Candlemass - Being Lights in the Darkness

Text: Luke 2.22-30

Later in our Candlemass service, we will gather in the soft glow of candlelight, a gentle flame flickering against the winter darkness.  The official name of this day is ‘the Presentation of Christ in the Temple’ which took place forty days after his birth; a common practice at the time, similar to ‘christening’ today.  

Candlemass is a folk name – recalling a time when parishioners would bring their year’s supply of candles to church on this day, to ask for a blessing on them.  The blessing reminded everyone of the symbol of Christ’s light in dark homes.  Perhaps it was also in the hope of staving off accidents leading to fires in thatched homes from the same candles! 

Candlemass, or the Presentation, is a feast of light, a beacon of hope shining amidst the long winter nights.  And within this narrative, we encounter Simeon, an old man, righteous and devout, waiting patiently for the consolation of Israel.  He sees the infant Jesus, held in the arms of Mary and Joseph, and his spirit leaps within him.  “Lord,” he proclaims, “now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light to the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.”  A light to the Gentiles.  What profound words!  What could Simeon, gazing upon this tiny babe, have possibly meant?

Think for a moment of the world into which Jesus was born. A world fractured by division, oppressed by Roman rule, steeped in religious and political turmoil (rather like our world today).  The Jewish people, God’s chosen, yearned for a Messiah, a deliverer who would restore the fortunes of Israel and establish their vision of God’s kingdom on earth.  But Simeon’s words transcend these narrow, nationalistic expectations.  This child, he declares, is not just for Israel, but a light to the Gentiles, to all nations!  A light to those considered outside the covenant, those who dwelt in darkness and the shadow of death.  This is a radical, inclusive vision, a promise of salvation that extends beyond all boundaries, embracing all of humanity in its radiant glow.  It speaks of a love that is boundless, a grace that is freely offered to all who will receive it.

And this light, this transformative message, has echoed down the centuries, carried by those who have dedicated their lives to sharing the Gospel.  We have, in recent times, witnessed individuals, leaders within our church, striving to bring this light to the nations.  They have sought to interpret the scriptures, to guide the faithful, to offer solace and hope in a world often devoid of both.  No-one, in recent times, has done this more heroically than Bishop Marian Budde of the Washington Cathedral, into the very ears of President Trump.  

Yet, not least in the Diocese of Liverpool this week, we have also seen how easily the flame can flicker, how human failings can cast a shadow over the purest intentions.  Recent events have reminded us that even those in positions of authority, those entrusted with the sacred duty of shepherding Christ’s flock, are not immune to error, to temptation, to the darkness that can creep into the human heart.  These failings, these betrayals of trust, wound the Church deeply and shake the faith of many.  They serve as a stark reminder that the light of Christ shines not through the perfection of individuals; but through the grace that sustains us all, despite our imperfections.

Let us turn our gaze now to another figure in the Temple, Anna, a prophetess, a woman of great age and wisdom.  She had spent her life in prayer and fasting, waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem.  And when she sees Jesus, she too recognizes him, not just as a baby, but as the Messiah, the one who will bring salvation.  And what does she do?  She, an elderly woman, goes out and tells everyone!  Imagine the scene: this frail, aged woman, her voice perhaps trembling, yet filled with unwavering conviction, sharing the joyous news with all who will listen.  Her age does not diminish her zeal, her physical limitations do not hinder her witness.  She becomes a beacon of hope, a messenger of joy, proclaiming the arrival of the long-awaited Savior.

And what of us, brothers and sisters?  We who have also seen the light, who have encountered Christ in our own lives, what is our response?  Are we content to keep this light to ourselves, to bask in its warmth without sharing it with others?  Or are we inspired by Anna’s example, compelled to go out and tell the world what we have seen and heard?  To be a light to the nations is not the preserve of bishops or ministers.  It is the calling of every Christian, every follower of Christ.  It is not about grand pronouncements or theological debates, but about the simple, everyday acts of love and compassion that reflect the light of Christ.

