch me dithering in the biscuit aisle. But the real question is whether you and I are willing to climb together, to be as curious as children, and to let that wonder reshape the way we live.

That is wisdom. Not pomposity, not titles — but humility, curiosity, and the courage to keep climbing.  Amen.

Pointing the finger...

Readings:  Isaiah 58.9b–14, Psalm 103.1–8, Hebrews 12.18–29, Luke 13.10–17

There’s a line in Isaiah today that really sticks out to me: “If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil… then your light shall rise in the darkness.”

The pointing of the finger. Well, that’s something we’re rather good at, isn’t it? We’ve developed it into a national sport. Football, cricket, and pointing the finger. It’s everywhere. You see it in politics, on television debates, on social media. “It’s your fault!” “No, it’s your fault!” “Well, technically, it’s the EU’s fault, or the bankers’, or the people down the road with the funny accents.” And before long we’re so busy pointing the finger that we forget what our own hands are for. Spoiler: they were made for helping, holding, healing — not just jabbing at each other like a row of angry meerkats.

And Isaiah is right. Nothing good comes from the pointing of the finger. It doesn’t fix the problem. If your roof is leaking and you stand in the living room pointing upwards saying, “That plasterer is to blame!” … the water is still dripping into your cornflakes.

Meanwhile, in the Gospel, Jesus finds himself in hot water — as usual. He heals a woman who’s been bent over for eighteen years. And he does it on the Sabbath, in front of the synagogue ruler, who presumably had an entire drawer labelled “Complaints about Jesus” already bursting at the seams. The ruler points his finger — “You can’t do that today! Against the rules!” — but Jesus shrugs it off. He won’t let a technicality stop him from setting someone free.

That word — “free” — is important. Jesus sets the woman free from her affliction. Isaiah says, “loose the bonds of injustice.” And Hebrews, in its thunderous, terrifying way, talks about a kingdom that “cannot be shaken.” Put those together and you’ve got the heart of it: the Christian life is not about rules, or blame, or dividing people into neat boxes. It’s about freedom, justice, and a community that cannot be shaken by the latest wave of finger-pointing.

The trouble is, finger-pointing makes us feel powerful. It’s so much easier than actually solving anything. If I can blame someone else for why my life is hard, I don’t have to look too closely at my own habits, or the structures that keep some people rich and others poor. If I can blame my neighbour, I don’t have to ask questions about who’s really sitting on the offshore bank account. Divide and rule — it’s been working for emperors and millionaires since the dawn of time.

But here’s the good news. As Christians, we get to opt out. We don’t have to play the blame game. Instead, we get to play the blessing game. The psalm this morning says, “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.” That’s an entirely different posture to finger-pointing. You can’t bless and jab at the same time — try it, you’ll poke someone’s eye out. To bless is to speak good, not evil. To give thanks, not resentment. To remember mercy, not manufacture scapegoats.

And do you notice the ripple effect? If I begin with blessing, it changes the way I look at my neighbour. I start to see someone who might need mercy as much as I do. I start to look for ways to use my hands to build up rather than to accuse. And maybe — just maybe — the arguments that divide us begin to lose their sting.

Now, don’t get me wrong. None of this is easy. Hebrews describes God as “a consuming fire.” Which is a terrifying way of saying: holiness burns up all the rubbish we like to cling to. The grudges, the resentments, the muttered “send them home” or the sneered “how dare you say that.” When God’s fire gets hold of us, the finger-pointing turns to ash, and we’re left with open hands. That’s scary. But it’s also glorious.

Because, if we dare to let go of the blame game, we might just find that we’re free. Like that woman in the synagogue — suddenly standing tall after eighteen years of being bent double. Can you imagine how the world looked to her? She’d spent almost two decades staring at the floor, seeing only dust and feet and sandals. And then Jesus lifted her up, and suddenly she saw faces again. She saw the sky. She saw the horizon. She was restored to community.

That’s what freedom feels like. And that’s what our community needs — not more fingers wagging across the street, but more hands reaching out in blessing.

So, what might that look like for us? Well, I think it means resisting the temptation to join in the shouting match, however loudly it’s conducted. It means gently reminding each other that blessing is stronger than blame. It means finding the small, ordinary ways to use our hands well — cooking a meal, offering a lift, listening without rushing to judgment.