What does it mean, practically, to carry this light into the world?  It might mean offering a listening ear to someone who is struggling, extending a hand of friendship to someone who is lonely, speaking a word of comfort to someone who is grieving.  It might mean standing up for justice and speaking out against injustice, even when it is difficult or unpopular.  It might mean volunteering our time and talents to serve those in need, both within our church and in the wider community.  (In this week’s Fortnightly News, there are a few requests for volunteers – do give them your attention.)  It might mean simply living our lives with integrity and kindness, reflecting the love of Christ in all that we do.

The world is still shrouded in darkness, longing for the light of hope, just as it was in the time of Jesus.  Let us, like Simeon and Anna, recognize the presence of Christ in our midst.  Let us, like them, be witnesses to his love, sharing his light with all the world.  Let the candles we will light this day, be a symbol of our commitment to carry the flame of Christ’s love into the darkest corners of our world, until the day when his light shines in all its fullness, and every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.  Amen.

If you see George Herbert on the road, shoot him.

Sermon for 30 January - Day of Commemoration for George Herbert, priest.

Readings:  Malachi 2.5-7 and Matthew 11.25-end

I’d like us to focus, today, on the calling of priesthood, a vocation as ancient as the scriptures themselves, and as relevant today as it ever was. Our readings, from Malachi and Matthew, offer us profound insights into the nature of this sacred office, while the life and works of George Herbert, a 17th-century priest and poet, provide a compelling example of how these principles can be lived out.  But the title of today’s sermon is ‘If you see George Herbert on the road, shoot him’.

Let’s first review some basic information about George Herbert, himself.  Born in 1593 George Herbert went up to Cambridge in 1614, eventually becoming a fellow of Trinity College. At the age of twenty-five, he became Public Orator in the University and then a Member of Parliament, apparently destined for a life at court. To everyone’s surprise, he then decided to be ordained and, after spending a time with his friend Nicholas Ferrar at Little Gidding, he was made deacon in 1626. He married in 1629, was priested in 1630 and given the care of souls of the parish of Bemerton, near Salisbury, where he spent the rest of his short life.

Herbert wrote prolifically, his hymns still being popular throughout the English-speaking world. His treatise, The Country Parson, on the priestly life, and his poetry, especially The Temple, earned Herbert a leading place in English literature. However, he never neglected the care of the souls of Bemerton, however, and encouraged attendance at daily prayer by his congregation, calling to mind the words of his hymn, ‘Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee’. He died on 1 March 1633  - just three years after his appointment – and was buried in his church at Bemerton two days later.

Turning to our readings for today, Malachi reminds us that the priest is to be a guardian of knowledge, a source of instruction for the people.  Malachi says: "The lips of a priest should guard knowledge, and people should seek instruction from his mouth, for he is the messenger of the Lord Almighty."  These words resonate across the centuries, highlighting the priest's responsibility to not only preserve the sacred teachings but also to interpret them, to make them relevant to the lives of the community.  It is a call to intellectual rigor, to deep study, and to a constant wrestling with the Word of God.  The priest is not simply a ritualist, but a teacher, a guide, a shepherd leading the flock to the green pastures of understanding.

Compare that model to George Herbert, a man of deep learning and profound devotion.  His poetry, rich in imagery and spiritual insight, continues to inspire and challenge us.  He understood the priest's role as a teacher, and his writings are filled with wisdom and guidance for those seeking to live a life of faith.  He saw the beauty in the everyday, the divine spark in the mundane, and he used his gifts to illuminate the path to God for others.

But Herbert's life, and indeed the lives of many priests of his era, stand in stark contrast to the realities of priestly ministry today.  We hear whispers of a bygone age, of quiet villages, of ample time for study and reflection, of a less bureaucratic, less demanding existence.  We hear tales of priest-naturalists like Gilbert White, who could dedicate their time to observing the wonders of the natural world alongside their pastoral duties.  The image of the priest in those days, often serving a single, small community, seems almost idyllic compared to the complex demands placed upon clergy today.