And maybe it even means poking fun at ourselves when we’re tempted to jab a finger. Perhaps next time you’re in full rant mode — whether it’s about the council, or the buses, or the state of the world — you might stop, look at your hand, and say, “Well, would you look at that. I’ve been caught red-handed!” And then, instead of wagging it, maybe turn it palm-up, and offer it in blessing.

Because in the end, Isaiah was right. The light doesn’t rise when we jab each other. The light rises when we bless each other. When we stop staring at the dust, and start lifting our eyes to the horizon. When we let the fire of God burn away the rubbish and leave us free, standing tall, children of a kingdom that cannot be shaken.

So let’s put our fingers away. And let’s use our hands for better things.  Amen.

A tragic vow. A joyful daughter. A devastating mistake.

THE INSISTENCE OF GOD

Readings: 

Judges 11.29–end

Then the spirit of the Lord came upon Jephthah, and he passed through Gilead and Manasseh; he passed on to Mizpah of Gilead, and from Mizpah of Gilead he passed on to the Ammonites. And Jephthah made a vow to the Lord, and said, ‘If you will give the Ammonites into my hand, then whoever comes out of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return victorious from the Ammonites, shall be the Lord’s, to be offered up by me as a burnt-offering.’

So Jephthah crossed over to the Ammonites to fight against them; and the Lord gave them into his hand. He inflicted a massive defeat on them from Aroer to the neighbourhood of Minnith—twenty towns—and as far as Abel-keramim. So the Ammonites were subdued before the people of Israel.

Then Jephthah came to his home at Mizpah; and there was his daughter coming out to meet him with timbrels and with dancing. She was his only child; he had no son or daughter except her. When he saw her, he tore his clothes, and said, ‘Alas, my daughter! You have brought me very low; you have become the cause of great trouble to me. For I have opened my mouth to the Lord, and I cannot take back my vow.’ She said to him, ‘My father, if you have opened your mouth to the Lord, do to me according to what has gone out of your mouth, now that the Lord has given you vengeance against your enemies, the Ammonites.’ And she said to her father, ‘Let this thing be done for me: Grant me two months, so that I may go and wander on the mountains, and bewail my virginity, my companions and I.’ ‘Go,’ he said—and sent her away for two months. So she departed, she and her companions, and bewailed her virginity on the mountains. At the end of two months, she returned to her father, who did with her according to the vow he had made. She had never slept with a man. So there arose an Israelite custom that for four days every year the daughters of Israel would go out to lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite.

Matthew 22.1–14

Once more Jesus spoke to them in parables, saying: ‘The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come. Again he sent other slaves, saying, “Tell those who have been invited: Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet.” But they made light of it and went away, one to his farm, another to his business, while the rest seized his slaves, maltreated them, and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city.

Then he said to his slaves, “The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.” Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad; so the wedding hall was filled with guests.

But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe, and he said to him, “Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?” And he was speechless. Then the king said to the attendants, “Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” For many are called, but few are chosen.’

Sermon:  

Let me begin with a confession. I have a daughter. Just one. And I love her very much. But there are days—just occasionally, you understand—when I read Judges 11 and think to myself, “Well… maybe Jephthah wasn’t entirely wrong…”

I’m joking, of course. Mostly.

Because the truth is, Jephthah’s story is one of the most ghastly in all of Scripture. It’s gruesome, tragic, and infuriating. And yet—like the most unsettling parts of the Bible—it’s also disturbingly familiar. Here is a man who believes, like so many religious folks through the ages, that God is a transaction. A contract. A heavenly accountant.

Jephthah is on the brink of war. The Spirit of the Lord has already stirred within him. He’s inspired, energised, ready. But rather than trust in that inspiration, he panics. He makes a bargain. “If you let me win,” he says, “I’ll sacrifice whatever walks out of my front door.”

Let’s take a moment to admire the sheer idiocy of this proposal. What did he think would come out to greet him? A sheep? A camel? The family cat? He seems surprised when it’s his daughter. His only child. She runs to him with joy, tambourines in hand, and he tears his clothes in anguish.

And yet—and this is perhaps the darkest twist—he still goes through with it.