One modern clergyman, burdened by the pressures of his ministry, famously lamented, "If you see George Herbert on the road, shoot him!"  This cry speaks to a deep frustration.  It acknowledges the disparity between the idealized image of the priest, exemplified by figures like Herbert, and the often overwhelming reality faced by clergy in our time.  The modern priest is not just a spiritual guide, but also a manager, a counsellor, a fundraiser, a community organizer, and a compliance officer navigating a labyrinth of regulations.  The weight of national and diocesan bureaucracy, health and safety concerns, safeguarding responsibilities, and charity law often seems to overshadow the core mission of pastoral care and spiritual leadership.  Many priests have multiple parishes to manage, in a church that has forgotten how to give sufficient money to maintain the parochial pattern of clergy.

Where, then, does this leave us?  How do we reconcile the timeless calling of the priesthood with the changing demands of our world?  How do we, as priests and as congregations, ensure that the essential role of the priest as a guardian of knowledge, as a messenger of the Lord, is not lost amidst the noise and clamour of modern life?

The answer, I believe, lies in a renewed focus on the core principles articulated in our scriptures.  We must remember that the priest's primary responsibility is to speak truth, to proclaim the Gospel, to be a voice for justice and compassion.  This brings us to the recent controversy surrounding Bishop Budde's address to the then-President.  She, like the prophets of old, sought to speak truth to power, to challenge injustice, and to call for a return to the values of love and mercy.  Her actions remind us that the priest's role is not simply to comfort the afflicted, but also to afflict the comfortable, to challenge the status quo, and to stand for what is right, even when it is unpopular.

The world may want its priests to be efficient administrators, skilled in the art of management and compliance. But the world also desperately needs its priests to be prophets, to be voices of conscience, to be beacons of hope in a world often shrouded in darkness.  We must resist the temptation to prioritize efficiency over faithfulness, to sacrifice prophetic witness on the altar of expediency.  We must reclaim our role as guardians of knowledge, as interpreters of the sacred texts, and as messengers of the Lord, speaking truth to power, and offering a vision of a world redeemed by love and justice.  Let us strive to be priests in the tradition of George Herbert, not merely reciting the words of scripture, but embodying them in our lives, and sharing them with courage and compassion.  Let us pray that all priests may be worthy of this sacred calling, and that our ministry may be a blessing to the world.  Amen

The Unclean and the Unspeakable: Confronting the Stigma of Disease

Text: Mark 1:40 to end

My friends, today we journey with Mark to a time when fear and misunderstanding ruled the hearts of many. A leper, outcast from society, approaches Jesus, his voice trembling with desperation. "If you will, you can make me clean." (Mark 1:40)

We do well to remember that at this time, sickness was usually thought of as a punishment for sin.  People with major illnesses, or disabilities were judged by their neighbours to have either been a bad sinner, or the son of daughter of one.  This man, bearing the weight of a disease considered both physical and spiritual, represents the marginalized of our own time – those living with disabilities, mental illness, poverty, or the consequences of social injustice. They are often seen as "other," their humanity diminished, their dignity trampled.  

Just think, for a moment, about the different ways in which we treat people who we consider ‘one of us’, and those we consider ‘unlike us’.  Just as an example, it is all but illegal for news cameras in England to show the picture of a child’s face, without the written permission of their guardian.  But news cameras in Africa, or Palestine, have no such compunction.  Think too about the round-the-clock news coverage we get over, say, the stabbing of a British young person.  But the ongoing murder from the sky of thousands in Palestine, or the abduction of children from their homes in Nigeria, get barely a mention.