It’s a story that reminds us that the most dangerous ideas about God are often the ones that come with the most certainty. Jephthah is certain that God wants a deal. He’s certain that the divine is best approached through sacrifice, performance, exchange. He’s wrong. But he’s not the only one to think that way.

Which brings us to Jesus' parable in Matthew. Another troubling tale. A king throws a wedding banquet. The first guests refuse to come—so he sends his soldiers to burn their cities, which is… dramatic. Then, with remarkable generosity, he opens the feast to everyone: the riff-raff, the randoms, the good and the bad alike. But when he spots a man not wearing a wedding garment, he has him bound hand and foot and thrown into the outer darkness.

You’ll forgive me if I say this is not the most cuddly of Jesus’ parables.

And yet, something is being exposed here—something uncomfortable, something essential. In both stories, the God-figure is troubling, even terrifying. But what if the point is not that God is a petty king or a bloodthirsty tyrant, but that our metaphors for God are always just that—metaphors? What if these stories are deliberately pushing us to confront the absurdity of trying to fit the infinite mystery of the Divine into our neat, contractual models?

You see, I don’t believe the Bible gives us a neat picture of God at all. In fact, I’d go further: I don’t think it’s trying to. It’s giving us something much wilder, much stranger. It’s giving us a long, tangled, sometimes violent conversation between human beings and the inarticulable mystery we have dared to call "God".

And Jephthah? He treats that mystery as a mechanism. He imagines the Divine as a kind of cosmic vending machine—offer a sacrifice, get a victory. But the text itself never tells us that God asked for any such thing. The initiative, and the horror, is entirely Jephthah’s own. This is not divine justice—it’s human delusion, dressed up in piety.

And in the parable, it’s the opposite delusion. The guest without wedding clothes assumes the invitation comes with no expectations. He treats the feast like a free-for-all, a divine happy hour. No reverence, no transformation, no preparation. Just turn up and tuck in.

Jephthah sees God as a negotiator. The wedding guest sees God as a pushover. But both are trying to domesticate the Divine—to make it manageable, predictable, useful.

But what if God is not a person at all? Not an old man in the sky with a ledger and a lightning bolt. Not a tyrant to be flattered or a bouncer to be tricked. What if, as John D. Caputo proposes, “God” is better understood not as a being, but as an insistence?

An insistence. A pressure. A summons. A disturbance in the heart. A restlessness in the soul. A holy nagging that calls us toward justice, compassion, mercy, love. The kind of love that cannot be bargained with or worn like a costume. The kind of love that requires something of us—change, repentance, the whole of our hearts.

The invitation to the banquet is wide and generous. But it’s not an invitation to remain exactly as we were. It’s an invitation to be changed. To clothe ourselves—not in literal garments, but in the fabric of grace, in the habits of love, in the rhythm of a new way of being human.

God does not demand burnt offerings, or grandiose vows, or theatrical piety. God is not flattered by our desperate promises or impressed by our spiritual fashion statements. What God does—what God always does—is insist.

Insist that there is a better way. Insist that the victim is not to be sacrificed but honoured. Insist that the feast is for all—but not without a transformation of the heart.

So, what does that mean for us?

Perhaps it means listening more carefully for that sacred insistence in the quiet corners of our lives. Perhaps it means laying down our attempts to control the world—even our attempts to control God—and letting ourselves be unsettled, called, changed.

And if, one day, my daughter should come running out of the house to greet me with a tambourine, I promise I shall not tear my garments or offer her as a burnt offering. I shall make her a cup of tea. Because the only vow I intend to keep is this: never again to confuse the whisper of God’s insistence with the roar of my own ego.

Amen.

One Faith, two Understandings

Texts: Hebrews 11.29 – 12.2 and Luke 12.49-56

NOTE: This is an updated sermon, based on feedback from Facebook friends.

One Faith, Two Understandings

Last week, we talked about faith as something practical – a living trust in God that moves us to act. It shapes how we use our time, our lives and our money. Thank you, by the way, to those of you who responded positively to my call to review your giving. It’s not too late if you haven’t done so yet!