Jesus, in his radical compassion, shatters these societal constructs. He does not recoil in fear or disgust from the man whom everyone else thinks is a sinner, or ‘other’ than them. Instead, he reaches out, his touch a symbol of radical inclusion. "I will; be clean." (Mark 1:41)

This isn't just a physical healing, but a profound act of social justice. Jesus dismantles the barriers of exclusion, restoring the leper to his rightful place within the community.

But what are we to make of the instruction that follows: "See that you say nothing to anyone." (Mark 1:43)?  It feels like Jesus wants to suppress the truth. Perhaps he’s worried that people will start to view him as a ‘miracle healer’ more than a wise teacher.

However, through a Progressive Christian lens, we can choose to see Jesus’ instruction as a call for sensitivity and respect for the individual's journey. Healing is a deeply personal process. It requires time for reflection, for reintegration into society, for the individual to reclaim their sense of self.

Furthermore, the emphasis on following the Law of Moses (Mark 1:44) can be seen as a recognition of the importance of both spiritual and physical well-being. While acknowledging the limitations of the Old Testament, we can appreciate its emphasis on ritual purity as a metaphor for inner transformation and social responsibility.

Just as Jesus healed the leper, he calls us to heal the brokenness within ourselves and our world. This requires us, first to:

• Challenge the systems of oppression: We must dismantle the structures that marginalize and dehumanize individuals based on their differences. This includes advocating for accessible healthcare, affordable housing, and social justice for all.

• Secondly, we are called to embrace radical inclusivity: We must extend compassion and understanding to those who are different from us, recognizing the inherent dignity and worth of every human being.

• Thirdly, we are called to cultivate empathy and compassion: We must strive to see the world through the eyes of others, to walk in their shoes, and to understand the challenges they face.

The story of the leper is not just a historical anecdote. It is a powerful reminder of the transformative power of love, compassion, and radical inclusion. It is a call to action, urging us to build a world where everyone, regardless of their background, their abilities, or their perceived imperfections, is embraced with dignity and respect.

May we, like Jesus, be agents of healing, not just for the physical ailments of the body, but for the deeper wounds of the soul. May we strive to create a world where the marginalized are uplifted, the oppressed are empowered, and all are welcomed into the embrace of the Beloved Community. Amen.

The Word Made Flesh: Spoken, Not Written

Text: Luke 4:14-22

Friends, today we contemplate a powerful paradox: Jesus, the Word made flesh, came to us in the fullness of time, a master teacher, yet he left us no written word of his own. 

Think of it. Jesus, the son of a carpenter, grew up in a world where literacy was a rare and precious skill.  He, undoubtedly, could read. The passage before us – his reading from Isaiah in the Nazareth synagogue – provides undeniable proof of that. He knew the scriptures intimately, could quote them with authority, and used them to illuminate the profound truths of God's kingdom. 

Yet, in all his years of public ministry, of healing the sick, feeding the hungry, challenging the powerful, and proclaiming the good news, Jesus never once picked up a pen and wrote down a single line of his own teachings. No letters, no treatises, no gospels penned by his own hand. 

This silence is profound. It challenges us to grapple with the very nature of truth, of revelation, and of the human encounter with the divine. 

Some may argue that the Gospels, with their carefully crafted narratives and profound theological insights, capture the essence of Jesus' message. They are, after all, the foundation of our faith. But let us be honest: these are not verbatim transcripts. They are the retellings, the interpretations, the remembered words of those who walked with Jesus, who heard his voice, and who sought to preserve his legacy for generations to come. 

And therein lies the challenge. How can we be certain that we fully understand the nuances of Jesus' teachings? How can we be sure that our interpretations, however sincere, do not reflect the biases and limitations of those who first recorded them? 

This is not to diminish the importance of the Gospels. They are precious gifts, windows into the life and ministry of Jesus. But they are windows, not photographs. They offer perspectives, not definitive pronouncements.

As Progressive Christians, we embrace this challenge. We recognize that faith is not a matter of blind adherence to a fixed set of doctrines, but an ongoing journey of seeking truth, guided by reason, informed by Scripture, and inspired by the Holy Spirit. 

We use our God-given intellect to critically examine the texts, to grapple with their complexities, and to discern the core message of Jesus' teachings. We strive to understand the historical and cultural context in which those teachings were given, and to apply them meaningfully to the challenges of our own time.

And above all, we remember Jesus' central message: love God with all your heart, mind, and soul, and love your neighbour as yourself. This is the foundation upon which all else rests. 

Any interpretation of Jesus' teachings that contradicts this fundamental principle of love – any claim that elevates fear over compassion, division over unity, or condemnation over grace – must be viewed with deep suspicion. 

For Jesus, the Word made flesh, came not to condemn the world, but to save it. He came to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind. He came to proclaim a message of radical love, of inclusion, of justice and peace. 

Let us, then, strive to live into that message. Let us use our God-given gifts of reason and compassion to discern the truth, to challenge injustice, and to build a world that reflects the love of God. 

For in the end, it is not about reciting creeds or adhering to rigid doctrines – however helpful they may be as statements from which to start on the journey of faith. It is about living lives that embody the spirit of Jesus – lives characterized by love, compassion, and a relentless pursuit of justice for all. 

Amen.

In search of wisdom

Epiphany 2025 

I suppose that many of us will have been on journeys over the last couple of weeks. Some of us have braved wind and rain to visit family and friends in far-flung corners of the British Isles. But I bet none of us had journeys which were as arduous as those of the Wise Men to Bethlehem.  They would have crossed blazing deserts, and freezing mountain passes.  They would have had to wash in streams, and to eat food gathered or trapped along the way.  Their journey was remarkable.

We don't know much about the Wise Men. The Bible calls them 'Magi', from which we get our word 'magician' - but that's not the full meaning of the word. The Magi were, as far as we can tell, learned men from another culture. They studied the stars, and no doubt studied the ancient texts of many religions too. They put that knowledge together came to the startling conclusion that a new King of the Jews was being born.

Actually, they were wrong.  Jesus never was the King of Jews in any earthly sense...despite the ironic poster that Pontius Pilate had nailed over his Cross.  In fact, according to John's Gospel, when Pilate asked him point blank whether he was the King of the Jews, Jesus replied "My Kingdom is not of this world".  No, the Magi were wrong.  The stars were not predicting the birth of the King of the Jews.

Another accident of the Magi was in their timing. According to Matthew’s account, they actually arrived something like two years late. (Matthew notes that Herod enquired of the wise men when they had seen the Star appear, and based on that information he slaughters all the boys in Bethlehem who are under two years old. )

So, the Magi were perhaps not all that wise. They failed to correctly predict the timing of the birth of a new King of the Jews - and they were two years adrift even of Jesus birth.  Wise men?  Perhaps not.

So, to those who say that our future can be read in the stars, there is a warning here. The stars do not foretell our future, any more than they did for the Magi. We would be wise not to place our future in the hands of star-gazers too.

And yet...and yet...  The Magi embarked on a journey of faith. They thought they knew where that journey would lead. They assumed it would lead them to a royal palace in Jerusalem.  But God has a way of using the journeys we plan for ourselves, and turning them into something much different, much more profound. Instead of a new prince in a royal cot, the Magi's journey led them, mysteriously, to an unremarkable house in a rural back-water...and to a baby who had been born in a food trough.

And it was when they got there, that the Magi could truly be described as wise men. Recognising Jesus for who he was, much more than an earthly King of the Jews, they knelt in homage to him. When they met him, Jesus was nothing like they expected.