This week, Hebrews pushes us further. Faith, it says, is the reason the Israelites walked through the Red Sea when every sensible instinct told them to run the other way – run away! run away.  Faith is why Jericho’s walls fell, in that powerful myth. And it’s why so many saints, through the ages, have endured prison, mockery, and even death.

Faith, in other words, is not polite agreement. It’s courage. It’s commitment. It’s Maximilian Kolbe, at Auschwitz, stepping forward to die in another man’s place. For two weeks he led his fellow prisoners in song, until he was the last left alive. And even then – when he had nothing left but death – he gave it as a gift. That is faith, at the limits of what’s possible.

But Jesus warns us: faith like that comes with consequences. “Do you think I came to bring peace?” he says. “No – not peace, but division.” This is not because Jesus enjoys conflict.  Rather, it’s Jesus warning us that truly living by his teaching will sometimes put us at odds with the people we love most.  When we challenge cruelty, or refuse to laugh at that racist joke, or question hate dressed up as common sense… yes, sparks fly.

I found myself back in that uncomfortable space this week, while engaging in the national shouting match about migration. I was frustrated at the vote-chasing actions of our local MPs, and at the spittle-flecked faces of some of the protestors I saw in Waterlooville. Once again, I saw the words “England is a Christian country!” brandished online, often next to the flag of St George. And I thought: the same cross that flies from our church tower – above the open door of our church – is now being waved on screens as a banner for shutting the door on the outsider.

And that makes me uncomfortable. Not because I think it’s wrong to love one’s country. But because Christianity – real Christianity – has always been about opening the door.

Still, I want to be fair. There is fear in our country right now – deep, anxious fear. And not just in the headlines. Some of it is economic: how will we house everyone? What about our struggling schools and NHS? Some is just human: we’re tired, and change makes us, well,  tired-er.  Some of the fear is cultural: how much can a country change before it loses its sense of itself?

That last question deserves a proper answer. As an amateur student of history, I think the answer lies in our own story. The story of Britain is a story of waves of migration: Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans, Huguenots, Jews, Europeans, former colonials, Pakistanis, Ugandan Indians, West Indians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Somalis – I even used to run a hostel for 300 of them in the 1980s.

Yes, each wave brought challenge. But over time, those shocks subsided. People got to know each other. They intermarried. They shared food, culture, music, humour. And a new, richer tapestry of English life emerged. So yes – change can feel frightening. But history tells us: we adapt. We grow. We become more than we were.  And history tells us that integration is never a black and white issue.  There are always nuances, and real people’s lives at stake – no matter how much certain politicians and newspapers try to whip up our hatred.

Of course, we mustn’t pretend that all public fears are imaginary. No – they are real. They are powerful. Some are even reasonable. But fear should never be the driver of Christian ethics. Love should be. Wisdom should be. Truth should be.

One person challenged me this week on the idea of the moral high ground. She asked, “Is our moral obligation really to the man arriving in Kent in a dinghy any greater than to the child starving in Yemen or Gaza?” And that’s a good question. Because both are our neighbour. And the Gospel doesn’t let us ignore either one.

But it also doesn’t let us turn one into a weapon against the other. The child in Gaza and the man in the dinghy are not your enemy. Your enemy is the narrative that says we must harden our hearts to survive. That fear must rule us. That compassion is a luxury we can’t afford.

So when someone says “We can’t take everyone!” I agree. We can’t. But we can take some. And how we treat the few who do make it to our shores – the 0.02% of the worldwide number of refugees - says everything about who we really are. Hospitality is not a British invention. It’s a Gospel command.

Today’s Gospel reminds is that two people can stand under the same flag, call themselves Christian, and mean completely different things by it. One hears Jesus say, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me,” and thinks, “Better put the kettle on.” Another hears the same words and says, “We need stronger borders.” It’s the same cross, but two completely different Gospels – and only one of them looks like Jesus.

So, when the difficult conversations come – the Sunday roast that turns awkward at Grandad’s xenophobic rant, or the Facebook discussion that descends into insult – remember: you’re in good company. You stand with the saints. You stand with Jesus, who endured hostility for the sake of joy.

And I’ll leave you with this thought: If your Christianity fits perfectly with your politics – of any stripe – it’s worth checking whether you’re following Jesus… or just yourself in a long robe. Are you, in fact, making God in YOUR image, rather than the other way round?