And that’s because, in Jesus-of-the-stable, God was declaring a new way of living, and a new way of thinking. Human beings had tended to think of the Universe as a ‘top-down’ place – with God in heaven, dispensing rules and justice from the sky.  But that was a mistake.  Through Jesus, especially the Jesus revealed at the Epiphany, God was re-forming our picture of where God is.  Not in the sky, looking down…but here among us, one of us, part of us.  No longer the ‘top-down’ God of our ancestors; this is the ‘bottom-up’ God.  The Kingdom of God is an upside-down place – where the humble are blessed, and the mighty are brought low – as Mary foresaw in the Magnificat.  It is the Kingdom in which by losing, we win; and by giving, we receive.

But we still fail to recognise this, don’t we?  Even Christians are duped by the promises of power or celebrity.  We find ourselves ‘looking upward’ in hope towards political agendas, or individual politicians.  We trust that the powerful of our nation know what they are doing – when in reality they are just as confused as the rest of us…stumbling in the darkness.  Or we look upward to celebrities, modelling our life-choices, our fashions, our financial decisions on theirs.  But we find no peace there either.  Or we look to great church leaders, great Bishops, prominent Christian writers - or even our parish priests - to save us.  But Father does not always know best – and we church leaders have feet of clay too. 

The ‘bottom-up’ Kingdom of Epiphany teaches us to look for God in the simple and earthy things of life.  The Sky-God is silent – and looking upwards to such a God, or to other powerful beings – will not help us to find ‘him’.  As Moses discovered in front of the burning bush, it is the ground which is holy, not the sky.

When we look for God in a stable, we find ‘him’ in the love of his parents, and the care of a community of Shepherds and Wise Men.  God is found in the love between neighbours and friends.  God is found in the simple sharing of a meal.  ‘He’ is found in the bread and wine of the Eucharist.  ‘He’ is found in a simple act of charity.

The Wise Men had the wisdom to recognise him, and to worship him, in the dirt and squalor of a back-water town. Their pre-conceptions of palaces and earthly royalty fell away; and the new reality of Jesus took their place.

You see, really wise men and women are open to what the Journey will bring. Wise men and women embrace the possibilities for change and growth that arise whenever we put our journey in the hands of God.

I wonder what our journey this year will be like - our journey with God both as individuals, and as a parish.  If we are able to listen to God’s voice, in the middle of peace and prosperity, as well as chaos and darkness, we will find God speaking into our situation.  There is always something to be learned, always some new spiritual growth to take place even...perhaps especially...in the darkest times.

So, my encouragement to you this Epiphany is to be open to the journey.  Make a new year’s resolution, right here, right now, that you will be more alert, more open to what God is doing in your life as a person, and in your life as a church.    Make a pact with God that you will listen to God with greater attentiveness, searching the scriptures, worshipping, giving, and receiving what God has to give you.  If God can lead a bunch of mystics across deserts and mountains to a new Epiphany at the manger, then God can do the same for us.  Amen.

In search of Wisdom at the start of the year

 Texts: Wisdom of Solomon 7:15-22

Matthew 5:13-19

 

On this second day of a new calendar year, the Church invites us (through the Lectionary) to reflect on the life of a giant of the faith, St. Basil the Great.  We are invited to draw wisdom from his struggles and triumphs. Our readings today, from the book of Wisdom and the Gospel according to Matthew, offer us a lens through which to view his extraordinary life. Wisdom 7:15-22 speaks of the gift of wisdom, a spirit that is “intelligent, holy, unique, manifold, subtle, mobile, clear, unpolluted, distinct, invulnerable, loving the good, keen, irresistible.” It is a spirit that permeates all things, a “breath of the power of God, and a pure emanation of the glory of the Almighty.” And in Matthew 5:13-19, Jesus calls his followers to be salt and light to the world, upholding the law and teaching others to do likewise. These readings, when placed alongside the life of Basil, illuminate the path of faithful discipleship, particularly in the face of theological controversy.  We also live in a time of great theological controversy, as the church battles over issues of human sexuality, the nature of Christ, the authority of Bishops and Popes, and much more.