But for now, keep running the race. Keep fighting the good fight (as our last hymn encourages us today).  Not with shouting or bitterness, but with quiet, stubborn courage. With faith.  For, faith is not always about keeping the peace. Sometimes it’s about keeping the faith.

Radical Forgiveness in a Wounded World

14 August 2025 – Memorial of St. Maximilian Kolbe

Readings: Psalm 114; Matthew 18:21–19:1

First Reading – Psalm 114 (NRSV Anglicized)

When Israel went out from Egypt, the house of Jacob from a people of strange language,

Judah became God’s sanctuary, Israel his dominion.

The sea looked and fled; Jordan turned back.

The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.

Why is it, O sea, that you flee? O Jordan, that you turn back?

O mountains, that you skip like rams? O hills, like lambs?

Tremble, O earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob,

who turns the rock into a pool of water, the flint into a spring of water.

Gospel Reading – Matthew 18:21–19:1 (NRSV Anglicized)

Peter came and said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?’

Jesus said to him, ‘Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.

‘For this reason the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves.

When he began the reckoning, one who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him;

and, as he could not pay, his lord ordered him to be sold, together with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment to be made.

So the slave fell on his knees before him, saying, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.”

And out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt.

But that same slave, as he went out, came upon one of his fellow-slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and seizing him by the throat, he said, “Pay what you owe.”

Then his fellow-slave fell down and pleaded with him, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you.”

But he refused; then he went and threw him into prison until he would pay the debt.

When his fellow-slaves saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed, and they went and reported to their lord all that had taken place.

Then his lord summoned him and said to him, “You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me.

Should you not have had mercy on your fellow-slave, as I had mercy on you?”

And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt.

So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.’

When Jesus had finished saying these things, he left Galilee and went to the region of Judea beyond the Jordan.

Sermon

Psalm 114 sings of a God whose presence shakes the earth, splits the sea, and causes mountains to skip like rams. It is a hymn to the God who intervenes in history, who turns the course of events in ways that seem impossible. Matthew’s Gospel today offers an equally seismic vision—but this time not of earth‑shattering physical events, but of soul‑shattering moral ones. Peter asks Jesus how often he should forgive—up to seven times? Jesus replies, “Not seven times, but seventy‑seven times.” In biblical idiom, this is not a number to be ticked off in a notebook. It is the language of infinity. Jesus is saying that forgiveness is not an occasional duty but the very air his disciples are meant to breathe.

It’s one of those sayings of Jesus that sounds inspiring in the abstract but feels impossible in practice. It is one thing to forgive a neighbour for an unkind word, or a friend for letting us down. But to imagine that radical forgiveness might be the key to resolving wars and long‑running national hostilities—this feels like fantasy. And yet, the tensions between Israel and the Palestinians, Russia and Ukraine, Pakistan and India, or the warring factions of Sudan and countless other places, are all proof that without forgiveness, humanity remains stuck. We can trade bombs and barbs for decades, but until we find the courage to stop the cycle, there is no end.

Peace treaties can be signed, borders redrawn, power shared for a while—but if the bitterness remains, the violence returns. The world tends to think of peace in terms of balance‑sheets—reparations paid, territory exchanged, the right leaders installed. Jesus thinks of peace in terms of hearts transformed. Forgiveness is not a political afterthought; it is the essential soil in which lasting peace can grow. Psalm 114’s imagery of the Red Sea parting reminds us that God can make a way where there is no way, even between enemies who seem locked in eternal enmity. But God often works this miracle through people willing to absorb the cost of forgiveness.

Maximilian Kolbe was one of those people. In 1941 at Auschwitz, a fellow prisoner escaped. In retaliation, ten men were chosen to die by starvation. One of them cried out for his family. Kolbe stepped forward and offered to take his place. For two weeks, in a bare cell, he led men in prayer and song until he was the last alive and finally killed by lethal injection. Kolbe had done nothing to earn the Nazis’ hatred. Yet in that moment, he met hatred with self‑giving love. His death was not merely an act of generosity—it was a declaration that evil does not get the final word. The poison of hatred would not infect his soul.