Basil lived in a time when the very nature of God was being fiercely debated. The Arian controversy, named after a man called Arius who questioned the full divinity of Christ, threatened to tear the Church apart. Arius and his followers argued that Jesus was a created being, subordinate to God the Father. This challenged the core of Christian belief: the Incarnation, the belief that God became human in Jesus Christ. Basil, along with other great theologians like Athanasius and Gregory of Nazianzus, stood firm in defense of the Nicene Creed, which affirmed that Jesus Christ is “God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father.”

To understand Basil’s impact, we must place him within his historical context. Born in Caesarea in Cappadocia (modern-day Turkey) around 330 AD, Basil came from a devout and influential Christian family. Basil received an excellent education, studying in Caesarea, Constantinople, and Athens, where he befriended Gregory of Nazianzus. He excelled in rhetoric, philosophy, and astronomy, becoming a highly respected scholar. After a period of asceticism and travel through Egypt, Syria, and Palestine, studying monastic communities, Basil was ordained a priest in 365 AD and later became Bishop of Caesarea in 370 AD. This was a tumultuous time for the Church, with the Arian controversy raging. Basil's intellectual prowess, combined with his deep faith and administrative skills, made him a key figure in defending orthodox Christianity.

Basil’s engagement in this debate wasn't simply an intellectual exercise. It was a matter of life and death, of eternal consequence. He recognized that the question of Christ’s divinity was not a mere technicality, but went to the heart of salvation. If Jesus was not truly God, then how could he bridge the gap between humanity and divinity? How could he offer true reconciliation and redemption? Basil, imbued with the wisdom described in our reading from Wisdom, tirelessly defended the truth of the Gospel. He wrote extensively, preached powerfully, and worked tirelessly to reconcile those who had been led astray by Arian teachings. He was a beacon of light in a time of darkness, salt preserving the true faith from corruption.

The Arian controversy serves as a powerful example of how Christians throughout history have wrestled with the profound mysteries of the Incarnation. It demonstrates that the search for truth is not always easy or straightforward. It often involves difficult conversations, passionate disagreements, and a willingness to re-examine our own assumptions. The wisdom described in Wisdom is not static; it is mobile, keen, and irresistible. It compels us to seek deeper understanding, to grapple with complex questions, and to be open to new insights.

As Progressive Christians, we inherit this legacy of grappling with the great questions of faith. We acknowledge that our understanding of God is always evolving, always deepening. We recognize that the Bible, while divinely inspired, is also a product of its time and culture. We believe that the Holy Spirit continues to guide us into all truth, even today. This means that we must be willing to engage with new information, new perspectives, and new interpretations of scripture. We must be open to modifying our beliefs in light of new evidence and better arguments. This does not mean abandoning the core tenets of our faith, but rather embracing a dynamic and living faith that is constantly being renewed.

Just as Basil and his contemporaries were willing to challenge prevailing assumptions about the nature of God, so too must we be willing to question our own assumptions. We must be willing to have difficult conversations about issues that divide us, such as gender equality, LGBTQ+ inclusion, and social justice. We must be willing to listen to the voices of those who have been marginalized and oppressed. And we must be willing to change our minds when we are presented with compelling evidence.

This willingness to change, to adapt, to grow in wisdom, is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength. It is a testament to the power of the Holy Spirit working within us, leading us into all Truth. It is a reflection of the wisdom described in our reading from Wisdom, a wisdom that is “loving the good, keen, irresistible.” It is a way of being salt and light to the world, as Jesus calls us to be in our reading from Matthew.

So, dear friends, as we stand at the threshold of a new year, 2025, can we commit ourselves to this path of growing wisdom? Can we embrace the spirit of inquiry, the spirit of humility, and the spirit of love that characterized the life of Basil the Great?  Can we be open to new understandings of God, new ways of being Church, and new ways of serving the world?  I pray that this new year will be a time of deepening faith, growing understanding, and greater love for all who call themselves followers of Christ. May we all be blessed with the wisdom to discern truth, the courage to speak it, and the love to live it.  Amen.