In international conflicts, we often hear of “justice” as a precondition for peace. But in Jesus’ vision, forgiveness and justice are not rivals. Forgiveness is the only force capable of breaking the endless chain of retribution. The difficulty, of course, is that forgiveness feels like letting someone off the hook. And when the offence is large—mass graves, demolished cities—this feels unbearable. Yet forgiveness does not mean pretending that evil is not evil. It means choosing not to let the wrong done to you define your life or dictate your future.

That’s why it’s often said that failing to forgive another person is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Unforgiveness corrodes us from the inside. The one who wronged us may have moved on—or even be dead—but the anger remains lodged in us like shrapnel. Forgiveness, then, is less about the other person and more about freeing ourselves.

Radical forgiveness must begin on a small scale if it is ever to work on a large one. Nations are made of individuals, and public mind‑sets are shaped by private habits. If I cannot forgive my neighbour for blocking my drive, or my friend for forgetting a call, I am unlikely to believe that Israelis and Palestinians can forgive each other for generational bloodshed. But when we cultivate forgiveness in everyday life—in slights, misunderstandings, forgiveness becomes our default posture. It becomes a practice, a discipline, a way of life.

Notice that Jesus’ teaching in Matthew 18 comes in the context of community life. He addresses people who will live, work, disagree, and sometimes hurt each other. The Church is meant to be a laboratory for forgiveness—a place where we learn and practice it so that we can carry it into the world. Sadly, the Church often scores faults better than forgives seventy‑seven times. But when we get it right—when we forgive and reconcile—we become a living sign of God’s kingdom, a testimony that there is another way to be human.

Kolbe’s story continues to speak—not because most of us will ever face such a choice—but because it shows what’s possible when love, not vengeance, guides us. His forgiveness was costly—it cost him his life—but it bore witness to the life that cannot be taken away. The challenge for us is to carry that same spirit into our own lives: our families, workplaces, churches, communities—and yes, into our politics.

The God of Psalm 114 is still the God who makes a way when there is no way. The Christ of Matthew 18 still calls us to forgive without limit. The Spirit that sustained Kolbe in his cell is still at work in us. If we dare to forgive—not as a one‑off, but as a habit—a way of life—we may yet see the mountains of bitterness skip away, the rivers of resentment dry up, and the ground beneath our feet become holy.

Faith and Finances

Now faith, says the writer to the Hebrews, is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Which is a poetic way of saying: “Faith is trusting in something you can’t yet see, while other people are looking at you as if you’ve lost your marbles.”

Abraham, we’re told, set off “not knowing where he was going.” Imagine that conversation:

Sarah: “Where are we headed, dear?”

Abraham: “Dunno.”

Sarah: “And when will we get there?”

Abraham: “No idea.”

Sarah: “Right. I’ll just go and pack the tent, then.”

Faith like that is not about ticking a doctrinal box. It’s about living as if God’s promised future is worth building here and now — even before we’ve seen the blueprint. That’s what makes it progressive faith: we’re not nostalgically gazing at the ‘good old days’ (which, incidentally, were never as good as people remember). We’re leaning forward, straining our eyes towards the city “whose architect and builder is God” — and we’re not afraid if the plans include solar panels, ramps for accessibility, and a community kitchen.

Then Luke’s Gospel comes along and makes things even more awkward. Jesus says, “Sell your possessions, and give alms… make purses for yourselves that do not wear out.” Which is a lovely metaphor, but inconvenient if you like your purse stuffed with a nice reserve for rainy days. Jesus is being deeply annoying here, because he’s asking us to live as if our real treasure is in heaven — which means our resources here are tools for love, not trophies for display.

And this is where faith and finance bump into each other like two strangers in a supermarket. Because when we talk about “treasure in heaven” in church, it’s tempting to think of it purely as a warm spiritual glow, rather than anything to do with our bank statement. But Jesus won’t let us separate the two. “Where your treasure is,” he says, “there your heart will be also.” In other words: “Show me your budget, and I’ll show you what you worship.”

Here at St Faith’s, our budget is both a source of pride and a challenge. Pride, because we manage to do an enormous amount with relatively little. Challenge, because the reality is that we are heavily reliant on income from our property lettings and from the charity shop just to keep the lights on and the heating running. Without those, we simply couldn’t cover our basic running costs. And on top of that comes our Parish Share — our contribution to the life of the whole Diocese, funding the stipends of clergy in places that could never afford them on their own, and enabling mission across Hampshire.

Our Parish Share this year is around £68,000. That’s before we’ve spent a single penny on local ministry, music, outreach, or maintaining our beautiful but rather high-maintenance buildings. Last year, we fell short of that target, and the truth is that unless we increase our giving, we will fall short again. And I don’t want us to become a parish that survives only by selling things and renting rooms, while our regular, sustained, faith-filled personal giving stagnates.

From a purely financial point of view, it might make sense to say, “Well, let’s just keep more of our money here, for our own needs.” But that’s not faith talking — that’s fear talking. Faith says: “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Which is a very churchy way of saying: “God’s not stingy. The kingdom is already on offer. You can afford to live generously.”

And generosity is infectious. When a congregation catches the vision that what we give changes lives — when we see that a little seed planted here grows into a great tree there — something shifts in the heart. We stop seeing giving as “loss” and start seeing it as “investment in God’s future.”

Faith is not about sitting back and waiting for God to magic the kingdom into existence. Faith rolls up its sleeves. Faith signs a standing order. Faith trusts that even in a cost-of-living crisis, generosity is possible — and that generosity plants seeds which will grow into a harvest we might not yet see.

So let’s talk practicalities for a moment. If you are already giving regularly — thank you. You are the backbone of our financial stability. But if each of us who gives were able to add just £5 a week — the price of a couple of takeaway coffees — we would raise an extra £10,000 a year.

If some could manage £10 a week extra, we’d add £20,000 a year — enough to close our Parish Share gap significantly and invest in new ministry. 

And if you’ve never yet set up regular giving, even £20 a month — less than most people pay for streaming TV — would make a huge difference if enough people joined in.

This is mustard-seed stuff. Tiny acts of trust that grow into something sheltering, beautiful, and life-giving.

And if you are one of the poor, those so strapped for cash that they need to give nothing, then come and talk to me or Sandra, privately, about how we can help you get on your feet, financially.  We do that, you know.  That’s what the Rector’s Discretionary Fund is all about.

So today, I’m not just asking us to hear the words of Hebrews and Luke and nod sagely. I’m asking us to live them. To give with joy, to serve with gladness, and to keep our eyes fixed on the city that God is building — the one with foundations strong enough to bear the weight of all our hopes, and walls wide enough to welcome everyone in.

And if anyone ever asks you why on earth you gave away so much of your time, your money, your love — just smile and say, “Faith. The assurance of things hoped for. The conviction of things not seen. And the joy of being part of God’s ridiculous, generous, world-changing plan.”

Amen.

Not So Solid: Rethinking the Rock of Faith

Readings:

Numbers 20.1–13 (NRSV Anglicised)

The Israelites, the whole congregation, came into the wilderness of Zin in the first month, and the people stayed in Kadesh. Miriam died there, and was buried there.

Now there was no water for the congregation; so they gathered together against Moses and against Aaron. The people quarrelled with Moses and said, ‘Would that we had died when our kindred died before the Lord! Why have you brought the assembly of the Lord into this wilderness for us and our livestock to die here? Why have you brought us up out of Egypt, to bring us to this wretched place? It is no place for grain, or figs, or vines, or pomegranates; and there is no water to drink.’

Then Moses and Aaron went away from the assembly to the entrance of the tent of meeting; they fell on their faces, and the glory of the Lord appeared to them. The Lord spoke to Moses, saying:

‘Take the staff, and assemble the congregation, you and your brother Aaron, and command the rock before their eyes to yield its water. Thus you shall bring water out of the rock for them; thus you shall provide drink for the congregation and their livestock.’

So Moses took the staff from before the Lord, as he had commanded him. Moses and Aaron gathered the assembly together before the rock, and he said to them, ‘Listen, you rebels, shall we bring water for you out of this rock?’ Then Moses lifted up his hand and struck the rock twice with his staff; water came out abundantly, and the congregation and their livestock drank.

But the Lord said to Moses and Aaron, ‘Because you did not trust in me, to show my holiness before the eyes of the Israelites, therefore you shall not bring this assembly into the land that I have given them.’

These are the waters of Meribah, where the people of Israel quarrelled with the Lord, and by which he showed his holiness.

Matthew 16.13–23 (NRSV Anglicised)

Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’

And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’

He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’

Simon Peter answered, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’

And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.’

Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.

From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.

And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, ‘God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.’

But he turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling-block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’

Sermon:

Not So Solid: Rethinking the Rock of Faith

There’s something suspiciously ironic about calling someone “the Rock” when they’ve just had a moment of divine insight and are, five minutes later, going to be called “Satan.” That’s quite a swing. From granite to gravel in just a few verses.

“You are Peter,” says Jesus, “and on this rock I will build my church.” Peter—the fisherman, the foot-in-mouth specialist, the man who sinks while walking on water and chops off ears when diplomacy would do. Not exactly foundation material by most HR standards. But then again, God seems to have a taste for building with mismatched bricks.

Now, for centuries—especially in the Roman Catholic tradition—this moment has been read as Peter being given the keys to the kingdom, the badge of ultimate authority, and the ecclesiastical hard hat. The pope becomes the spiritual heir to Peter, and so the rock on which the Church is built becomes a particular person, a line of succession, an office.

But there’s another way to read it—slightly less institutional, and perhaps more personal. Just before Jesus calls Peter the rock, Peter makes a bold declaration: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It’s the first time any disciple has said it out loud. Up until now, they’ve scratched their heads and murmured about prophets and Elijah and John the Baptist coming back in a toga. But Peter cuts through the fog. “You are the Christ.” And maybe, just maybe, that’s the rock Jesus wants to build on. Not the man himself, but the faith—the *trust*—expressed in that moment.

Which brings us to a question: what kind of rock is faith, anyway?

Some people treat it like granite—a solid block of certainty, unchanging and immovable. For them, faith is about holding tightly to a set of doctrinal truths: tick the boxes, recite the creeds, defend the castle walls. But for others—perhaps more of us than we care to admit—faith feels more like sandstone. There are contours and curves, it erodes a little with time, but it still holds its shape. It's a rock you can lean on, not one to smash others with.

Faith, in this gentler mode, is not so much about being certain of facts, but trusting in a person. In a relationship. In a way of living and loving that has captured your heart.

Which brings us, helpfully, to Moses and his bad day at the office. In the book of Numbers, the people are thirsty (again), and complaining (again), and Moses is tired (again). God tells him to speak to a rock, and water will come out. But Moses, fed up and perhaps a little performative, whacks the rock twice instead. Water still flows, but God is unimpressed. “Because you did not trust in me,” says the Lord, “you shall not bring this assembly into the land.”

Now, on first reading, this seems harsh. The man has been faithful for decades, dragging this reluctant rabble across the desert, and one wrong move and he’s grounded. But perhaps the issue is deeper than stage directions. Moses—like Peter—has let his trust wobble. He relies on force, not faith. He assumes the power is his to wield, not God’s to give. And in that moment, he ceases to lead in trust.

So what is faith? For a progressive Christian, perhaps faith is less about *knowing* and more about *leaning*. Less about asserting theological propositions, and more about following Jesus through the crowd, listening to his voice, watching how he treats the poor and the proud and the powerful. Faith is saying, “I trust this man. I trust the God he shows me. I trust that love wins.”

That doesn’t mean there’s no place for thinking, of course. The brain is a marvellous organ, and Jesus never asked us to leave it at the door. But when faith becomes a set of intellectual hoops to jump through—when it becomes a pass/fail exam in metaphysics—we lose something essential. We lose the heart of trust.

And perhaps that’s the real rock the church is built on. Not a person in Rome or Jerusalem or Havant, but the lived trust that God is love, that Jesus shows us who God is, and that following him leads to life.

Which is good news for us, because most of us are more Peter than Paul, more Moses than mystic. We wobble, we whack when we should speak, we make declarations and then immediately fall flat. But the church is not built on perfection. It’s built on trust. Trust in Jesus, trust in love, trust that somehow God can build something beautiful out of us rocky, crumbly, peculiar bits of stone.

So may we be faithful, not in the sense of being always certain, but in the sense of keeping close. Trusting. Listening. Following. And letting God draw water—even from our hardest places.

Amen.